#then run away once you get out of the car

[bloomseishiro]

THE NOT SO SILENT TREATMENT — ITOSHI RIN

౨ৎ — you always text him updates about your day. but today, rin notices his notifications from you are lacking… he’s definitely not worried. not at all. 

itoshi rin x reader. fluff, established relationship, pro soccer player!rin, rin is overthinking ;p that silly goose, reader referred to as beautiful + princess, does this count as clingy rin???, did i mention fluff :> 

word count. 1.4k 

Itoshi Rin hates when you give him the silent treatment.

He’s never noticed, nor cared, when others act quiet around him or ignore him, but the moment you don’t send him any text updates about your day at work, he grows worried.

It’s become routine for Rin to check his phone during breaks, smiling to himself as he read about whatever shenanigans you’ve been up to while working or running errands. But today, he checks his phone only to see zero notifications. At least, from you. He doesn’t care enough to acknowledge the others.

He places his phone back down, feeling slightly unsettled.

It might’ve been different if he hasn’t been away from Japan for over a week now, but the limited communication was really getting to him. Rin doesn’t think of himself as a physical touch guy, but the longer he’s away from you, the more he realizes he’s wrong. 

“What’s with the long face?” Nanase asks as he peeks his head into the locker room.

“Nothing,” is Rin’s simple response. 

Nanase raises his eyebrow questioningly but shrugs anyway, grabbing a clean face towel from his duffle bag and heading back to the field.

Once Rin is alone again, he sighs.

Could it be you are finally fed up with his infrequent responses? He reads all your messages, and he replies verbally once he gets the chance to call you, but he doesn’t text back much. 

Worse, could it be that you are fed up with this bothersome, semi-long distance relationship? At home, the two of you have an apartment together. You furnished the place together (meaning you picked out all the furniture, then had Rin build it all himself), bought matching cookware, and even forced Rin to go to one art class so the two of you could make a painting and hang it on the wall. Everything is easy when he’s in Japan. 

But during his frequent travels, you two are separated by both distance and timezones. A part of Rin wishes you could join him more often during away games, but a larger part of him is proud that you have your own passions and ambitions in your career, even if that means you can’t take as much time away as he would like. 

Would it be only natural for you to grow restless of this type of relationship? Is that why you aren’t messaging? 

Rin groans, slapping his hand to his forehead and trying to snap out of his useless spiraling. 

He has a practice match to win. This can be worried about later. 

The rest of the game passes by in a blur. His anxiety and frustration manifests into an even more aggressive playstyle than normal. The other team can’t keep up with the sudden change in pace, and Rin’s team wins. Not that he is surprised. Of course he would win.

By the time he next checks his phone, he still sees no new messages from you.

He frowns.

It’s about 4 p.m. where he is, meaning it’s around midnight for you. Surely, before bed you would have at least sent a goodnight text. 

With a gnawing pit in his stomach, Rin doesn’t bother to wait until he gets to his hotel room to call you. The moment he enters his rental car, he dials your number for a video call. 

You pick up on the third ring. 

Rin’s shoulders suddenly feel less tense.

“Oh, my gosh,” you say, voice muffled with all the movement happening. Rin peers at his screen. The video of you is dark, but he can make out the fact that you are getting out of your car. “Today was absolutely crazy! I only got home just now. It’s so late! I’m so hungry but I need to get ready for bed and wake up early tomorrow. Ugh!” You sigh as you unlock the door to your apartment. “How are you, babe? Did practice go well? I missed you.” 

After going all day without hearing from you, those three simple words brought a sense of contentment to him. Still, he remains cautious.

“You haven’t messaged me all day,” he states, voice neutral. “Is everything okay?” 

The lights flicker on and he finally gets a clear view of your face. Your eyes look tired, but your smile is soft and cheerful. 

“I’m a bit exhausted from today,” you admit sheepishly. “I slept through my alarm in the morning and I was so late to work, I couldn’t even text you good morning! Then, I ran over a nail! A fucking nail. Like, are you kidding me? Then, I had to go to a car shop since my tire popped, but they said they don’t have my tires in stock! So, they told me to go to another dealership down the street. By then I was so late for work I had to drop off my car, run to the nearest station, then go to work because I have a stupid project that the boss told me is due tomorrow morning for absolutely no reason whatsoever! So I had to stay late to finish up. Then, when I was finally able to leave, I have to take the train to the car dealership and pay way too much money to have them replace my tires. I was finally on my way home when my mom called and asked me to pick something up for her and she kept me for hours! Basically, I’m so tired and sleepy and what the fuck in the air was today?” 

You gasp for breath once you finish talking, plopping down onto the couch dramatically. 

“I want to sleep but I’m too tired to get ready,” you whine, lower lip jutting out in a pout. “I wish you were here to help.” 

“I wish I were there, too,” says Rin, staring hopelessly through the screen. Even tired after a long day, he thinks you look beautiful. “Sounds like your day was busy.” 

You nod in despair. “Yeah, I barely even got to go on my phone. I had, like, zero downtime today. It felt so weird not being able to text you,” you say sadly, a frown on your face. “I miss you, Rin.” 

He exhales through his nose, closing his eyes and laughing at himself for his stupidity from earlier. Of course, you didn’t text him because you were busy. It’s not because you got cold-feet, or because you were re-thinking this relationship. You were simply busy. Maybe if he weren’t an idiot, he would’ve come to that conclusion sooner.

“Rin?” you ask hesitantly, worried after not hearing a reply.

He blinks, turning his attention back to you. “I miss you, princess. I fly back tomorrow. Finally.” 

Your eyes, once tired, are now filled with excitement as you beam. “I know! I marked it on my calendar. I asked to leave work early so I can greet you right when you return!” 

The sound of your happiness feels like a familiar embrace and Rin can’t help but smile, though faint. “I’ll look for you when I land then.”

“Can I make a giant sign with your name on it?” 

He snorts in amusement. “And when will you have time to do that before tomorrow? How about you get some sleep instead?” 

You pout, but a yawn overcomes you as the exhaustion hits. 

Rin lifts his brow as if to say, “See?” 

“Coffee exists,” you mumble. “I have poster paper and some markers—”

“Y/N,” he says, deadpan. “It’s late there. Get some rest. Please.” 

You sigh, but nod in agreement. “Okay, baby. I’ll rest now, but I’ll see you tomorrow. I miss you a lot.”

He feels his cheeks heat up. “I miss you, too. A lot.” 

“Can we cuddle all day when you get back?” 

“Isn’t that always the plan?” he says dryly, but the corner of his lip quirks up into a smile. “Yes.” 

“Yay!” you cheer, waving goodbye through the phone screen. “Love you! Good night!” 

His phone grows dim once you hang up, but he feels like a weight has been taken off his chest knowing you weren’t ignoring him. 

Now, Rin can’t wait for the flight so he can come home soon. 

[badger2025]

The van pulled into the garage of the building and parked in front of the lobby entrance while you hopped out “Gimme one sec to grab a cart” you said to the driver. Inside the doors were several hotel style carts available for residents to use to ferry luggage or groceries up to their apartments. You quickly grabbed the closest one and made your way back out to the waiting van. The driver had already opened the rear doors and you started unloading boxes and bags onto the cart

After you’d settled up with the driver, you started pulling the cart towards the lobby doors…mostly to get out of the driveway…where you could repack the cart so all the stuff you’d bought didn’t end up everywhere. A couple other residents passed by on their way out, presumably to their cars in the garage space

“Need a hand?” A deep voice asked. You looked up to see building superintendent Miller giving you a serious look

“That would be great sir” You replied a little sheepishly. You’re the typical take charge kinda guy at work, focused and purpose driven in the gym and confident in a way that draws people to you…and then there’s Miller

He’s a big man…almost burly. He’s a good three inches taller than you, with a broad chest, meaty thighs and massive hands. His superintendent uniform fits him snug in all the right places, like he’s been sewn into it. With dark green eyes and a short clipped buzz cut making him look like G. I. Joe come to life

He makes you feel like a kid for some reason. Awkward and unsure of yourself whenever you’re in his presence. He’s got a way of looking at you that makes you feel like he’s taking stock…and finds you coming up short. The guy oozes quiet masculinity

“I did a Costco run to stock up the basics and I might’ve overdone it” you said with some embarrassment while trying to rearrange things on the cart. Miller only nodded and stepped forward to assist. When y’all were fairly confident that you could move the cart…slowly…towards the elevators, Miller stopped the cart and gave you a look “I got an idea” and steered the cart into a side door while sorting through his keys

“Freight elevator. We can take it easy and it won’t tie everything up if things slide off. You got a lot of stuff here” then gave a little chuckle

“Thanks” you smiled and he met your gaze for a long minute before nodding

Sure enough, the sudden jerk of the elevator caused a mini avalanche and you jumped to stop the slide. When you realized that your hand was on his, you looked up at him and slowly pulled away, standing with up with a slight flush

Y’all rode the rest of the way in silence, but you kept sneaking glances at him. That big beefy butt and his strong jawline had you wondering what his large hands would feel like against your skin. You felt yourself starting to chub up and tried to adjust things without him noticing

You’ve always considered yourself straightish and occasionally date women, but you’ve also noticed other guys, and could appreciate their masculine beauty. Something about Miller made you crave his attention. He turned to look at you “You say something?” and realized you’d been staring “Uh…no” and looked away quick

Once y’all had the cart inside your apartment, you both started unloading the supplies with quick efficiency

Then you looked at Miller “I don’t have any cash. I’d like to tip you for your help. I would probably still be fucking around with this stuff if not for you”

“Keep your money kid. It’s my job to make sure things run smoothly”

“Seriously though, you gotta let me do something” You spied the stacked cases of beer “Come back later for a beer. What time are you off?”

He looked at you for a long minute “Eight o’clock okay?”

“Perfect” You smiled “That’ll give the beer time to chill”

Ten minutes before eight, you were in front of the bathroom mirror checking your hair and clothes for your “date” with the building superintendent when you stopped and looked at yourself and chuckled “Get a grip Evan…It’s Miller…not the fucking prom”

You decided to change into a comfortable pair of shorts and a tee shirt just before the knock came. When you opened the door, you saw Miller standing there with a little smile and looking absolutely amazing in a pair of snug shorts, flip flops and a tee shirt that hugged his chest and arms “Hey kid” he said “Gonna invite me in?”

You suddenly realized that you were staring at him, open mouthed and temporarily paralyzed by his presence

“What?…I mean yeah. Of course. I’m sorry” you said feeling flustered

When he stepped through the door, he looked down to see you were bare foot and kicked off his flip flops at the door before continuing inside

“Can I get you anything?” You asked

He gave you a quizzical look “How about that beer?”

You actually giggled “Duh…of course”

He reached out and placed his hand on the back of your arm “Relax kid. It’s just me. I don’t bite”

“That’s too bad” slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself, causing him to look at you with a raised eyebrow

“Jesus Christ Evan” you thought to yourself while fetching a couple beers out of the icebox

He was sitting on the sofa when you handed him the beer and took the chair to his right. You took a long pull from the bottle to steady your nerves before speaking again “I really appreciate your help with everything…earlier I mean…and I realized I never told you my name. I’m Evan” extending a hand

He swapped his beer and took your hand “Wes”

By your third beer, you’d managed to actually function like a normal human being and had learned that Wes was prior military and had taken this position mostly for the solitude. He lived in a little studio downstairs provided by his job but was also rehabbing an old homestead an hour out of town on his days off

“That’s pretty cool man. I’d like to see it sometime” you said while meeting his eyes

“That could be arranged” he smiled

A week later, you were riding shotgun in Wes’ truck on the way to his homestead. It was a beautiful drive once y’all turned off the main highway onto the two lane blacktop that led to his place. Once he’d parked, you stood there taking in the surroundings before Wes cleared his throat and you stepped in to help unload

Wes turned out to be a really capable cook, and after dinner y’all were sitting on the porch, watching the stars come out and sitting in a comfortable silence

“I never would’ve taken you for the sort who’d like the country” he said

“Ditto” you said with a smile and meeting his eyes

Back inside, y’all were making preparations for bed when you found yourself watching Wes. The purposeful way he moved while he worked and the flex of his muscles under his shirt had you sneaking glances. He’d made up the sofa for you and suggested you use the shower first while he kicked back in a chair, propping his feet up and opening a book

When you came out of the bathroom wrapped only in a towel, Wes put down his book and looked you over before getting up “My turn” and moved past you close enough to feel his body heat

You’d pulled on sweat pants when he stepped out of bathroom in only a towel. “Fuck” you thought as you stood there staring

“Something on your mind?” He asked, snapping you out of your daze

“What? No…sorry. Just thinking”

“About?” He asked stepping closer

He was standing an arm length away, looking you in the eye before coming closer and reaching out to run a finger up your torso, making your breath catch. Then he ran his thumb over your lower lip while you just looked at him…not believing this was really happening. You finally reached up to grab hold of his wrist

“Want me to stop?” He asked in a low voice

“No”

When he pulled you into his arms, you poured all the longing and desire of these past weeks into the kiss. He was surprisingly gentle for such a big man and held you both tightly and carefully. Those huge calloused hands on your body were magic. You were reaching up to meet his lips when his towel slipped free and fell to the floor. You could feel his growing arousal and when you ran your hands along his arms to pull back, what you saw stopped you in your tracks

“Wow” looking up to his eyes before looking back down “Damn Wes…that’s an assault weapon” making him give an embarrassed chuckle

You took the head of it in your hand and gave it a tug while it swelled to its full length. He sighed as you stroked it, fascinated by the size, tracing your thumb along the top vein “What am I gonna do with this?” you were thinking. You looked back up at him, then went down on your knees and started to kiss and pump it, licking the sap from the tip, running your tongue along the length and making him groan. You took as much into your mouth as possible as he grabbed a fistful of your hair, gently guiding you while cupping your chin with his other hand and slowly pumping himself into your mouth

You tugged down your sweat pants, your own dick standing at full attention, and began to stroke yourself while you nursed on his tool. Drool was running down your chin, and you gagged the couple times he got too deep, but you were lost in the heat of this moment and began pulling on his dick hard and fast, working the knob and shaft in a steady rhythm

You felt him starting to tense up and glanced up to see his head back with his mouth open “I’m close kid” he groaned and then he started to huff. He gripped both sides of your head “AWW FUCK” and started shooting what must’ve been a gallon of spunk into your throat while your own dick started spitting all over the floor and your fist. You swallowed as much as you could while a generous amount dripped from your chin

When you’d both finished, you rested both hands on your knees, catching your breath before reaching up to wipe your chin, look him in the eyes and stick your fingers in your mouth. He grinned and reached down, pulling you up into a deep kiss, wrapping one arm around your back while his free hand cupped your ass

After cleaning up, you were lying in his bed, one arm across his body while you rested your chin on his chest

“I noticed” he said “All those times you were looking at me” he chuckled

“You’re hard to miss” you replied

He pulled you into a kiss “Get some sleep kid. We got a lot of work to do tomorrow”

[eraserbread]

God forbid a girl asks for some ex-husband kento (pls 🥺)

kento really should leave. it's obvious -- this is not his home anymore.

no, it's his daughters and ex-wife's. he handed it over like stone once the divorce went final, wanting his girl to grow up in spacious security. he'll sign on a lackluster one-bedroom in the city just so all of his money can flow into keeping you afloat.

though you're perpetually trapped by him, using a bank account he monitors and living in a home you don't pay for, he still gives you grace. it's because he's guilty. kento knows he fucked you over, it's why he's pacing your bedroom door where he knows you're asleep.

he's a good dad, carving out time between missions to run and take his daughter to school. it's the one constant his little girl has, and in first grade, she's old enough to understand that he's never really around.

it's why he has her hello kitty lunch box tight in his grip that she left in his car today. he knows you need to pack it for tomorrow and would likely freak out if you lost it, so he needed to hand it to you personally.

or, that's what he tells himself to justify the anxious pacing. he needs to swallow that familiar need for you that brews in his bones and leaves him tossing and turning through his sleepless nights. It's only been a year without you; surely he can handle a lifetime, right?

all he was going to do was drop the box on your nightstand, send a quick text, and be on his way. but, you had other ideas.

it was his stupid pacing; it woke you up, and now you were staring at the windowless wall, scowling into nothingness. blankets are bunched neatly at your lace-covered waist, wrapped in a honeymoon artifact you used to show off for your husband, now your insecure ex who doesn't speak more than two sentences at a time.

unless, it's to tell you to be obedient, or stop talking.

this time, it's you who initiates the talking. "what are you doing?"

you can't see the tense in his shoulders when he realizes you're awake. he thought he could get lucky, sneaking around like a criminal. you wouldn't give him luck -- he doesn't deserve peace.

"just dropping off rin's bento box." the hard plastic hits your side table, and you shudder. his voice is deep like he's tired. "she ran out of my car like she was mad this evening... all to see you. she's a mother's girl, not like I can blame her much."

"she has like eight bentos, you could've left it."

kento sighs, letting your words overtake and shove his efforts right back in his face. "it's her favorite."

"she has eight favorites."

"okay." he deadpans. "anything else i'm doing wrong? or that I don't know?"

"nanami, we'd be here all night if I told you the truth." with every sentence, it's becoming increasingly obvious that you won't be getting much sleep. you sit up, pulling your blankets around your half-decent body. "say it. whatever it is that brought you here with the excuse of a bento."

you know better than to expect kento to listen, but you don't expect him to round the expanse of the bed, dropping to his knees right next to you. he attempts to reach for your tangled hand, but you swat him away, gaze full of indignant fires.

"forgive me... please." he's muttering, head dipped in embarrassment. since he gave you up, he's realized it as his biggest mistake. he can't calm the burning within him at night, he can't stand going back to his old ways - convenience store dinners and storefront sandwiches. but, he also can't let you be dragged into his work again. He could see the effect it pulled you into, the worry that ate you alive every time you saw him. but, there must be an answer, some alternative to cold-turkey. you are an addiction.

"forgive you? forgive you for what? breaking apart our family? giving up? giving in to your cowardice? i don't think you understand -- you leaving me doesn't just affect you and I, it affects rin in ways we won't see until it's eating us alive. that's on you. it's your fault." always level-headed, always the voice of reason even if it's painful. kento nods, but can't look at you.

"forgive... me..." he pleads, emotionless and unblinking at the rugged floor. "...please."

you scoff, pushing away from him on the bed. you crawl to the other side, the side nanami left the bento, and take it as an excuse to run from this situation.

"you're just going to walk away?"

"yes! because i'm not dealing with your bullshit." he follows you out into the hallway, past your sleeping daughters room and into the kitchen. you can feel his shadowed eyes staring at the jutting expose of your ass through the nightgown, but for some reason it doesn't bother you. emotionally, you're as disconnected as possible, but your body still likes him. i mean, it's undeniable, kento will always be the most attractive man you've ever, ever seen.

it was not you who cut those ties. never you.

and he's crowding you as you turn on the faucet, opening rin's box and putting it under. kento is on you the entire time, but he actually corners you against the sink, huge body caging you in, hands planted at your either side. his breathing is nasally and pathetic. you're scowling.

"...ignore that."

you're squinting, trying to gauge what you're ignoring. then, you can feel it. anger rises your body temperature. an erection, pressing right between the swells of your loosely covered ass. "you're genuinely so unbelievable."

you've begun washing the dish, spinning soapy water in the painted pink plastic as he breathes on your neck. you wish you can push him away and lessen him to a lifetime of sexual pining and angst, but you're stoic.

the dish is washed, you're turning around, breathless. and just as you go to close your hand over his cheek and give in, a tiny voice from the hallway catches you.

"mama?" your little girl whines, one eye cracked open in the harshness of the lights. she's all messy-haired, red-faced and sleepy. in her left hand hangs a tattered kuromi doll. "I heard... dad..."

you've never pushed kento away like this, but he's being pushed, taking it like it's nothing, too. he understands that whatever rin needs comes first - he's okay not being at your attention.

and he loves seeing you two interact as you sweep her up in your safe arms. rin settles on your hip, long legs kicking into the air as she rests on your shoulder. "sleepy."

"i know, my baby." you coo, running a hand through her hair. "want me to put you back to sleep?"

staring at her twin, her dad, rin nods her sleepy head, using a fist to tug at her right eye. "dad... bye, daddy."

"bye, my princess." kento stands from his lean on the counter, closing in to kiss rin on the cheek. he lingers for a moment, peeking up to your unreadable gaze. you make him feel so little, now. like he hardly exists as a human, let alone the father of your child and the man you loved for over a decade. "sleep well. be nice to your mama, too. I'll be here to take you to school tomorrow."

as you tuck your girl back into bed, she's peaceful. "mama? are you and dad happy again? will he live here again?"

kneeling at her bedside, you smooth the blankets over her figure, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "probably not."

she whines close-eyed, turning her face away from you. "I didn't do anything to make you mad, so why is it my fault?"

"what? rin, dad and i not being together is entirely our fault." you're mindful to the core when speaking to her, deciding it better not to pin blame on you or kento, just for the respect of her mentality.

she whines again, shoving away from your touch defiantly. she's holding kuromi like she's stressed, and it kills you.

"please, mama. please fix it."

[sunsburns]

track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x afab reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.

⟢ wc: 15k+

⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!

You’re such a pervert.

At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.

Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.

You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.

Why did you even agree to this again?

Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.

Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)

Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.

Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.

He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.

He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.

You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.

You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.

He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”

You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”

He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”

“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”

Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.

Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.

By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.

You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.

So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.

You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.

You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.

Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.

You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.

But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.

Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.

You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.

His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.

You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.

You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.

God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.

If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)

You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.

You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.

“I suck.”

You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.

“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.

“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.

His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.

Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.

Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.

“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.

Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.

“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”

“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”

That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.

To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.

“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”

His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”

You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”

“My treat.”

“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”

It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?

Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.

Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.

You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.

You blink. “Holy shit.”

Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”

────────────

You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.

Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.

If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.

If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.

But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.

Totally.

And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).

Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.

As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.

You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.

But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.

Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.

And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.

“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.

“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.

You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”

There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.

And you try to listen. You do.

You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.

You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.

You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.

The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.

You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.

Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.

You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.

The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.

Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.

You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.

Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?

…Right.

So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.

His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.

He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.

You should say something. Anything.

“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”

He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”

Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.

“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.

There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.

“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”

You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”

“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”

“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”

Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”

You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.

Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.

And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.

You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?

Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.

You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.

And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.

He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.

You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.

When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”

And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”

“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”

He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.

“Thanks. You remembered?”

“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.

The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.

You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.

Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.

You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.

And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.

But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.

Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.

Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.

And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.

You glance down.

Oh.

Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.

Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.

“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.

His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.

He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”

A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”

He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.

You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:

You want to kiss him.

And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.

And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.

“Mark,” you say.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”

“I think we should fuck.”

He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.

“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.

Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”

You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”

Mark goes absolutely still.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.

“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”

“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.

“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?

Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.

You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.

“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.

“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.

“Reject you?”

“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.

“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”

The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”

"You're not?"

He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.

“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”

The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.

“So... you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.

Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.

“Yeah.”

Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.

Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”

“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.

“So what... we just do this?” he asks.

“We could... just try it. See if it works.”

His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.

“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.

Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”

You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”

“Please, do.”

He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”

“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.

Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”

You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”

You inhale sharply.

“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”

His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”

You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.

When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.

The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.

By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.

He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.

Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.

You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.

So you do.

You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).

He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).

He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.

You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.

You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.

He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.

The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”

You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”

“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.

You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”

You park in front of his house and kill the engine.

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”

“What?”

You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.

He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.

“I win.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.

The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.

You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.

And then he kisses you again.

No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.

You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”

“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.

He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.

“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.

He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

You think you hear him whisper your name.

You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.

And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.

“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.

God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.

Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”

His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.

He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.

Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.

He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.

Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably. 

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.

“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.

The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.

You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not…”

A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”

Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit. 

“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”

He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.

“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.

Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.

Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.

He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.

How alien is he? You wonder.

But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.

Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.

His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.

Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.

Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.

Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.

His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.

“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”

You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.

He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.

You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.

He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.

And laugh.

“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”

Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.

Mark’s ears go red.

“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.

“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”

He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.

You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”

“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”

He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.

“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”

You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.

It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.

He twitches again.

The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?

Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.

Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…” he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.

“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”

“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.

Maybe both.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.

Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.

His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.

You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.

You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.

His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.

His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:

“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”

He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.

His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.

You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”

You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.

“That was…”

“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.

His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.

He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.

You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.

Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.

He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.

You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.

The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”

You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”

You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.

And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.

You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.

Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.

Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.

You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.

He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.

You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”

Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”

Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.

Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.

His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.

He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.

You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”

Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.

And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.

You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.

You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.

You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.

And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.

He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.

You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.

A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.

“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.

You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.

“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.

His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.

His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.

A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.

You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.

Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.

It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.

You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.

You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.

Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

Then his mouth finds you.

One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips. 

He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.

The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.

“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer. 

He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.

“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.

“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).

You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.

“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”

“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”

Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.

A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.

If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.” 

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.

His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.

His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.

The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.

He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.

“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”

Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you swear.

“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”

You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.

A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.

“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”

Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.

Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,

Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.

When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.

His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”

“Could be better...”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.

“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.

“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.

He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.

“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”

You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”

He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”

Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

[tojisteddy]

Just thought about Inmate!Suguru and jeeez | cw: 18+ mdni, some fluff, phone sex, masturbation.

Inmate!Suguru who has everyone in the prison on a tight rule despite being locked up himself. Inmates, officers, the god damn warden— everyone moves and does as he says.

If you think some people saw him like a God in there— you’d be right.

Strict on routine, Inmate!Suguru is up by five, morning tea with his cell mate, breakfast by six, headcount at 7, a college course or two in the morning, ‘straightening shit out’ he likes to call it right after lunch at 11:50, meeting his cell mate and a few of his older buddies for mahjong on the coast yard by 1pm. Work out at three pm while listening to Britney Spears and Aaliyah (yes, he’s a big fan). He’s either on weights, or playing basketball. Long hair slipping out of his ponytail, Orange jumpsuit tied at his waist, sweat dripping through his wife beater— God would you pray to see him like that right then and there. Suguru showers after that, dinner at 5, another headcount, he spends the rest of the time in his cell. Thinking, drawing (he’s got a knack for it), another tea, listening to the mixtape you sent him of songs you’d been listening to, writing a reply to one of your letters.

But when Inmate!Suguru does miss you, and I mean really misses you, gets out a little track phone hidden in his mattress and calls you. It could be the dead of night when he does it, lights out in the prison of course, he knows you’re deep in sleep but he calls anyway. You pick up on the forth ring, he sighs, “Baby.” Soft because he doesn’t he doesn’t want to disturb his cell mate, an old man who’d been in for too long on a sentence he didn’t deserve. You don’t even open your eyes, you’d just go on yapping about anything that pops up in your head because that’s what he wants to hear. Your sweet voice that takes him away from this dirty cell, this prison and home to you, where he’ll be in ten more months. even if it’s just for ten minutes.

That’s what he misses at times like this. Your voice, your smile, your soft body pressed against his— the way you’d laugh at the dumbest jokes, your curls getting in the way of your gorgeous face or when your brown black hair is overlapping with his jet black strands— he missed it all.

Inmate!Suguru who has Saturo look out for you while he’s in jail. He’s a good friend to him and to you and trusts him to take care of what you won’t tell Suguru because you don’t want to worry him. You car in the inbound lot? Suguru’s got Gojo to get it out for you. Sink making that weird noise again? Suguru’s Gojo’s calling a plumber to come fix it. Want to hang because you’re feeling lonely? Don’t worry, Gojo’s bringing your favorite snacks over and hogging the couch.

Inmate!Suguru who only calls you from the pay phone once a month. Just before dinner on the third Friday, 4:30 pm sharp every time. “You are now receiving a collect call from—“ and there’s a break in the automated message so he can speak, “missed you soooo much doll.” “Inmate number—“

Suguru can hear you moaning on the other line, squirming and rubbing at your bundle of nerves. “Miss you baby, shit!” You gasp, turning your head into your pillow. Suguru’s already imagining it, your mouth open, cursing up a storm, running away from your own pleasure.

Yup, phone sex. The freak had to hear you get off for him, help him envision exactly what he’d do to you when he got out of that place. He’d fuck you till you didn’t have words to speak, give you everything you needed.

“Come on baby, put your phone to your pussy, gotta hear her.” You follow, bringing the phone down and opening your legs further. You’re completely soaked, running your fingers through your folds that squelched with every movement. You were making a mess that’s dripping down to your little asshole. You’d been edging yourself for the last 40 minutes, waiting for Suguru to give you the demand to let it go. It always feels better this way.

“Good girl, sound so perfect. Stick those fingers in your pretty cunt for me, yeah? Just like I always do.” He grunts, shifting to give his growing chub some breathing room.

You slip one finger in thrusting it a little then another finger.

“Not- ughh- it’s not as big enough!” you whine thrusting your fingers inside your hole as best as you can but they could never do what his big tattooed hands could do. Get you cumming in two minutes. Suguru snickers, god you sounds you were making were music to his ears. “I knooow,” he fake pouts, his poor baby :(, “Just imagine it, you can do it. Try to find that spot for me, just like I would do. Rub on your fat clit, and think about me teasing your nipples. Licking all over ‘em just how you like. You can do it, you’re a good girl.”

You shake groaning at his words and working your fingers into your gushing entrance. Mumbling his name while your thumb found your clit.

Your back arches off the bed, “Gonna- hnnngh- cum! Sugu Lemme cum!”

Suguru smirks, the bastard, “Not so sure.”

“—B-but”

“—B-b-but,” he mocks, “come on, you can hold it for another second, can’t you?”

You huff, squeezing your eyes shut, “I-I’m a good girl.”

“Yes you are, my gorgeous girl. Bet you’re gushing right now, imagining how I take care of you, holding you and touching you all over, hm?”

And there’s yelling, too fucking loud, three phones down. A guard telling them to calm down or shut up. Suguru tried to ignore it. Focus on you, your moans speaking right to his aching dick. Just before he can get out the words to let you release, some prick comes yelling at him.

“—Damn it Geto! You’re hogging the fuckin phone!” Someone yells behind him. He takes a breath through his nose, closing his eyes and not giving the idiot the slightest attention. He runs his fingers through his hair, “I’m sorry, sweet girl, gonna have to finish yourself off without me, okay?”

“O-okay.” You hiccuped, clarity finally getting to you. “I was holding you up.”

“No, never. I love our calls baby- just- fuck— these damn monkeys don’t know when to keep their fucking heads down and mouths shut. Do they?” Your boyfriend sneers, he’s half talking to you, half talking to himself because how dare an imbecile below him interrupt his precious time with you?

Suguru knows the monkey doesn’t even understand the gravity of the situation, how incredible you were, his princess. How every second of his 20 minute call, hearing you moan and cry his name, was thee most important thing every fucking month he was in here.

He’d skin him.

“You write me a letter like you always do sweetheart. I miss you, love you.”

“Take care of yourself. I love you Sugu.” Fuck, the man’s heart gushed. He hears your sweet lips pucker, sending him a kiss and then the dial tone. Suguru puts the phone back, straightening his poster and turning towards the man who yelled at him and tying his hair up.

“Pray you don’t die today.”

Inmate!Suguru, who surprisingly became close with a man with pink hair named Sukana. And it’s fucking off that the two would get along, both men like control and to be able to control whatever setting they’re in. Any setting besides the little book club created by the sweet elderly woman, Ms. Joanne, who used to be in jail herself and decided to help those who were just like her when she got out. She new exactly how to control the big and tall men around her— by informing them she’d take away the books if they didn’t get their act together. That changed everything.

Inmate!Suguru who would rather you send him a letter than call often. Who knows you cried your eyes out those first couple months right after your calls and hates that he’s the cause of your pain. So he writes and writes all the feelings and words left unsaid down on paper so you can remind yourself of all his love whenever you want. And you do the same writing and writing till your heart is at ease, full, waiting for the day Suguru makes it back home to you.

a/n: finally writing by manga/anime boys, I live.

most recent masterlist

[grapejuice32]

Too Clingy?

Rafe x angel!reader

more angel!reader here main masterlist here

word count: 1.2k a/n: after speaking to Topper, angel worries that she's too clingy for Rafe

Since Rafe had confessed his love to you, things had been strange. There’d been a slight tension in the air between the two of you. You’d heard him, and he knew you’d heard him, but you hadn’t said it back. The only people that’d ever said the words ‘I love you’ to you, were your parents and they hadn’t said such words to you since you were fourteen. You were afraid to say the least, afraid that now he’d said the words, things were going to go downhill, you didn’t know any different. 

So, in an attempt to try and make things better, he had surprised you by taking you out to dinner at the country club. You weren’t the biggest fan of eating at big restaurants, not that you’d ever told him that. You didn’t like that so many other people could see you eating, it made you strangely uncomfortable and you weren’t sure why, you’d just always felt that way. The two of you had just finished eating when he’d gotten up to go to the bar, wanting to get you guys more drinks and also having been waved over by Topper, Kelce and a couple of his other friends. He’d been gone for a while, and you had started to feel uncomfortable with all the kooks that keep glancing over at you disapprovingly. With your discomfort came a growing anxiety, and so you stood up to go and find Rafe. 

When you got to the bar, Rafe wasn’t there, but his friends were. You attempted to turn away unnoticed, but luck wasn’t on your side. As you tried to make your escape, the sound of Topper’s voice calling your name out had you stopping in your tracks. You released a long breath and turned to face Rafe’s friends, a small and unconvincing smile tugging at your lips. “Do you guys, um, do you know where Rafe went?” Your voice was small as you spoke, avoiding meeting any of their eyes. 

“What’s that? Can’t hear you, sweetheart.” Came his voice again, his words were mocking but you tried not to take it into account. 

“I um, do you know where Rafe went?” You asked again, speaking up louder now, fiddling anxiously with the fabric of your skirt. 

“What are you, his keeper or something?” The words were cruel, a bitter tone lining them, and they hit you harshly as you swallowed. 

“I um-“ 

“You’re just so goddamn clingy,” he continued, his friends nodding along and chuckling at his words. “We barely even see him anymore since he got with you. You trying to pull him away from us all, huh? Recruit him into your freakish little cult or something?” 

“No, I-“ you tried to speak again, tears burning your eyes. But you were cut off once again, only this time by the feeling of Rafe’s warm hand on your back. 

“Hey, there y’are.” He spoke, softly to you, not looking much towards his friends. You didn’t say anything not wanting him to catch sight of your glassy eyes and be the cause of issues with his friends. “Y’want dessert?” He asked, knowing that you had a sweet tooth. So, when you shook your head, he was caught slightly off guard but nodded nonetheless and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. He began to lead you out of the club, waving over at his friends. You were completely silent on the drive back to yours and when he pulled up you got straight out of the car, not giving him time to open your door for you like he usually would. 

You heard him swear under his breath as he followed after you, “Hey, hey, what’s goin’ on with you?” He asked in exasperation when you didn’t acknowledge him, just curling into the plethora of cushions that took up your bed. He huffed and sat on the side of your bed, “ ‘s this cause of what I said the other night?” You stayed quiet, your face buried in your pillows to hide your running tears. “If is cause of that, ‘m not gonna take it back, okay? I meant it, and you don’t, y’don’t have to say it back. ‘m not, I don’t expect that of you, okay? So, if that, if that’s what’s wrong, ‘s fine, I don’t mind that you didn’t say it back.” 

“Am I too clingy?” you asked, voice muffled by pillows.

“What? Oh, baby, no. ‘f course not. Why would y’think that, huh?” His words were lined with concern.

What he said didn’t do anything to make you feel better though. “Am I with you too much? Do I take you away from your friends?”  You felt his hand on the back of your head, his fingers beginning to run through your hair.

“No, course not. What makes y’say that, huh angel?” His words were warm like honey as he tried to soothe you. 

“Just been thinking,” you said, your face still hidden in your frilly edged pillows. 

He sighed, “Yeah? Thinkin’ ‘bout what?” Once again you didn’t answer and instead just shrugged. Rafe licked his lips and tried again, “Did the guys say somethin’ t’you? ‘s that what happened?” You froze up a bit, your form becoming rigid. “ ‘m gonna talk to them, alright?” 

That got you to sit up quickly, “No, don’t, don’t do that.” The questioning gleam in his eyes and the way he tilted his head was enough to make you continue, “Don’t want them to hate me more than they already do.” He wanted to tell you they didn’t hate you, but he couldn’t, you wouldn’t believe him, and he knew his friends disliked you, that they judged you. A lot of people did. He moved to sit with his back to the headboard and scooped you up in his arms, pulling you into his lap and holding you close to his chest. He hummed as you lay your head in the crook of his neck, your warm puffs of breath against the skin of his neck cooling his rising anger. 

“Look. What they think about you, or us, or any of it. It means nothin’ t’me, okay? Nothin’.” You tried to interrupt him, but he kept speaking. “ ‘m with you cause I wanna be. ‘m with you all the time cause I wanna be, cause I like bein’ around you. Your everythin’ to me, okay? Everythin’. Don’t give a fuck ‘bout any of them, okay?”

You nodded, “Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeated, so you nodded again in response.

“You know that I do, right?” You whispered shyly, not ready to say the words. 

“I know.” He nodded. 

You mimicked his actions, your hair tickling his neck as you did. “I just, I can’t um. Can’t, I just.”

“I know, ‘s okay. You jus’ can’t say it yet, and ‘s okay. Cause I know.” He assured, kissing the back of your head as he rubbed your back. “But I can say it, and ‘m gonna. I love you, angel. So, so much. Don’t care what anyone thinks, okay? I love you with everythin’ in me.”

a/n: requests are open

[saphiccarma]

- The Red Means I Love You

Relationships - Mob Boss!WandaNat x Reader

Summary - The aftermath of you getting stabbed and a flashback to some fun times with your girlfriends.

Warnings: blood, stab wound, knife play, fingering, mean nat :D

A/N: Hi best friends :D italics mean flashback btw and uhm, hope y'all have fun with this one ;)

Pt.1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt.5 Pt.6

Blood seeps from the wound on your stomach, warm and sticky. You slouch against the wall, bricks digging into your skin and scratching your shirt every time you shift. A soft hiss leaves your lips as you press your fingers on the gaping cut, trying to stop the bleeding. It's little use, red fluid dripping through your fingers and soaking your outfit.

With each passing second you lose more consciousness, brain heavy with exhaustion and whatever your drink was spiked with. Your phone has fallen out of your pocket, fingertips grazing against it as you try and grab it. You need to call Wanda or Natasha, they might be able to get you stitches up in time.

The phone is just out reach, your bloody fingers scrabbling against the concrete floor as your thoughts continue to slip away. It buzzes and through hazy eyes you can make out Natasha's contact name, a photo of her in her office lighting up the screen. Her red hair is pulled back into a high ponytail and she wears an elegant suit, the collar pushed down to reveal a dark purple bruise you'd left the night before. She was smiling, a soft curve of her lips that didn't meet her eyes but it was genuine.

Vibrating on the floor, bouncing further away from you, the phone made a small ringing noise. Cars buzzed past you on the street and the faint glow of their lights illuminated the alley. Unfortunately, you were tucked in the back corner, coughing up blood all over your shirt, and bleeding out. No one would see you.

Your phone goes silent, Natasha's photo disappearing as your vision goes fuzzy. You've never gotten stabbed before and the searing, yet steady, pain that throbs from the wound is more painful than anything. It was worse than getting shot, which happened once (Natasha killed the man who did it), but this was a whole new level of painful.

It was different, a steady pulsing through your stomach. Why didn't Rio just kill you? She could've, so easily, juts a slit to the throat. But she didn't. She chose not to and you couldn't decide whether you were grateful or pissed. Because now you had a chance, but that chance hurt like hell.

You don't even notice when your head lolls forward to rest on your chest. A faint trail of blood seeps out of the corner of your mouth, falling down your chin and tracing a red line down your neck. Eyes fluttering you take in a ragged breath, trying to force yourself to move.

All you can manage is pulling your legs to your chest feebly before they fall again. Your arms are heavy, stuck in place as you try and stem the bleeding. Each breath felt like an elephant sat on your chest. The phone begins to buzz again. You don't even notice.

A rush of cold wind sways your weak form and a shudder runs through your body. The movement sends a fresh jolt of pain up your spine and you wince, teeth clenched together as you stifle a sob of pain. A tear leaks from the corner of your eye.

It streaks the blood and drips to the collar of your shirt. You can feel the fabric clinging to your skin, wet and stuck to you like glue. One of your fingers fumbles, trying to pull away in a disoriented manner. Natasha's sharp voice calls through the air, your name leaves her lips. Wanda's shout follows, her words softer but tinged with the same concern of her wife.

You swallow thickly, letting a shaky breath leave your lungs. It's getting harder to breathe. Harder to see. Harder to....just be. Your thoughts slur as your eyes slip shut, head dropping to your chest again. The phone buzzes, clattering against the concrete.

Raspy, throat straining from the effort, "N- nat," A faint moment where you open your eyes and catch sight of flaming red hair, perfectly kept outfit, and heels clacking against the concrete. The dull call of your name, Wanda's worried gasp.

A soft curse reaches your ears and you groan softly as a hand lands on your shoulder, steadying your swaying body. You can't even bring yourself to open your eyes, to look at them and see their faces for possible the last time.

"Hey, hey, malyshka, look at me," Natasha's warm fingers curl around your chin and tilt your face up. Eyelids heavier than sandbags, you still don't look at her. Someone pries your hand away from the wound and you whine, head falling back against the bricks.

Their voices fade into the background, hushed and worried as the fog in your brain starts to take over. You take one last shaky inhale before letting yourself succumb to the darkness and trust your girlfriends to handle it.

^_________________________^

Breath coming in quick pants, cheeks flushed and sweat dripping down your forehead, you sway. Your brain is hazy and you can hardly think straight any more as your thighs tremble and your fingers curl tightly. It's almost too much - almost.

You stumble back as Natasha swipes at you, the silver knife swiping through the air. Wanda shouts out a command at her, voice reprimanding and sharp as she corrects your stance. The mats beneath your feet create a traction against your shoes that makes it hard to move. Yet Natasha moves with such fluid grace, each of her movements speaking to her past with ballet.

It was a shock when you first learned about that. Natasha, the woman who ran a crime empire and killed people, had once done ballet. Granted, it was forced, but the art gave her a fluid grace that very few people it. That was part of what made her so dangerous.

You yelp as the tip of the knife grazes your arm, the fabric of your top ripped and a small droplet of blood beading there. You stare in shock for a moment. Eyes flicking back and forth from the wound to the glint of silver beneath the pale lights, you lose focus.

"Y/N!" Wanda snaps, cutting through your thoughts. The impatient, almost annoyed, inflection to her voice makes your stomach curl in both shame and ashamed arousal. You fail the notice the glint in Wanda's eyes when she picks up on your state, making brief eye contact with Natasha.

You don't notice. You hardly ever do pick up on their subtle glances, the way they can talk without words. It's something mastered through years of marriage, a beauty you haven't yet been granted. The way the two older woman communicated was an art that could only be earned through time.

The exchange happens in the span of a few seconds before Natasha is lunging at you again, swiping with the knife. A surprised gasp leaves your lips as you stumble back once more, arching your back to dodge a slash to your stomach.

Wanda calls out a command, the words hardly registering as your eyes catch on Natasha's sweaty face. Lips parting, you get lost once more, staring at the elegance in her movements and the soft curves of her face. She opted for a sports bra today, showing off her toned stomach and leaving little to the imagination. The bra, a dark maroon color, plus black shorts that hardly reached mid thigh left you aching and needy as the two of you sparred.

Natasha hooks her foot beneath yours, using your distraction and you go crashing to the mat. The air is forced out of your lugs in a matter of seconds, your hands smacking on the floor and echoing through the gym. You're given no time to recover before the redhead is straddling your hips, the knife pressed into your stomach.

The sharp point of it digs into your skin and you whimper softly. Whether or not it was from fear or arousal is unclear. Raising an eyebrow, Natasha pushes down slightly, applying more pressure as her lips curl into a smirk.

Even though you have a knife poised and slowly drawing blood from your stomach, you can't help but admire her. Hair pulled into a high ponytail, a few loose strands hang out, framing her face. They stick to her face lightly, a small sheen of sweat coating her porcelain skin. Amusement shimmers in her eyes as she leans down.

"Dead," she whispers into your ear, voice low and husky. The knife is dragged up your stomach, between your breasts before it rests on your neck. She doesn't press, doesn't test that limit yet, but she hovers. You can feel the cold seeping from the blade and onto your warm skin, a sharp contrast, "You've really got to pay more attention."

Your eyes scan over her face once more, "I am," you murmur back at her, smiling slightly.

Squirming a little, you let out a soft gasp as her hips press down, holding you in place. Wanda scoffs off in the distance, stalking forward. Her footsteps are near silent as she comes on the mat and kneels next to you. The tips of her fingers, nails painted black, brush sweaty hair away from your face.

"On training," she chides softly, kissing your forehead tenderly, not caring that you were wet.

Natasha shifts, slotting a knee between your thighs and pressing it up against your dripping core. A small whimper leaves your lips and your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Lifting your head, Wanda shuffles to kneel behind you, placing your head in her lap.

The knife on your throat loosens a bit, but still hovers just above your skin, "Well since you were so focused on me..."

Tension coils in the air, hot and heavy, simmering between the two of you.

The way Natasha trails off sends shivers down your spine and she slips off your lap. Yet the blade stays, a silent warning not to move. Natasha taps your leg and you lift your hips, letting her pull your pants and panties off in one movement, tossing them over her shoulder.

You're glad the door to the training room is locked.

The weapon is pulled away for a second, Natasha flipping it in her hand so the sharp, long side rests on your throat this time. If you inhale too sharply it digs into your skin, not too painful but not exactly pleasant. Still, you can feel that familiar coil in your stomach as the wetness between your thighs grow.

Fingers swiping through your folds, Natasha draws out a choked moan from your lips and you long to arch into her touch. But the blade at your throat keeps you still. You jerk your hips, whining and toes curling in anticipation.

"Natty," you plea softly, giving her wide eyes, "Please. Don't tease, I need you."

Wanda runs her fingers through your hair softly, soothing your desperate state and attempting to calm your racing heart.

Pressing the knife further into your skin, Natasha stills her fingers, "Shh," she commands, not rough but certainly not gentle, "Since you couldn't focus on sparring, here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to fuck you, maybe edge you if I feel like it," she shrugs casually as blood beads at the tip of your skin, "And you're going to be silent and perfectly still. Da?"

You almost respond before remembering her words and staying perfectly quiet and still. She grins, satisfied, before circling your clit with her fingers. The little nub pulses under her touch and you're forced to suppress a gasp, trying your hardest to keep your hips still.

Wanda murmurs soothing words above you, keeping her touch light and gentle compared to her wife's. Natasha wastes no time, thumb pushing down on your clit while her index finger slides into your cunt. Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you give her pleading eyes. You don't know if you can hold out with staying silent and not moving.

Entirely uncaring, Natasha sets a slow, taunting pace. One finger sliding in and out of your dripping cunt while the other leisurely rubs your clit. Your hips jerk slightly, the movement unable to be controlled, but you do manage to stifle a whine.

"Stay still," Natasha chides softly, "Last warning."

She adds a second finger, picking up speed a little bit. There was no mercy in her movements, zero care that you were struggling to maintain composure - only a single minded focus on teasing you. You were hyper aware of the blade on your neck, but also the quake of your thighs and coil of your stomach.

Gasping softly, you're so close as she rolls her thumb against your lip. Wanda chuckles softly, her fingers tugging your hair and brushing it away from your face. Just when you feel the dam about to break, Natasha pulls away.

It takes everything in you not to cry out and instead a single tear slips from your eye, falling down your cheek. The smile on her face is wicked, filled with absolute sick delight, but you can see the shimmer of concern in her eyes. It's faint, but there and reminds you she cares and would never hurt you.

After letting you sit in anticipation for a moment, heart pounding faster than a race-horse, Natasha slips her fingers back in. She fucks you hard and fast time, jerking your body around and consequently the knife breaks skin a few times.

You hardly focus on that, instead closing your eyes as you let the feeling of pleasure wash over you. This time, Natasha doesn't stop as you come close to the edge again, belly tight and toes curling as your whole body tenses.

With a ragged, shuddering moan, you come all over her fingers. She doesn't slow until you come down from your high, only then does she slowly pull out of you and tap your lips with her drenched fingers. You open without question, wrapping your lips and tasting yourself on her.

"Maybe now, you'll learn how to focus hm?"

^___________________^

Natasha sits by your bed, laptop in her lap and coffee at her side. She hadn't once left you since the two brought you home. They couldn't go to a hospital, that could incite police or raise suspicions, so instead, she called in Bruce.

He managed to get you patched up, but it wasn't looking good. Your skin was pale and clammy, breaths coming in long and slow, chest barely rising and falling. The IV drip kept you hydrated, the needle stuck into your arm. You'd been unresponsive so far, not waking in the car ride home, not even flinching as Bruce stitched you up.

You were lucky, it just nicked your intestines and didn't cause any real damage. Regardless, the knife still cut deep enough and you were left alone long enough for severe blood loss. So much so you almost died on the way home.

Wanda crept into the room, holding a fresh cup of tea as she makes her way over. A soft sigh leaves her lips as she takes you. Your clammy skin, a whole shade lighter than usual, and sleeping face. You didn't look like...you.

She perched on the edge of the bed, brushing away damp strands of hair with a soft reverence. Her nails run through your hair, scratching lightly in a way that you loved and would be leaning into if you were awake. While she would never admit out loud to you, Wanda was crushed to see you like this. So was Natasha.

They had killed people, murdered for the sake of only themselves. Both women had seen horrors most don't, but this struck them harder than they ever thought it would. Natasha didn't know she would become so attached to you, a girl she kidnapped because her father owed Natasha money.

But here she was, sitting in a chair beside your sleeping form, dark bags under her eyes and small scowl on her face. She hadn't left - not to eat, not to shower, only to use the restroom. When she found you in the alley her heart had stopped, plummeting all the way into her stomach.

The sight of you bleeding out, calling her name weakly, was a pain she was not ready to experience. And now, seeing you nearly lifeless on the bed? Nothing had hurt her more. Not the bullet wounds. Not the stab wounds. Not the trauma she got from foster care.

This was her fault. She dragged you into this life, forced you to work for her. If she had just left you alone, then this wouldn't have happened. For all she knows, you could be living a happy life and not fighting for your life in a bed instead of a hospital.

"Natalia," Wanda's soft voice breaks her out of her thoughts, "I need you to go shower, I'll watch her."

Natasha swallows thickly, ready to protest before Wanda gives her a stern look. With a weary nod, she rises from her chair, closing the laptop, "Fine, but then I'm finding out who did because I'm going to fucking kill them."

Taglist: @macaroni676 @gaylorvader @ashadash0904 @sunshine-makes-flowers-grow @wolfangnight @rosekjsses @jessycatatiana @reginassweetheart @mmmmokdok @womenarehotsstuff @ciaoooooo111

[faghubby]

Playtime

"Paulie, come out here now!" Becky told me. I was scared she had dressed me up. But she had not told me she invited someone over. We had been playing with crossdressing ever since she caught me sniffing her panties months ago. I slowly came out of the bedroom. Dressed in my little micro mini skirt. You could easily see my ass since I a tiny pink thong on. My cut up Taylor swift shirt had no sleeves and showed off my belly. You could easily tell I was wearing a bra beneath it. I had become accustomed my high heels as well.

"Here she is!" Becky exclaimed jumping up she grabbed my arm and led me into the living room. There was an slightly older woman sitting on the couch. She seemed very proper. Sitting up straight everything just looked perfect. Behind her stood a younger woman. Who could not of looked more different. As proper as the first woman was the other was down right slutty.

"This is Ms Connie." Becky introduced me to the woman sitting I couldn't move I was so embarrassed. Ms Connie just smiled and looked me up and down,

"Is the young lady in chastity?" She asked.

"Yes, she loves it, don't you sweety?" Becky asked.

"Yes" I managed to squeak out.

"Nicky why don't you take Paulie in the other room" Ms Connie said.

"Listen to Nicky" Becky told me. Nicky led me back upstairs.

"Which room is yours?" She asked in a husky voice I opened the door to my room and NIcky grabbed me and kissed me. I didn't know what to do. What would Becky say. But she was forceful and strong. I melted in her arms. She pushed me to my knees. And lifted her skirt. She had a cock. A real one popping out of her panties. She wasted no time smacking my face with it.

"You know what to do" she told me. I had sucked Becky's toy before but never a real cock. I parted my lips and took her in my mouth. She grew harder in my mouth I tried to take more and more but she stopped me. She pushed me onto the bed. On my back she yanked off my thong and placed my legs on her shoulders. Without lube she pushed her cock into my ass.

"A bitch like you should always be prepared" she told me as she fucked me hard. I moaned and cried. For it hurt but felt so good at the same time.

"When I pull out get on your knees and take my load down your throat" she told me her voice rough and full of passion. She pulled out and I dropped to my knees she shoved her cock back in my mouth. It tasted awful but she came quickly flowing my throat with her seed. I couldn't swallow fast enough. And it spilled out of my mouth. She held my head until I licked up every drop I had let escape my mouth.

"She then led me back downstairs" as we entered the living room Becky was naked bent over the couch as a large black man drove his massive looking cock deep inside her.

"This is what she needed" Ms Connie said appearing from around the corner. "You understand now don't you" she patted my ass. I must of turned beet red. Nicky kissed me again.

"Lick her clean when he is done with her" she told me. And left with Ms Connie. I couldn't look away my cock trying to burst out of my cage. As I watched. This mountain of a man used Becky as a plaything moving her even carring her. I don't know if Becky was even aware I was there. As she orgasmed again and again. Before this man finally pushed deep into her and came filling my wife up with his seed. He pulled out got dressed and left. I approached Becky cum running down her leg. I touched her and she jerked.

"OH Paulie please be gentile" she moaned I dropped and licked this man's cum from her thigh and worked my way to my wife's very red swollen pussy. She jumped as my tounge touched her engorged lips. Then settled as I licked ever so gently. I licked her clean then helped her into a bath.

"Paulie, did you like Nicky?" Becky smiled. I blushed. "Good, she needs a girl friend" she told me.

Becky made no attempt to hide her lovers from me or others. And there where a few. Meanwhile she had me dress up for Nicky once a week. I discovered Nicky was Ms Connie's husband. But she didn't like pentrational sex. So he lived as her Lesbian wife. I was his reward for being so devoted to her. He assured me he had no interest in my penis and would never be unlocking it. Becky had no use for me sexually as well except to lick her clean after real men had pleased her.

[joelmiller-lover]

Truck drives and blowjobs

18 + warning

764 words , 3993 characters

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64951312

Joel took you everywhere, he made sure you and Ellie were always safe. So once you were all at Jackson, he felt like he lost a bit of his purpose. Ellie was safe, and you were too. He was just Joel in Jackson. Which is why he took on runs, anything to help out, make himself feel useful. He still enjoyed taking you on runs, this time was no different.

The older man got the truck packed while you grabbed some clothes. Joel wanted to fill the truck with supplies so you knew you’d be gone for a while. You made sure to give Ellie a kiss on the cheek before climbing into the passenger seat of the truck.

It had been a week and Joel was always driving, and when he wasn’t he was grabbing things or sleeping. You were on the way back to Jackson and you both needed energy. You leaned over Joel’s lap while he rambled about nonsense on how he didn’t find everything he wanted. Slowly you undid his belt, Joel’s head turning down to you “I- What the hell’r you doin’? We’re on the road” You lifted your head “Keep driving, I want to get to Jackson by tonight”

Joel shuddered but kept driving, trying to ignore the way your hands undid his jeans. Your lips pressed against the cloth around his dick, pre-cum already leaking. His hips bucked slightly as his breath shook “Fuck..” He muttered

After a bit Joel grew impatient, he needed your mouth so badly. He craved it. It had been a week since he felt your mouth, let alone anywhere near his cock. He was touch starved from going to sex daily, then nothing for a week. You caught onto his neediness, pulling his boxers down just enough for his cock to come out.

His tip was against your lips, the salty flavor of his pre seeping between your lips. His cheeks were dusted pink, head slightly back while he still kept his eyes on the road. He wasn’t worried about cars, but more so trees or railing or even infected.

Joel’s pubes brushed against your cheek while your hand made its way down his length. His breath hitched as he slightly swerved “Joel, calm down” You looked up, watching him nod with a sharp inhale. “Yeah- Yeah calm down”

You brought your head up to his tip, slowly licking. His soft groans filled the almost silent truck. He needed you, he hadn’t felt your touch recently which made him even more pent up. When you started licking up his shaft he tossed his head back, causing the truck to swerve a bit. He almost immediately looked back in shock, forcing his eyes to stay on the road. Even if it took everything to not look down at you.

Joel brought one hand to your hair, guiding you up and down his cock. He was trying his damndest to not buck his hips, he knew you’d kick his ass if he did. You gripped onto his boxers before pushing your head down all the way. As Joel felt you choke against his cock he let out a long string of moans, his grip tightening in your hair. “Holy- Fuck I can’t-“

Your saliva dripped from Joel’s cock to his boxers, not that either of you cared in the moment. He let go of your hair to grab a fistful of your ass, not caring if he left a few mark. He felt himself growing loose as your tongue coated his shaft, cheeks a bright red.

As Joel grew closer and your jaw ached, he just had to pull over, he was going to lose his mind. His whimpers filled the truck as he pulled into a patch of grass on the side of the road. He led out a string of nonsense as you kept bobbing your head, his pre leaking into your mouth.

“Wa..wait I’m close, I’m close-“ Joel’s grip on your ass grew tighter as he tossed his head back, moans of just your name and random curses filled the air as he came. You pulled away, swallowing and bringing a hand to your jaw “Fuck..”

It took Joel a bit before he composed himself again and was back on the road to Jackson. He kept a hand on your thigh, gently tracing shapes as they pulled into the gate.

Tommy stood, his brows furrowed and arms crossed, watching you two get out. “Y’all get everything?” He smirked as his eyes met yours “You’ve got a lil’ something on your lip”

[chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual]

Your Miracle brought you to me, but it is my Faith that'll make you stay

based on this post by @colorlessjay

the third and final part finallyyy (can I get a wahoo)

(you can find the previous two parts here)

as per usual, I have no one to beta read, so there probably will be some mistakes (a lot), either way - I don't respect the english language enough to care, sooo yea

anyway, go nuts

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"Excuse me, but what the fuck are you doing with my dog?"

Dean had to pry his eyes off of Miracle, which was honestly a herculean fear, and looked back at the very attractive and still very pissed off guy.

"Hi, umm, sorry about this," the guy started explaining himself while still sitting on his ass on Castiel's porch with Castiel's dog in his lap, "I lost Miracle here a few weeks back, and I've been looking for her since and well-"

"If you lost her, then you don't deserve her in the first place. Give her back."

Hearing this, Dean started getting defensive.

"Wha- listen, I know I should've made sure she couldn't haul ass, but hear me out here man-"

"No. I will not be hearing anything that you have to say for yourself. You come here with your loud car and this big leather jacket, storm my porch, and just expect me to hand you over my dog? Not happening."

"Dude, be reasonable. You've had her for what, a few weeks, maybe? This dog has been my best friend for years-"

"Which is exactly why you don't deserve her. I've had Faith for a few weeks, and I know if anything were to happen to her, I'd kill the person responsible and then myself."

"Faith? You named her Faith? Seriously?"

"How is that any different from you naming her Miracle?!"

It was at this point that both men started raising their voices.

"Because she clearly looks like a Miracle!"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"I don't need your opinion on the name of my fucking dog!"

"Your dog my ass! She's staying with me and that's it!"

"Hell no! She's coming back with me!"

"Fuck that, she stays here!"

"She's coming-"

"She's staying!"

"I've had her-"

"I don't give two flying fucks how long you've had her-"

"She was mine first!"

"And chose to run away from you!"

Dean was about this close (and the space between the imaginary fingers was smaller than Castiel would've thought) to pulling out his gun and just shooting the infuriating guy in front of him.

"That's it. We're leaving, Miracle."

"You just try that. I legally adopted her. You try running with her, I'm calling the cops."

Dean considered his chances.

"I am not leaving her here with someone who doesn't even look like he can care for an artificial plant!"

"Well, too bad. She's mine, so hand her over and get the fuck off my porch!"

Dean considered his options. Again.

Option no.1: run to his car, carefully lay Miracle on the backseat, jump in the car and drive away as fast as possible, all while praying he'll outrun the cops and that the mean dude didn't already try to remember his plate.

Option no.2: once again, try to talk things out with the guy (who was currently staring daggers at him) and work out something that would hopefully be okay with both of them (shared custody?)

Option no.3: glue himself to Miracle so that the guy wouldn't have any other option but to let him leave with her and never. ever. come back.

Dean opted for a sober version of option no.3

(He didn't have any glue currently on him, which was a mistake he would never make again.)

"I'm not leaving without her!"

"She's not going anywhere!"

"Guess I'll just have to move in here then!"

"Fine!"

There was a beat of silence, and then a small

"what"

as Dean tried his best to process what the (insanely) hot guy just said to him.

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to handle a conversation with a particularly stupid five-year-old.

"That dog is the source of my will to live. If I have to keep you to keep her, I'll live."

For the first time in a very long time, Dean felt truly speechless. Castiel waited a few small moments for a reaction, but he didn't get any. So with another old man sigh, he continued.

"Look, don't lash out at me now, but you seriously look like you live in that car anyway. If I'm wrong, then by all means, you are very welcome to get the fuck out of here and leave the dog here, but if I'm right, hell, just stay here dude. I really don't have the energy to sort this out with you right now, and I hate having to make calls, much less to the police. So if you're so set on not leaving this dog here with me, just stay here."

Castiel half expected the man to bolt, scream, yell, point a gun at him, and call him weird and god knows what else, but to his surprise, none of that happened.

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"Dude, I'm not leaving Miracle-"

"Faith."

"- whatever, here with you. I almost went crazy when I lost her. I'm not leaving her side ever again."

Plus, you're kinda cute, Dean thought, but never really said.

"Alright then, come on in."

The last thing the neighbours heard was a muffled 'Hold up, what do you mean I look like I live in that car?'

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if you've got this far, I'm honestly surprised. good job.

a big thank you to anyone who enjoyed this and to @colorlessjay for the idea, and to my dear friend who bullied me into finishing this one

any interaction is welcome!

thank you for reading

(bonus - Dean's pov)

[landoscarinthefastlane]

Look when you're ready - Landoscar

Summary:

In 2025, Oscar stepped away from the grid but stayed with McLaren as Lando’s race engineer, their bond evolving from seamless sync on track to unspoken understanding beyond it.

Note⚠️: Contains intense eye contact, soft confessions, unresolved tension finally getting its moment, and two idiots in love pretending it’s still just about racing.

McLaren in 2025 was something else. New dynamics, old faces, fresh energy. Carlos was back in papaya, and the team was buzzing. Media, fans, engineers, everyone. There was nostalgia and excitement as Carlos and Lando were a team once again. The boys were back.

But there was something else too. Something newer. Different, Quiter. Threaded into the spaces between race weekends and radio check-ins.

Oscar.

Oscar wasn't a driver. Not anymore. He had to take a step back from the grid. But he had left his mark. Made sure the team knew who he was and what he could do, even outside of the car.

And the team wasn't ready to lose Oscar yet. So when Will announced that he was leaving the team, there was only one option left, in their eyes.

They offered Oscar a new path after having to step away from the grid. A way to stay close to the sport, to keep building something, to stay with the team.

Oscar had taken the headset and settled into a rythm on the pit wall. It was weird, at first, having Oscar not in the garage next to him, strapped into his car, looking at Lando before giving him a small nod in salute before driving out like he was meant to do it for the rest of his life.

But things can turn upside down in the blink of an eye. Carlos was back on the team, being pushed aside by Ferrari to make room for seven time world champion Lewis Hamilton, and Oscar had settled onto the pit wall as Lando's new race engineer.

Not everyone could make the jump. It was hard to make the switch from being in the car and driving it yourself to being the one navigating the driver in the car on track.

But Oscar had adapted faster than anyone had expected. Because of course he did. Calculated. Calm. Relentless under pressure.

And when it came to Lando? He just got him.

"Box, box." "Copy."

"Rain expected in five." "Understood."

"Push now." "Always."

Simple exchanges. Nothing more and nothing less. But still, there was a kind of intimacy to it. A shorthand that had developed over two seasons of already driving together. They never just communicated. They synced. They had always done that from the moment Oscar first joined McLaren. It just came natural for them.

And Lando? Lando adored him.

Not that he said it out loud. But it showed in the way he lingered in the garage after sessions, how he looked up toward the pit wall after a good lap and every quali run, like he was searching for confirmation only Oscar could give. It was also in the way he always, always smiled when Oscar's voice came through his radio.

The fans noticed, of course. But it stayed subtle. Speculative.

Until one thursday press conference changed everything.

Carlos had made a joke. Something light about how Lando only listened when Oscar said things. Lando hated how Carlos was right. But he had smiled, soft and genuine, and leaned forward like the question deserved honesty.

"I mean, he knows me," Lando spoke, voice warm. Carlos seemed to be the only one that noticed how Lando's voice toned down to something that made you think of warm honey, whenever he spoke about Oscar.

"Oscar's been working long enough with me now, to read me bettter than I read myself sometimes. Both in and out of the car."

He paused, fingers toying with the mic. “He knows what I mean even when I can’t explain it. He gets how I talk, how I move, how I race. There’s just… a kind of trust there."

He shrugged his shoulders. “He always knows what I need, even if I don’t say it out loud.”

The media barely blinked. The fans, however, did not let it go.

Clips flooded X and Threads. Edits on TikTok. Zoomed in footage of Oscar, sitting in the background, cheeks pink and ears red, trying not to react. “He always knows what I need” trended with fan art, headcanons, video compilations.

This certainly did not go unnoticed.

The world started asking questions neither of them had dared ask themselves.

Lando found himself replaying the interview that night, lying in his hotel bed with his phone in his hands. His eyes found Oscar, somewhere in the back of the room, with the other engineers. The way his cheeks turned pink and a shy smile moved onto his lips before he looked down at the floor.

Lando's heart stuttered at the sight.

Later that night, his phone buzzed next to his head.

He picked it up, only to see that Oscar had texted him.

Oscar: I saw the interview

Lando stared at the message for a long moment.

Lando: Yeah. I didn't mean to make things weird.

Oscar's reply was instant.

Oscar: You didn't.

The little dots on his screen dissapeared for a second before Oscar started typing again.

Oscar: Did you mean it?

Lando did not have to think twice about it.

Lando: Ofcourse I did. Lando: I just didn’t realise everyone else would hear it like I said it.

Oscar: I did

Lando's breath caught in his throat.

Lando: Oh.

Another beat of silence. His heart thudded against his ribs.

Oscar: You always look for me after a good lap, seeking my confirmation.

Lando: You always know what I'm asking without me saying it. Even with my helmet on.

Oscar: Yeah.

Lando hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

Lando: Can I ask something properly now?

Oscar: You can ask me anything.

Lando: Is this something?

Oscar didn’t reply for a full minute. Lando thought he was going to die.

But then...

Oscar: It could be. Oscar: If we let it.

And that was the moment.

The line was carefully crossed.

The next day, Oscar handed Lando his in-ears before FP1, like he always did. Their fingers brushed as per usual. Lando held Oscar's gaze just a second too long.

“Let’s go win,” Oscar said, voice steady.

Lando smiled, a slow, knowing grin that made Oscar look away.

“Only if you talk me through it.”

[bitchin-beskar]

not sure if you're still down for writing for them but can i ask for more sub!soap? that pussy drunk one has me slightly feral, just a lil foam out the mouth, ya know?

I am always down for writing for any of the cod bois. just because my brain decided to be mean and not allow me any motivation to write for like three years doesn't mean it didn't let all the thots marinate in there like delicious jar of pickles ready to be opened at a moments notice.

ANYWAYS

here's more sub!John 'Soap' MacTavish (with a heaping dose of praise kink and pussy worship on the side)

When your phone lights up, it’s late, far later than any of your friends usually text you. That’s the only reason you even check it, so unused to the sound of a text at this time of night.

But as soon as you see the name on the screen, you’re leaping to your feet. It’s from Soap, a little smiley face and soap emoji next to his name that you’d originally put down as a joke, but that quickly changed when you saw him blush bright red the first time he saw the contact you’d made for him.

The text is short, simple. He just landed, but in the mess of going on leave, forgot his keys back on base, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, could he stay at yours?

Almost as soon as you finish reading, another text pops up, and your heart sinks. It’s another message, Soap backpedaling as he apologizes for how late it is, that he didn’t realize with the time difference, and that he’s just getting a hotel, he’s sorry to have bothered you, and he hopes you have a good night.

You’re immediately calling him, already putting on your shoes and grabbing your keys.

“Bonnie, I’m so so-”

“John MacTavish, don’t you dare apologize.” You cut him off, striding out the front door of your flat and locking the door behind you, “Are you at your flat now?”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and you actually check the phone to make sure you didn’t disconnect on accident.

“You don’t have to-”

Once more, you cut him off. “I want to. Are you at your flat?”

A sigh.

“Yeah, ‘m at my flat.”

You nod decisively, even though he can’t see you. “Okay. I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He’s quiet, too quiet, and you feel a knot start to form in your stomach. “M’kay, bonnie.” He sighs softly, the tone of his voice almost… defeated. “Thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me for this, Johnny,” you murmur as you start up your car, pulling out of the parking garage and starting the familiar drive to his flat. “I’m on my way.”

~~~

When he gets into your car, Soap is subdued. He’s still in the rough canvas pants and scratchy shirts that are typical of base attire, and there’s scruff on his jaw, showing that it’d been some time since he’d shaved. But the most striking thing is how tired he looks. Soap has always been so energetic, even after the most grueling of missions. He’s usually a seemingly endless well of positivity, but now it appears that the well has run dry.

He greets you with a quiet voice. “Thanks, bonnie.” You can’t help the way you keep sneaking glances at him on the drive back to your flat, but he’s staring out the window at the passing streetlights, lost in thought. His hands are still on his thighs, and that makes you more concerned than anything else. Soap’s hands are never still.

The drive back seems like it takes twice as long, but eventually, you’re back inside, locking your front door as Johnny stands in your small entryway, looking somewhat lost, duffle dangling from his fingertips.

You carefully step around him, grabbing the straps of his duffle and tugging it from his weak grasp. Again, it speaks volumes about his mental state that he doesn’t protest. You press your fingers gently against his chest, urging him to look at you.

“Go shower, yeah? I’ll leave some fresh clothes out. You’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

A weak smile crosses his lips, and before you can pull your hand away, he’s leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Wha’ would I do without ye, love?”

You smile softly back up at him. “Luckily, you’ll never have to find out. Now, go shower, Sergeant.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says softly, turning and making his way towards your bathroom. You watch him walk away before heading towards your bedroom, setting his duffle inside the closet to be unpacked later. You grab his favorite t-shirt and sweatpants from your drawers, and set them on the toilet inside the bathroom once you hear the shower running.

It doesn’t take him long, it never does. When he emerges from the bathroom, cheeks flushed pink from the heat, clean shaven, and dressed in his comfy clothes, he looks the most like himself since you picked him up at his flat.

As soon as he sees you, he’s striding across the carpet, gathering you in his arms and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You respond eagerly, albeit slowly, not wanting him to feel like he has to rush this. You’ve missed him in the months he’s been away, and you’re not afraid to admit it.

You slide your hands through his soft, damp hair, the scent of your shampoo filling the air and sending a thrill down your spine at the thought of Soap smelling like you. You tug gently at his hair, and a low groan escapes his throat, his arms tightening around your waist.

“Love, please,” he whispers against your lips, hands slowly growing more frantic as he pushes up your shirt to feel your bare skin beneath his palms, like he needs more proof that you’re here and in his arms. “I can’t-”

“Shh,” you whisper back, going up on tip toes and pressing your body more fully against his, using your grip on his hair to tilt his head just so, kissing him deeper. “Take me to bed, John.”

A soft whine is pressed against your lips before he’s gripping your thighs and picking you up, holding your body tight against his as he quickly moves towards your bedroom. He moves with purpose, a soldier’s stride, quickly and efficiently navigating your flat without taking his lips off of yours.

It makes something warm curl in your belly, that he knows your home so well, that he’s so comfortable here.

He gently lays you out on the bed, eagerly crawling on top of you, resting in the cradle of your thighs as he trails kisses down your neck. You keep running your fingers through his hair, tugging gently and making him let out all manner of delicious noises.

“That’s it, baby,” you coo at him, slowly rolling your hips against his as you feel him harden through the sweatpants. “Go on, take what you need.”

He whimpers again, his own hips rutting desperately against yours as he tries to relieve the tension that must’ve been building for weeks. It’s abundantly clear that he’s reacting on instinct alone, and you use your grip on his hair to drag him up to you, kissing him deeply. He’s sloppy, messy, dazed, and you feel a swell of affection at how quickly you’re able to get him to start relaxing.

“Good boy, Johnny,” you sigh into his mouth, hooking a leg over the back of his thigh, encouraging his frantic grinding. “Come for me, yeah? I know you need it, so bad. Do as I say, baby. Let go.”

The high pitched whine that escapes his throat sounds like it hurts, but he obeys orders and comes in his pants, twitching violently as he clutches at the sheets on either side of your body, trying to keep his head above the tidal wave of sensation wracking his body. You don’t even care that you’re barely close, all you care about is getting Soap off as soon as you can. He needs this, you can tell, and you wanna give him everything.

Immediately, you’re whispering praise, stroking fingers through his hair and down his back as you try to calm his shaky breathing as he comes down from the abrupt high. He buries his face in your neck, and you can feel as tears drip from his eyes onto your skin, tension bleeding out of his muscles as he lets the cradle of your body support him as he can finally fully relax.

For a long moment, the two of you lay there, Soap crying silently against your skin as you run your fingers over every inch of him you can reach, as though your touch can wipe away all the pain and suffering he’s been dealt over the months he’s been away from you.

Eventually, his tears dry up, a few shaky inhales and exhales before he pushes himself up and away from your body, propping himself up with his hands. His eyes are bloodshot, but his face is less tense, the lines of stress that had been present on his brow cleared away.

“Bonnie, I-”

You press a gentle finger to his lips. “Don’t you dare. There is absolutely nothing to apologize for. You did exactly as I said.”

Even with the reassuring words, he still looks troubled. “You didn’t come,” he murmurs against your finger, silent apology clear in his tone.

You sigh, only slightly exasperated. “John, you know I don’t care.”

But he’s not to be dissuaded, not this time.

“But I do,” he says, pressing reverent kisses down your chest as he slowly makes his way down your body. “Wan’ ye ta come, love.”

“Johnny-”

But he won’t be dissuaded, and you honestly just don’t have the heart to turn him away, not as he finally seems to be coming back to himself.

It’s simple, lifting your hips so he can slide your shorts down your legs, a routine the two of you have done hundreds of times before. He still gets that same dazed look he gets every time, eyes flicking up to yours for permission.

You cradle his face with your hand, thumb brushing over a faded bruise on his cheekbone.

“Go on, baby,” you murmur, a small, sad smile playing at your lips. “Whatever you need, love.”

A broken groan escapes him, and he wastes no more time. You’re spread out so beautifully, just for him, and fuck, he needs this so bad he can’t even breathe.

His tongue slides through your folds, a deep rumble escaping him as he finally gets to taste you again. It’s been far too long since the last time, he fucking missed this.

You let your head tip back, whimpering quietly at the pleasure that surges through you as Soap seals his lips around your clit and sucks. He knows exactly how to drive you straight towards the edge of insanity, and it’s knowledge he shamelessly abuses.

He feasts on your cunt like he’s on the cusp of starvation. He hooks his strong arms under your thighs and then up over your hips, hands flat on your belly as he buries his face between your thighs. You couldn’t squirm away if you tried, as though you’d want to.

His mouth is warm and wet as he fucks you with his tongue, the sound of his feasting absolutely lewd in the quietness of your bedroom, but the only thing it does is turn you on even more. He’s entirely focused on you, and the intensity of his attention is almost stifling.

“Fuck, baby, I missed you,” you whine, fingers curling into his hair, tugging gently as you grind your hips against his face. “Missed your mouth too- oh!, yes, Johnny, just like that, please!”

As soon as you start talking, he doubles down, focusing his attention on your clit, sucking rhythmically on that senstive bundle of nerves until you’re damn near suffocating him with how tight you’re pressing his face into your needy cunt.

It’s clear he’s in heaven, though. Every time you try to loosen your grip, or pull him back, he whines, this pathetic little noise that vibrates through the very core of you, making you gasp and squirm.

“J-Johnny, fuck baby, you’re gonna make me come. Fuckin’ missed you, baby, missed how good you are to me, fu-uck!”

His pleased little hum makes a different kind of warmth spread through you, as you realize he’s finally coming out of that dark headspace he’s been in since god only knows how long. He takes your words to heart, stops teasing you and instead focuses on trying to get you to tip over that edge. He releases one of your hips, only to gently press a thick finger inside you, clearly delighting in the way you gasp and clench around the intrusion.

It doesn’t take long for him to be able to add a second finger, your slick absolutely drenching his hand, making the slide of his fingers far easier than it has any right to be considering how long it’s been. He’s quick to find that spot inside you, crooking his fingers in that come hither motion and stroking in time with your sobs.

“S-So close, baby, please!”

He lets out a moan, the vibration adding just the right amount of stimulation to make you come with a sharp cry, your legs tensing and your fingers twisting in his hair. Your back arches off the bed, but Johnny’s arm across your waist keeps you anchored to the mattress as you ride out your release against his face.

There’s a soft buzzing in your ears, and it slowly disappates as you come down from your high, and you can hear yourself babbling frantic words of praise and adoration at John.

“Good boy, fuck, good boy Johnny, thank you baby, oh shit you make me feel so good.”

He lets out a muffled sob, and begins to tentatively suck and lick at you again, careful not to cause you pain, but physically incapable of stopping yet.

Even as sparks fly up your spine, even as your body aches in protest, desperate for a break after such an explosive release, you stroke your fingers through his hair, and spread your legs even wider around his broad shoulders.

“That’s it, baby boy,” you whimper, eyes slipping closed. “Just take what you need. ‘m gonna give you everything.”

[foreverromanticising]

renegade | ln4

(8) a phone call from zak reminds lando of his reality that he had been trying so hard to run from

lando norris x fem!reader | 1.9k words | a still perfect summer with lando norris

(a little bit of a shorter chapter however very heavy in content that took me a little longer to write - pls enjoy and send me all ur thoughts! alsoooooo after this we have two chapters left, ten in total, before i move onto the next lando pic so pls!! stick around for that)

(also!! reminder this fic is based off of renegade by big red machine and taylor… lmk if u can see the cracks and similarities)

masterlist<3

Resentfully so, Lando peeled his body away from yours, a mix of bare skin and white sheets, and began getting ready for the day. Memories of the night before returned to him in the form of a pink flush dusting over his cheeks every time he caught a glimpse of your naked skin, almost taunting him from the way you laid across the bed. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the bed again, to get under your skin and drag his lips across every inch of your body. 

But a phone call from Zak that morning, high-pitched and blaring as it his phone rang from his bedside table. He found himself thanking his lucky stars that you merely stirred in your sleep and cuddled closer towards his pillow once he slipped out of the bed beside you. Though, he had to fight a smirk from forcing its way onto his face once he picked up the phone over the thought of why you were so tired from the night before. The ache in his legs was reminder enough as he tried to keep some sort of composure as he spoke to Zak.

It was a minor phone call, a meaningless chat if anything, but it left Lando reeling. A quick discussion about some upgrades to the car for after the summer break, some reminders about training, and another gentle - though, usual - reminder from Zak that he wanted Lando to stay in check; keeping being responsible. It was the same speech from Zak after every sort of break that Lando would be away from racing - begging him to stay in line, a reminder he was doing well, and to keep PR in mind at all times.

Truly, the phone call wasn’t the worst Lando had ever had from his boss - Kingsday only a few months ago left a sour taste in his mouth when he recalled the messages he woke up to after his so called ‘PR disaster,’. But, Lando hadn’t been expecting it. He had had the morning planned out in his head as he wanted a slow and sultry wake up call with you in his arms. Instead, he woke with a panic and his heart racing far too quick for his liking.

It started his whole day off wrong, he didn’t want to think about anything to do with racing when the was in Greece. He wanted to be with you, with his friends, under the Grecian sun and pretend he wasn’t a Formula One driver. So far, he had been successful in doing so - albeit, he faced a blip after seeing Charles and Carlos - but he was happy.

You helped him bathe in this fantasy of his. You had no idea he was Lando Norris, Mclaren Formula One racer, you knew him as Lando - or Lan as he preferred. You knew Lando as the boy who refused suncream and had the tastebuds of a child, the boy who drove maybe a bit too fast for the backroads, and who picked you out the shiniest of shells from the sea because they reminded him of you - ‘the prettiest shells for his pretty girl’. You didn’t expect anything of him, you weren’t questioning his every move after a race, and you couldn’t have cared less about his championship standings. 

Partly because you still didn’t know that side of Lando existed, and he had every intention of keeping it that way in order to maintain his peace. 

Lando kept Zak on the phone whilst he got ready for the day, absentmindedly agreeing to everything he said whilst his mind drifted off to how you two would spend the rest of the day. He was becoming acutely aware of how your time together was slipping through his fingers and there was nothing he could do about it to hold on. The days were running thin and the clock in his mind ticked even louder with everything Zak was saying to him; he needed you to drown out that sound, to make everything quiet again for him.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long before you made your way into the bathroom behind him. The mirrors in the bathroom had fogged up with steam so you wasted no time in dragging your hand over them, catching Lando’s eyeliner through the reflection. You stayed quiet whilst he said his goodbyes, busying yourself with brushing your teeth and pretending you weren’t listening to Lando’s phone call - because you absolutely weren’t and you had no idea what the man on the phone meant by ‘the rest of the season is ours,’ so you pretended to be more interested with the contents of your makeup bag. 

“Morning, baby.” Lando took a step closer towards you, pressing a kiss to your temple and pushing some stray hairs behind your ears so he could take a proper look at you - stood in nothing but his shirt from the night before, and he could’ve sworn you were trying to get a reaction out of him but he knew when you smiled sweetly back up at him, he knew you were none the wiser.

“You’re up early, hm?” It was entirely unusual that Lando was awake before you as you spent most mornings trying to coax him out of bed despite his many protests, so to say you were shocked was quite an understatement.

“Yeah, work phone calls take priority apparently.” He still wasn’t too happy with Zak phoning him when he knew that he was in Greece, trying to create a distance between himself and racing for at least a few weeks. But now you were stood beside him, taking his mind off of that, so he couldn’t complain all too much.

“Even on holiday?” You tutted and rolled your eyes, understanding Lando’s annoyance because you couldn’t imagine how you would feel if your boss had called to chat about work when you had time off. “There should be a boundary set there, honestly.”

“I know but everything’s just so important to him, it can’t wait another few days ‘till I’m back,” Lando sighed and ran his hands over his face, trying his hardest not to let anything Zak had said to him seep into his mind but he was beginning to struggle in his fight against his own mind. “I get it, I do, him being stressed and whatever, but, fuck I mean, I’m fucking stressed, y’know, and I don’t think he’s getting it.” His breathing picked up more than what Lando would’ve been comfortable with, it caught in his throat and crawled through him, threatening him as tears that pricked at his eyes.

You wanted to interject, to try and soothe him however you could, but you let him keep speaking -  let him speak his mind. You figured it would be better for him to truly let his feelings out into the open before you tried to ease his anxieties. 

“I just, I don’t think I can take the pressure sometimes, it feels like everyone’s expecting me to be something I’m not,” He could hardly get his words out in between his shallow breathing, he tried biting his lip to keep his composure but it was useless - his sobs fought their way to be seen, to be heard, and he couldn’t pretend that keeping his emotions at bay was any use. No matter what he done, or how he felt, his emotions would fight their way through him as they bubbled to the surface. “I dont- I can’t- I dunno. God, sorry.”

“No, Lan, no, it’s okay.” You quickly shook your head and moved closer to him, your hands cupping his face to try and pull him back towards you instead of letting him spiral into the mess of his own mind.

“You don’t- I just, I don’t want you seeing me like this.” He tried to pull away, to hide from your worried eyes, but you kept him in your hold. Your fingers dragged across his cheeks, wiping away the tears that had fallen from his eyes as you could feel Lando’s breathing beginning to slow down. 

“You’ve got nothing to hide, not from me.” You could understand why Lando wouldn’t want you to see him in a state like this, but you didn’t want him to feel like he had to hide from you - you wanted to be there for you.

“Sorry, it’s stupid to get worked up like this, especially about work,” He took one final deep breath and clasped his hands over yours as they still rested over his cheeks, tangling your fingers together. “I just get in my head sometimes, get worried about shit I’ve got no control over - I just wasn’t expecting to have to deal with it over here.”

“It’s okay to get worked up, it’s not stupid- you’re not stupid,” Though your words weren’t the most colourful, they were heartfelt and exactly what Lando needed to hear. “You don’t have to be anything, you just have to be you.”

“I don’t think I’m meant for this sometimes,” Lando leant back against the bathroom countertop, unable to stop the words from spilling out - though, he should’ve thought harder about what he was saying to you, knowing it was more than what he had ever planned for but he couldn’t help it in a brief moment of weakness. “I want to live like you, I think, sometimes. Just travel and meet people and live freely, just do whatever I want. I hate that people have an idea of me in their head and I can’t live up to it.”

“The best you can give people is yourself, there’s no point in pretending to be someone you’re not.” You moved to stand in between his legs, Lando’s hands then finding solace on your waist as he tried to keep himself grounded.

“You see me, though. And I like that,” Lando dipped his head closer to yours, his lips hovered over yours but he didn’t dare to press a kiss there, not yet. “I don’t have to pretend to be anything, I get to just be me.”

“That’s all I ask for, Lan.” You closed the gap between you and Lando, your hand resting on his chest as you felt him relax any tensions within him under the pressure of your touch.

“So, that farmer’s market is still there today- you up for it?” He pinched your waist, seemingly in a far better mood than he was all of ten minutes ago. “There’s local honey, homemade jewellery, organic produce. We could take a drive, do some shopping, y’know embrace being a tourist for the last while.”

“Sounds perfect.” You nodded your head and embraced the smile on your face as it hid the minor uneasy feeling that was building in your chest over the thought of how little time you had left with Lando without so much as a plan for what would happen when all of this had to come to an end. So instead, you focused on Lando in front of you and the thought of the farmer’s market with him.

[hannahsturniolo]

ᴄʜʀɪs sᴀᴠᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ʜᴏʀʀɪʙʟᴇ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ

Warnings: being pushy to have sex, unwanted touching(not private parts), crying, kissing. I think that’s it?

✩not proof read

Summary: You were going on a date with a random guy you met on Tinder. When the date goes horribly wrong, you call your best friend Chris to come pick you up.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You were so excited to finally start dating again after you ended your 3 year relationship with a toxic man. You downloaded Tinder and matched with a really cute guy from your city.

You went over to the Sturniolo house since they were your best friends, to talk about the date you had for tomorrow night.

“I’m going on my first date in forever tomorrow. I’m nervous yet excited. I don’t know what to expect” you told the boys.

“What are you guys going to be doing?” Matt asked.

“He’s going to pick me up and we’re going to go to that pizza place just down the street from my apartment. We might go for ice cream after, depending on if we have room for ice cream after” you laughed.

“Well Y/N, if you run into any trouble on this date, you call me right away. I’m just a few streets over from the pizza place. I know how some guys can be.” Chris mentioned.

“I’ll be okay Chris. You’re just over reacting. He seems like a genuine guy.” You replied back.

“Just in case. You have my number” Chris said.

~~~~

ɴᴇxᴛ ᴅᴀʏ

You were getting ready for your date. You straightened your hair, put on a full face of makeup, and slipped on your tight black dress that hugged your curves. You were nervous but ready. You hear a ping coming from your phone. You reached over to grab it.

It’s a text from Chris.

𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎.

Chris was always protective over you. I swear he was more nervous about this date than you were.

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢. 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎. You texted back.

Your phone started to ring. It’s Ryan. The guy you’re going on a date with.

“Hello?” You answered.

“Hey. I’m outside, you can come down whenever you’re ready.” Ryan said.

“I’ll be down in just a second. Just need to put my shoes on” you replied.

So you ran downstairs, grabbed your purse off the bench, and walked out the door. You walked over to his blue Honda Civic and he was just getting out of the drivers seat, and came to give you a big hug.

Not what you were expecting. You weren’t a fan of hugging people you barely know but you were okay with this.

He opened the passenger side door and let you in.

He hopped in the drivers seat, and you started heading towards the pizza shop.

“I’m so nervous. This is my first date in years.”

He just laughed. Didn’t really say much. He was quiet the whole car ride which was strange.

Once getting to the pizza shop, you got out of the car and walked inside.

“For 2 please.”

He told the waitress.

You both sat down at a booth. He still was not saying very much. You decided to try and start a conversation asking him what his hobbies were.

“I don’t really have too much hobbies.”

You were starting to feel uncomfortable.

You ordered a pizza to share, and while waiting for the food he looks at you. He would not stop staring.

“You’re very beautiful. Do you ever… um have sex on the first date?”

You were shocked. You didn’t know what to say. Having sex on the first date was not your thing, you preferred if you had a strong emotional connection but at this moment you didn’t know what to say.

“Um.. I mean if I’m kind of feeling it, then sure I guess. I’ve never really had sex on the first date.” You replied nervously. “I’ve only had sex once and that was with my previous boyfriend.”

He gave you a weird look. “Well we can change that, can’t we?”

He was starting to get very pushy. He reached over and put his hand on your thigh, trying to stick his hand up your dress.

You flinched. And moved over.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea” you said nervously.

“Come on…. You don’t want to have sex?”

You sat in the booth, getting nervous, getting a pit in your stomach like something bad was going to happen. You didn’t like this feeling at all.

The waitress brought over the pizza.

“Before I eat the pizza, I just need to use the washroom, I’ll be right back.” You said grabbing your little purse, and walked to the bathroom.

You ran in there, and pulled out your phone, and remembered that Chris told you to call him if you needed him.

You dialed Chris’s number.

“Hey, how’s the date going?” Chris asked the second he picked up the phone.

“Horrible Chris.” You cried. “I need you to come get me. I’m in the bathroom at the pizza place”

Chris’s heart stopped.

“I’m on my way sweetheart. Stay in the bathroom. I’ll be there in less than 5 minutes.” Chris said as he was running down the stairs of the triplets house.

“What’s wrong Chris??” Matt asked with a worry.

“I’ll be right back, Y/N needs me.” Chris yelled back as he was putting on his shoes and ran out the door.

“Stay on the phone with me. I’m hopping in my car now” Chris said.

You could not stop crying in the bathroom. How dare a guy you don’t know try and touch you.

Chris got to the pizza place in 3 minutes instead of 5. He might have blown a few stop signs but he was worried.

He ran inside, and told her “I’m outside the bathroom door, open up.”

“It’s unlocked Chris.” You replied.

He opened the bathroom door to see you on the floor with your head in your lap, crying. Mascara running down your face.

He got down to your level. “What happened Y/N???” Chris said with a concern.

“He asked me if I had sex on the first date, and I-i didn’t know what to say. He tried to reach up my dress. He wouldn’t stop” you sobbed in between.

“Where is this guy?” Chris stood up angry.

You pointed to the booth that Ryan was sitting at.

Chris grabbed your hand and helped you up from the floor, gave you the keys to the car, and told you “go to the car, lock the door, I’ll be out in a minute” Chris said storming to the table Ryan was sitting at.

“Why did you put your hands on Y/N? You idiot” Chris raised his voice.

Ryan stood up in front of Chris.

Chris shoved his shoulders. “Don’t ever touch a girl without their consent, ever.”

Ryan shoved Chris right back. “Who are you anyways?” Ryan said to Chris.

“I’m Y/N’s best friend, you won’t be seeing her again.” Chris said storming out.

Chris jogged over to the car.

You were still covered in tears and could not stop crying.

“I’m so sorry this happened sweetheart” Chris said reaching over gently to give you a big hug.

You just could not stop sobbing.

“Thank you for coming to get me” you said in between sobs.

“Hey, you don’t need to thank me. I let you know ahead of time that if you needed me, I was going to be there.” Chris said still hugging you, rubbing lazy patterns on your back.

“Well, I appreciate you a lot” you looked up smiling at Chris while he let go of the hug.

He gave you a gentle smile back.

“I’ll always be here for you Y/N. always.” Chris said smiling at you. This time you seen the love he had in his eyes.

Your stomach dropped and filled with butterflies.

Why am I feeling butterflies? You thought.

The way Chris was looking at you made your heart pound out of your chest.

“You look very beautiful tonight.. I um- would you- um maybe wanna go out somewhere? So you don’t waste such a beautiful outfit. Maybe it’ll cheer you up a little” Chris smiled at you.

“I’d love to. I’m very hungry. Why don’t we go down to Five Guys down the street? Something fast. I’m starving. I’m a little overdressed for Five Guys but it’s okay.” You said giggling.

“No no, I’m taking you somewhere nice” Chris giggled.

Your tummy was doing somersaults. Did he just ask you on a date? Are you going on a date with your friend that you’ve had a crush on since you were a kid?

You were so caught up in the moment, you leaned over to the drivers seat, put your hands out to cup his face, and next thing you know, your lips were on his. It was a slow and passionate kiss.

After the kiss, you both looked at each other. He put a strand of hair behind your ear. You melted into your seat.

“It’s always been you Y/N” he said softly. “I’ve been in love with you since we were 12.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Ahhhh okay I’m in love with this😍 I’ve requested something like this to be done on other fan pages and haven’t seen anything like it yet, so I took it upon myself to write this. I’m new to writing, so don’t judge 😜 I just loved this concept!

[0viraptoraskblog]

hiiii!!! do u have any headcanons for what happens after the you ran away together ending with celia?? like what does celia and mcs daily life look like? where do they live? just ANYTHING PLEASE IM STARVING FOR CELIA CONTENT AHHHHHHHHHHH

i'd just LOVEEEE to hear about your wonderful thoughts!!!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

(Ask from Gato)

Going off of that; Celia would definitely view you as more of an equal. She might even be thankful for you, since she finally feels alive in her repetitive life. You two would have to rush out of town. You’d take her car, and whatever you can grab on the way out, but you need to start running. Once you’re far enough out of town you would probably stay the night somewhere to plan your next move.

The daily routine depends on what route you guys take. Are you going far away to settle down together? Are you in for a life of crime? Did you get new identities, or trust that you could just run away? Anything could happen; but the main thing to remember is that you’re a team now.

I think eventually you’d end up living somewhere high end; even on the run, Celia doesn’t want to downsize too much from what she used to have. She definitely transferred her money to a new account before her husband/the police could cut her off. If you decide to work instead of stealing, you might end up working the same job- maybe you’re her assistant or something.

I have a post I’m working on of some general Celia headcanons too, so that’s coming soon!

I actually have a drabble written somewhere of what happens immediately after you guys flee, but it’s not great(?) I don’t know, maybe I’ll spruce it up and post it someday if anyone’s interested. It is pretty short though.

[jwooyoung]

saw a husky wandering around alone when I took koda for a walk earlier, went back out with the roomie to see if we could catch it, ended up having to leave to go to work so I texted my sister (who has two huskies) and IMMEDIATELY her bf was on the phone like. where is it. how far. send the address. so he's been there for like three hours trying to trap the dog so it's not out all night in the woods 😭