#this is longer than i thought it would be

[recreationaldivorce]

i do wish bottom surgery was promoted more in the same way this website promotes hrt because i so often see people express clear bottom dysphoria with a very unambiguous desire for different genitals and it's like. well there's a fairly simple solution to this. sure it's not accessible to a lot of people but neither is transition in general, and i think once people accept that surgery is an actual real goal of theirs they will realise that a lot of the reasons Why Not or Why Can't are less severe than they thought (eg concerns about the recovery process, concerns about how theyre gonna access surgery in the first place, concerns about finding a surgeon who will operate on you due to whatever medical or social reason you have that would mean some doctors would refuse) and can be overcome. especially if you are just worried about being refused bc of a disability, i really have met people who got bottom surgery with all sorts of disabilities that i might have thought would disqualify you with a lot of surgeons —a lot of them have to wait longer to get eg a neurologist or whatever to sign them off, and to get the proper safety procedures in place for their surgery, but i'm yet to meet someone who was completely denied outright for having a medical condition, and i've met a whole lot of ppl who have had bottom surgery.

[jaysbaefie]

bullshit | sjy

synopsis: in which months of mocking jake online comes back to bite you, and he makes sure you regret every single word—on your knees.

genre: idol au

pairing: idol!jake x blogger!reader

warnings: dubcon? bratty!reader, petty!jake, mean!jake, big dick!jake, kidnapping (sort of kind of??), oral (m.rec), cum swallowing, reader grinds down on jake’s shoe, mention of daddy kink (but it’s not used), forced submission, manhandling, titty sucking, marking, begging, degrading. self degradation, rough and unprotected p in v, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light spanking slapping and chocking, creampie, spitting, recording for blackmail purposes. i think that’s it….

wc: 15.1k

a/n: this took a lot more time that i initially thought it would … but it’s here now! this draft has been sitting in my archives for years like literal years. back when i used to write on wattpad for bts i had this plot written for tae but scrapped it because i lacked creativity to make it happen. but here we r ! also side note this is not edited to the best of its abilities so if u c a mistake… im sorry :D hope you enjoy, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :)

✎﹏﹏

the dorm door slammed open, the sound of sneakers dragging across the floor echoing behind it. the 7 exhausted boys spilled into the living room, all drained and sweaty from the insane dance practice that had run two hours longer than scheduled. jake collapsed face-first onto the couch, groaning into a throw pillow as he stretches his limbs before he feels a cramp in his leg.

"i think my spine is permanently bent," he mumbled, not moving an inch.

sunghoon flopped onto the floor, using his hoodie as a pillow. "i think i disassociated during 'bite me.'"

"you always disassociate during 'bite me,'" heeseung shot back, tossing a towel at him making sunghoon scowl.

jay, meanwhile, had his phone out, thumb lazily scrolling through twitter as he half-listened to the chaos around him. he was about to put his phone down when a thread caught his eye.

"kpop idols who probably have the smallest dick (a very unserious thread)"

"...oh?" jay blinked, intrigued for all the wrong reasons. a grin formed on his lips as he clicked, the list started off wild.

1. jaehyun nct - idc what y'all say. he screams below average. 2. jeno nct - this is a hater post. cry about it. 3. jake from enhypen - golden retriever energy but gives micro vibes. sorry not sorry.

jay let out a loud, sudden laugh at the description given for jake—catching everyone's attention.

"yo, jake," he wheezed, turning the screen toward him. "look what someone said about you."

jake rolled over lazily, half hazy, "what?"

jay shoved the phone in front of his face. jake read the tweet once, then again. then a third time. his brows furrowed deeper with each pass, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"...are you serious right now?"

he sat up, yanking the phone from jay's hand to read it himself. his eyes scanned the username, the post and then the likes. 10k likes for a bullshit post, jake scoffed in disbelief. he scrolled down to read the replies which were full of people either agreeing or arguing like their lives depended on it.

"no because she's right and she should say it louder" one of the comments read, jake furrowed his eyebrows before scowling.

"i love him but... yeah."

"nah he gives big dick energy actually"

"this is so mean LMFAOOO"

jake's mouth opened in shock. "why am i even on this list? what did i do to deserve this? how does someone look at me and go, 'yeah, micro dick.' what the hell?"

jay couldn't stop laughing. "it's so random, too. like. where did they get the data? did they run a poll?"

"this isn't funny!" jake snapped, slapping jay's shoulder with the back of his hand. "i'm being slandered in front of thousands of people. tens of thousands!"

sunoo peeked over jay's shoulder. "ooh. and someone made a follow-up post. wait—found their tumblr. they said he looks like he apologizes after missionary.'" sunoo cackles, "i can totally see that."

jake nearly choked on air, "what?!"

he snatched sunoo's phone this time, heart pounding as he scrolls violently across your twitter page. he followed the breadcrumb trail from twitter to a tumblr blog: @s0ftbrat666.

the header was a blurry photo of a cunty hello kitty, and the bio just said: "unserious about everything but dick size."

"who the hell is this? why do they hate me so bad?"

niki, who had been quietly sipping water from the kitchen, muttered, "maybe they're a fan of yours. like, weirdly obsessed. reverse psychology or something."

"no. this is personal. this feels targeted," jake muttered, already downloading and opening the tumblr app on his phone. "i'm not letting this slide."

he made a new account. he picked the most ironic, absurd username he could think of: @goldenjake420.

because that screams, 'i'm the real jake sim!!'

he messaged you immediately, his hands shaking in rage as he smashes his fingers into the screen.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

"this is so stupid," he muttered, tossing his phone beside him.

jay raised a brow. "you really just dm'd a twitter troll on tumblr?"

"yes. because the truth matters, jay. i do not have a micro dick!" he exclaims, clearly frustrated from his group mates lack of empathy. he looks around the room in hopes of his members reassurance, only to receive looks of disturbance.

"cmon guys, you know i don't have a micro dick.." he trails off when he sees sunoo grimace at his words.

heeseung smirked from the other side of the couch suddenly sitting up right, ignoring his aching body. "you should send a pic to prove it."

jay cackles before agreeing, "yeah, downwards angles always make that shit look like a tower."

"SHUT UP!" jake shouted, face red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

the room erupted in laughter as jake sat there fuming, arms crossed, waiting for a response. he had no idea the person he messaged was already rolling their eyes and preparing to block him.

and this was only the beginning.

you were no stranger to the occasional deranged and delusional fan losing their mind over a post. it was social media, not a diplomatic summit. if you said someone's fave had bad fashion sense or gave off weak dick energy, it was bound to stir drama—but you thrived in it.

what you didn't expect, though, was to get a dm from an account called @goldenjake420 claiming to be jake himself. not just a fan defending him. not someone crying in your inbox about how you were "too mean."

no. this person had committed to the bit.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

you blinked at the message, snorted, and sat back in your chair.

"okay..." you muttered under your breath. "we've reached new levels of delusion."

you clicked the profile. no posts. followed no one. default layout. pfp of a blurry golden retriever. and the username?

goldenjake420.

"oh my god," you wheezed. this was peak fandom brainrot.

you stared at the message for a minute, thumbs hovering over your keyboard before you decided, you know what? fine. you wanna play jake sim? let's play.

you typed:

@s0ftbrat666: omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry... i didn't know you had a tumblr account i feel so bad now omg i'll take it down right away thank you for being so mature and respectful about it... ugh i feel terrible lol

you hit send. then burst out laughing, eyes watering as you cackle alone in your room.

and five minutes later, you posted a new post on your blog.

—— post by @s0ftbrat666

just got a dm from someone PRETENDING to be jake sim because they were mad i said he has a micro dick LMAOOO. like babes be serious... jake sim is not on tumblr dot com messaging me with a blurry pic of a golden retriever and the username @/goldenjake420. but since he's here reading my posts, hey jake! if u're mad now wait til u see what i post next

anyway updated my list: "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version" jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes and gifs as evidence. enjoy :] ——

you tagged it: #jake sim #enhypen #pls don't take this seriously #except jake if ur reading this then yeah take it seriously

you sat back and refreshed the notes every few seconds. it was already blowing up. likes, reblogs, someone screaming in the tags: "NOT THE FOOTNOTES."

you were thriving, satisfaction filling you as the comments seemed to hype you up.

unbeknownst to you, somewhere in a dorm across the city, jake was screaming into a pillow.

jake was laying on his stomach, face shoved into a couch cushion, aggressively refreshing your tumblr page like a man on a mission. the first message he sent you hadn't gone exactly how he expected. he thought maybe—maybe—you'd feel a little guilty, take the post down, maybe even apologize. instead, he was met with:

"omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry..."

at first, he blinked. then smiled. you were going to apologize and take it down..great!

okay, he thought, that was easier than expected.

but then he saw the post you had published just a few minute later.

—— "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version." jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes. and gifs. enjoy :] ——

"NO I AM NOT," he yelled into the pillow, voice muffled but full of sheer disbelief.

he rolled over and shot upright, shoving his phone in jay's face. "do you SEE this? i was already called micro dick jake, but now i'm a submissive pillow princess? where is she even getting this from?"

jay looked over the post with a calm expression and said, "well... you did say 'ngl' in a tumblr dm. that's kinda submissive."

"jay."

"i'm just saying."

jake's blood pressure was actively rising. he was pacing the living room now, phone clenched in his fist. "this isn't a joke anymore. she's making footnotes. gifs, bro. there's like a whole academic paper on my dick energy. and worst of all, PEOPLE ARE AGREEING."

sunoo peeked around the corner. "maybe just let it go? like... it's tumblr. no one's gonna remember next week."

"it's twitter too! no. no, she wanted to make it personal. it's personal now."

he went back to tumblr, typing furiously in your dm's.

@goldenjake420: okay first of all?? i was acc being really nice u said some really rude stuff and i still tried to talk to u calmly but now ur doubling down with footnotes?? idk y ur so convinced i'm a submissive pillow princess but ur wrong like so wrong scientifically inaccurate levels of wrong

he hit send. then stared at the screen.

nothing. no response. refresh. refresh.

"error: message could not be delivered."

"...what?" jake frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he desperately tried sending his messages again.

he clicked your profile.

"you've been blocked by this user."

the silence that followed was deafening.

"she blocked me," he whispered, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. "she actually blocked me."

jay cackled from across the room. "maybe now you'll stop fighting the tumblr girl who thinks you're a bottom."

"i'm not a bottom!" jake snapped, defensive. "and i'm definitely not a pillow princess!"

jay peers over jake's shoulder, his face pulls into a grimace as he reads jake's messages. "maybe it's a good thing that those didn't deliver... you're proving her point." jake rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to deal with his friend.

he opened twitter, then paused. was he really about to tweet about this?

he closed the app.

instead, he opened his notes app and started typing:

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick."

this wasn't over.

if he had to write a dissertation, he would. he was reclaiming his name. one footnote at a time.

you were in bed, face smushed into your pillow, scrolling aimlessly when the tag notification came in. you were about to ignore it—probably another reblog of your cursed "submissive missionary micro dick energy" thread—but the caption caught your eye:

@s0ftbrat666 you need to see this LMAOOO he made a THREAD. a whole thread.

confused but curious, you tapped the post.

and there it was.

a full thread. by a tumblr user named @truthaboutjake, which already gave deranged energy, but it got better.

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick (a thread)."

you nearly dropped your phone, a giggle leaving you as you excitedly click on the thread.

the first slide was formatted like a presentation. bolded title, bullet points, and an unnecessary amount of spacing like someone had spent way too long formatting it.

—— slide 1: addressing the accusations • the tumblr user @s0ftbrat666 has made multiple posts claiming i am submissive • she has also accused me of having a micro dick • both of these are false, offensive, and based on no real evidence ——

no real evidence, he said. like you were in court.

"what in the deranged.." you muttered to yourself, re-reading the text a second time to make sure you were hallucinating.

you snorted, swiping to the next.

—— slide 2: rebuttal • i've been told i give off dominant energy • no one who owns a denim jacket collection that big can be submissive • as for the size... let's just say i've never received complaints ——

you had to pause there, hand over your mouth, wheezing. "denim jackets radiate peg me," you cackle to yourself.

this wasn't a thread written by a deranged fan. no, this was someone personally offended on a soul level. and the way it was written? the tone? the wording?

it was giving him. it was jake.

no one else would be this pressed.

you laughed so hard you had to sit up.

this man had been so insulted by your dumb, unserious thirst post that he created a whole alternate account, wrote a google-doc-tier thread, and was now trying to clear his name in the notes app format. you were obsessed.

you hit reblog.

—— @s0ftbrat666: i have never in my life witnessed a man fight for his dom rights this hard the denim jacket argument almost had me convinced ngl

jake sim if this is actually you: 1. calm down 2. you're literally proving my point 3. post the evidence since you're so confident ——

the comments came flooding in:

"NOT HIM MAKING A PRESENTATION" "'never received complaints' is CRAZY" "he could've just logged off but now he's in too deep" "@truthaboutjake is shaking"

you weren't done though. oh no.

you clicked the original post again and dm'd @truthaboutjake directly.

@s0ftbrat666: wow a thread? you really sat down and made a powerpoint about your dick this is the best thing that's happened to me all week but you still haven't proven anything so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era i'll wait <33

you hit send with a shit-eating grin.

this was your roman empire now. you were going to be thinking about this thread forever.

jake stared at your message like it physically slapped him.

"so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era"

his jaw dropped.

"e-evidence?!" he sputtered aloud, standing up in the middle of the dorm living room like he'd just been accused of murder.

jay, sitting across the room with earbuds in, pulled one out and glanced up. "what now?"

"she wants evidence."

jay blinked. "like...?"

jake gestured wildly at his phone. "like evidence evidence!"

jay raised both brows before grinning "...so what i said about the downward angle, i'm telling you jake that shit makes it look h—"

"NO!" jake practically yelled. "i'm not sending a picture of my dick to some random troll on tumblr!"

he fumed. typed. deleted. typed again. then, finally, sent:

@truthaboutjake: okay. listen. i'm not sending you a dick pic. i don't care how much you want "evidence" that's weird. this whole thing is weird. i'm literally just trying to correct a false narrative about myself

you saw the message and immediately rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. you were curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, typing with vicious speed.

@s0ftbrat666: omg. are you serious right now?? NO ONE asked for actual dick pics. what the hell is wrong with you. you're literally so deep in this delusion you really think you're jake sim like?? be serious for once you are a grown man on tumblr dot com pretending to be an idol and defending your imaginary dick size this is next level behavior. you need to touch grass and maybe talk to a therapist jake sim would never you are EMBARRASSING yourself rn.

you hit send and sighed, rubbing your temples. it was funny at first but the more you interacted with this person the more brain cells you lost, it shocked you that people would go to such lengths to defend their favs.

this was beyond fandom drama now. this was a case study. and the worst part? you were kind of impressed with how committed he was to the bit. concerned of course, but impressed too.

like... he was spiraling. but passionately.

still. you weren't going to let up. because whoever this man was, he needed to be humbled.

you opened a new post draft and typed:

—— @s0ftbrat666: update: he dm'd me again and accused me of demanding dick pics because i said "evidence"

i rest my case. this is not jake sim. this is some 32-year-old man who unironically uses reddit and thinks being called "submissive" is a slur

log off, drink some water, and go outside before you get a nosebleed from rage

#jake sim #not the real one obviously #this is tumblr not onlyfans relax ——

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to move on.

he really did.

after the dick thread. after being labeled a submissive missionary pillow princess. after the fake fan accusations and being accused of roleplaying as himself—he made the conscious choice to stop checking your blog. he muted your username. closed tumblr for a solid 24 hours. he even turned off his notifs.

he was healing. growing. rebuilding his sanity.

until a member sent him a screenshot.

it was sunghoon.

of course it was sunghoon.

sunghoon: yo y tf she got sm time on her hands icl tho she funny asf

attached was a photo of your newest tumblr post.

jake opened it, eyes squinting. then he saw it.

—— @s0ftbrat666: watched enhypen's most recent stage and i just wanna know WHO chose those pants for jake like bffr. i can see his entire situation

the dick print? front and center. and it's not giving what he thinks it's giving

it's giving: he begged the stylist to let him wear those pants so he could prove me wrong and i'm here to tell you... babe... don't ever do that again.

i'm LAUGHING.

#enhypen #jake sim #pls don't wear tight pants if ur not ready for the scrutiny king #it's not looking good ——

jake froze.

his phone was literally vibrating with how hard he was gripping it.

"she's watching performances now?" he whispered to himself, horrified.

jay looked up from across the room, warily. "...oh god. again?"

"she's analyzing my crotch, jay. she made a post about my dick print."

jay blinked. "that's... new."

"and she said it's 'not giving'!" jake practically screamed, spinning his phone around to show him. "not giving what?! not giving big dick energy?!?!"

jay read it silently, lips twitching. "...it does kind of sound like she thinks you're trying to prove her wrong. which, to be fair, you kinda are." he pauses for a second, "but i thought she deemed you as a deranged fan, does she think that you're actually texting her?"

jake shrugs, "who knows what she's thinking, clearly way to much of this is the shit she posts. also i wasn't even thinking about her when i wore those pants!"

"you literally made a thread defending your dick size last week."

"NOT THE POINT."

jake felt like he was going to combust. it was like every time he clawed his way back to peace, you dropped another post from hell and dragged him back into the pit.

and this time?

this time you targeted his outfit. his styling choices. his crotch visibility. he couldn't even enjoy the stage anymore without wondering if you were out there in a hoodie, behind a screen, zooming in on freeze frames of his pants.

"this is psychological warfare," jake muttered.

sunghoon looked up from his phone, his face annoyed. he was tired of hearing about this, "just block her again."

jake clenched his jaw. "she'll post about it. she'll brag."

he scrolled back up, reading the caption again. and again. his fingers hovered over your username.

he didn't message you. not this time.

instead, he posted on his burner account:

—— @truthaboutjake: some people spend their lives spreading negativity online because they have nothing else going for them. if you spend your free time zooming in on people's bodies just to make fun of them, seek help.

also, the pants looked fire. ——

he hit post. and then, two minutes later he opened the group chat.

jayke: whoever styled me last week. never again. we're going back to loose pants. i'm not doing this with tumblr anymore

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to stay composed. he tried.

but every time he opened tumblr, there you were—lurking in his psyche like a demon with wi-fi.

at first it had been a few jabs, sprinkled here and there between your usual posts about other idols. someone's hair, another's dance move, one guy you kept thirsting over for his "evil smirk" and "long fingers." whatever. jake didn't care.

until suddenly—your entire blog became about him.

not in a cute, stan-like way.

no.

it was relentless.

"jake sim update: still looks like a man who apologizes during sex."

"new era, same micro dick energy."

"his pants looked like they were holding in a lie."

"i know he fumbles the aux every time. just look at him."

your followers ate it up. reblog after reblog. tags like "#he's just so bashable" and "#jake sim slander is self-care" filled the notes.

there were polls. there were graphics.

you made a tier list of idols based on who looked like they cried after sex, and jake was placed right at the top with the caption: "he looks like he'd say 'was that okay?' while tucking his soft dick back in his briefs."

jake was spiraling.

the worst part? you didn't even seem like a hater. you didn't hate him.

you just... targeted him like it was your job. your content was crafted with care. effort. borderline affection.

jay leaned over one afternoon while jake doomscrolled through another one of your polls—this one titled "which idol do you think would last the shortest in bed (no offense)", where jake was winning by 68%.

"you know," jay mused, "i think she actually likes you."

jake looked up, eyes wide with horror as he looks at jay disgusted. "what?"

jay shrugged. "she's obsessed. it's giving weirdly specific attention. enemies-to-lovers coded."

"jay. she made a gifset of my crotch."

"exactly."

jake nearly threw his phone across the room.

it wasn't just slander anymore—it was becoming personal. and the most infuriating part?

you were so sure. so smugly sure.

every post was laced with casual cruelty and the sharp confidence of someone who truly believed they knew him. his vibes. his music taste. his dick size. like you'd studied him and filed a damn report.

and the urge to prove you wrong? it was eating at him.

he'd see one of your posts and get this itch. this slow, simmering burn in his gut. like he had something to prove now. like he wanted to walk up to you and say—

"say that shit again. to my face."

he'd fantasized about it more than once.

cornering you at a fansign, maybe. or catching you backstage if he ever figured out who you were. you with that smug little expression, your arms crossed like you knew everything. and him, leaning in, low and sharp, and making damn sure you knew you were wrong about everything—especially that.

he wasn't even mad anymore. not just mad. he was determined.

this wasn't just tumblr slander. this was a challenge.

and jake sim? he didn't lose.

✎﹏﹏

jake laid in bed, phone hovering above his face, lit only by the blue glow of tumblr's godforsaken app. it was well past 2 a.m., and he'd already scrolled through your entire blog—again.

he told himself it was just to see if you'd posted anything new. which, of course, you had,

but really, he was spiraling.

another post. this one read:

—— @softbrat666: something about jake sim just screams whines when it doesn't slide in all the way like he'd pause mid-thrust to ask if you're okay because he came too fast

he'd definitely say 'but you just feel so good...' as an excuse ——

and the worst part?

jake read every single reply. studied them, even. like they held some kind of twisted insight into how you saw him. how you imagined him. you were building this whole persona of him in your mind and then broadcasting it to thousands of followers like it was gospel. and the most messed up part?

you had just enough accuracy to make it sting.

and yet—you remained anonymous.

faceless. untouchable.

he'd tried to find out who you were. he dug through old posts, clicked your tags, searched your url on twitter and insta.

all he found was:     •    you lived in seoul     •    you were 21     •    you drank too much iced americano     •    and you had audacity in excess

that was it. no selfies. no personal posts. no full name. you were just a sassy username and a collection of jake sim hate posts.

meanwhile, he was a public figure with his whole government face on blast while you dragged him through the mud constantly.

he hated how much he thought about what you looked like.

were you soft and bratty, like your tone suggested? did you smirk when you wrote those captions? were you the type to twirl your hair and say, "what? it's not that deep," while ruining a man's reputation?

he imagined you walking around seoul, laughing with your friends, ordering overpriced coffee with that smug, evil-little-gremlin energy.

he imagined running into you.

he'd play it cool at first—polite, casual, maybe even a little flirty.

watch you ramble. watch you squirm. and when he caught you slipping—maybe when you made some offhand comment about k-pop or tumblr—he'd hit you with it:

"so how's that blog going? still think i'm a submissive pillow princess with a micro dick?"

he rolled onto his side, fuming into his pillow. you lived in his head rent-free and you didn't even know what he looked like at night when he was losing sleep over your bullshit posts.

it was unfair.

you got to stay invisible while he was out here analyzing his own stage outfits to figure out what clip you were gonna slander next.

he scrolled back to that gif set you made of his recent performance. paused on the close-up. the zoom-in.

the goddamn caption: "not jake sim trying to start a dickprint redemption arc. spoiler: it's not working."

his eye twitched.

"this girl is the devil," he muttered.

and yet... he couldn't stop checking. he needed to know what you'd say next.

✎﹏﹏

you wake up to absolute chaos.

your phone is buzzing. not one or two notifications—hundreds. group chats. twitter and tumblr dms. unknown numbers. missed calls. it's like your phone caught fire overnight.

you blink against the morning light, groggy and confused, heart picking up speed. something's wrong. you can feel it. you squint at the screen, drag down your notifications, and the first notification you see makes your stomach drop.

"girl you're trending rn... what did you DO???"

then another.

"is that actually your name???"

your pulse is pounding before you even open twitter. your fingers shake as you type your own @ into the search bar, and the second you hit enter, your breath catches.

it's you.

your name. your photo. your phone number. everything.

someone—no, a group of people—had clearly gone full fbi. they'd taken all your casual, dumb little posts over the years and pieced them together like a fucked-up puzzle.

and now your full name was in a viral thread titled: "this the girl behind the jake sim micro dick blog?"

with a photo of you at a party two months ago, smile beaming.

people were quote-tweeting it with comments like: "she built like someone who'd have beef with jake sim for no reason." "oh she definitely owns a stan twitter burner too." "her blog is my roman empire i need her in therapy immediately."

your blood turned to ice. you were exposed.

fully.

not just as a shitposter but as the jake sim hater. your inbox was flooded—death threats, confessions, apologies, people asking if it was really you. tumblr dms screaming:

"TAKE THE POSTS DOWN BEFORE HE SEES THEM."

too late.

you scrambled to log into tumblr. your hands fumbled across the keys. it took three tries to get your password right.

the second you were in, you did the only thing you could do.

you hit deactivate.

the blog was gone. years of posts. thousands of notes. all of your followers, your drafts, your hate-poll templates.

deleted.

and then the panic really set in.

your hands were trembling. your ears were ringing. and all you could think about was @truthaboutjake, your mind racing. it was him, you realized that it was him.

"he knows. jake sim fucking knows who i am."

and the worst part?

you had no idea what he'd do with it.

✎﹏﹏

jake found out the same way everyone else did—waking up to a string of texts from jay and sunghoon absolutely losing their shit.

jay: bro. check twitter. sunghoon: she got exposed. jay: HER NAME IS OUT LMAOOO jay: bet she's sweating rn sunghoon: she's kinda cute tho

he blinked hard, still groggy, and tapped open the thread that seemed to be trending.

your face stared back at him.

his heart flipped.

you looked... nothing like what he expected. he'd imagined someone smug. cold. maybe with villain bangs and a cigarette habit.

but no—there you were, face flushed in a group photo, laughing mid-sip of iced americano. you looked normal. it almost hurt to admit, but you were pretty.

you looked real.

and now, you were reachable.

he did what anyone would do: searched your name on instagram. he found your linked facebook.

scrolled. scrolled.

paused.

you had your workplace tagged in an old comment.

"juniper bean café - seoul branch."

he stared at it for a long moment. then, very calmly, he stood up, threw on a hoodie, cap, and mask, and left the dorm.

✎﹏﹏

the café was a little tucked away spot with plants hanging from the ceiling and a chalkboard sign outside that said "kiss me, i'm caffeinated."

jake walked in, glancing around. he spotted you immediately, behind the counter, head down as you punched in an order.

he could tell that you had a rough morning, good. your posture was tense. your hair was pulled back messily. your voice was strained. you looked tired, your eyes that seemed so full of life in your leaked photos had disappeared.

he stepped up to the counter. waited. his eyes trailed down your figure, your frame was draped with a loose fitted sweater and some baggy light wash jeans. you wore a black apron, cinching at your waist—allowing his hungry eyes to capture your curves.

you were trying to look invisible. trying not to stand out. but to him—you were glowing with guilt.

he watched you fumble with a stack of napkins, pretending you didn't feel his eyes burning into you. finally you cleared your throat, still not looking up.

"hi, what can i get you?"

he smiled behind his mask, slow and wicked. he pulled it down just enough to speak—voice dripping low, sharp with mocking sweetness.

"you gonna spit in my drink too?" he asked. "or just keep running your mouth somewhere i can't see?"

you froze.

head snapping up. eyes locking with his. and there it was—that flash of horror, recognition, disbelief. it was him.

you had to admit, he was just as if not more handsome in person. your mouth dried up when you watched his lips curl into a smirk and his eye twitch.

your mouth opened. closed. no sound.

"hi," he said, almost sweetly. "miss me?"

you fumbled a reply—something, anything—but he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world.

"you disappeared fast. what happened? got leaked and lost all your guts or did you burn through all your micro dick material?"

your coworker looked between you both, utterly confused and in awe that jake was standing in front her. you took a breath. straightened your spine. tried to salvage your dignity.

"this is harassment," you muttered.

"this is karma," jake shot back, his smile dark. he twitched in anger, how dare you call this harassment—what about what you had been doing for the last couple of weeks? "i wanted a latte, by the way. no sugar. unless you're finally ready to be sweet to me."

you nearly dropped the milk jug.

he didn't care. he was so amused. you were the girl who wrote entire essays dragging his dickprint and his imagined bedroom habits? you, flushed and stammering behind a café register?

he wanted to laugh. he wanted to lean in closer. he wanted to ruin you back.

and this? this was just the beginning.

your hands were shaking. milk frother sputtering. heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape. and he—jake fucking sim—just stood there.

smiling.

smug.

head tilted slightly like he was thrilled by your discomfort. "you gonna make that latte, or you gonna keep fumbling around and glaring at me?" he drawled, voice low and casual.

you gritted your teeth, turned back to the machine, and fumbled through the motions of making the drink. you could feel his eyes on you the entire time—watching, drinking you in like you were the fucking joke.

you finally slid the drink across the counter, trying not to slam it.

"here. now leave."

he didn't move. just sipped slowly, then licked a bit of foam from his lip like it was the most dramatic thing anyone had ever done in a coffee shop.

and then—he leaned forward. elbow on the counter. voice quiet, words slow and deliberate:

"what time do you get off?"

you blinked, "excuse me?"

"your shift. when does it end?"

"why the fuck would i tell you that?"

his smile widened, all teeth now, sharp and smug. "because there's going to be a black car waiting for you outside." he continues, "when you clock out, you're going to get in. and then you're going to follow instructions."

you stared at him, genuinely floored. "are you insane? what the hell are you talking about?"

he tilted his head, mockingly sympathetic. "i get it. you're scared. probably embarrassed." he grins, "but see, that's the thing about defamation—once it's public, i can take legal action. and you've been very public."

your stomach dropped, "you're bluffing."

he shrugged. "wanna bet your savings account on that?"

you opened your mouth. closed it again. because—fuck. he wasn't bluffing. he didn't have to. you'd posted too much. said too much. and now he had your face, your name, your location.

"you can't just—kidnap me," you said, weaker than intended.

he laughed.

"it's not kidnapping if you get in willingly, sweetheart."

then he slid the latte off the counter, turned, and started to walk toward the door. before he left, he glanced back, over his shoulder.

"9 p.m., right?" he called out. "don't be late. i hate being stood up." he grinned, fuck him.

the bell jingled as he left. the door shut behind him.

and you stood there, in your apron and sneakers and sweaty palms, absolutely rattled. what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

✎﹏﹏

9:03 p.m.

you were pacing behind the café. your shift ended three minutes ago, but you hadn't stepped outside yet. you couldn't. your feet felt like bricks. your stomach twisted with anxiety, hands clenched in the pockets of your jeans.

what the fuck am i doing?

you shouldn't go. you know you shouldn't go. this was literally stranger danger 101, except instead of a stranger it was a kpop idol whose dick size you flamed online for weeks.

your brain was screaming at you. your nerves were a warzone. your inner monologue sounded like one long anxiety spiral:

"you're insane." "this is how people get murdered." "he's rich. he could make you disappear and blame it on anxiety meds." "but also... maybe he just wants to talk?" "or maybe he's gonna sue you in person with his scary legal team and laugh while you cry." "or—worse—what if he takes a picture with you and posts it with some shady ass caption like 'finally found her :)' and now you're really cooked?"

your fists clenched tighter.

this was your own fault. you were the one who made that blog. you were the one who said he looked like a pillow princess. you were the one who photoshopped a pacifier into that one fansite photo and captioned it "baby boy can't handle coochie."

and now?

now he knew your name. your face. your shift schedule.

and there it was, waiting on the curb like a horror movie prop—a sleek black car, windows tinted, headlights glowing like eyes.

you stared at it.

and then, finally, took a deep breath and walked towards it.

the back door opened before you could even touch it. you slid inside, hesitating, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. you looked around the dimly lit interior. leather seats. no jake.

just a stone-faced driver in a black cap.

"um," you said cautiously. "where are we going?"

no response.

you leaned forward slightly. "hello? i just—can you at least tell me if jake is—"

silence.

he kept driving.

great.

you sat back, heart still racing. the lights of the city blurred past the windows. you couldn't even track the direction—you were too jittery to focus. every turn felt like it took you farther from safety.

and god, the silence was suffocating.

you hated it. you hated him.

jake sim and his smug face and his legal threats and the fact that this whole thing was so humiliating.

how the hell did he turn it around on you? curse those people who leaked you.

you were supposed to have the power. the upper hand. you were the one who had thousands of people laughing at his expense. you were the one whose posts got quoted like bible verses on stan twitter.

and now?

now you were alone, in his car, being driven to god knows where because he told you to.

you should've never fucking posted about his dick. you should've stayed anonymous. kept your mouth shut. deleted the pacifier post when it hit 10k notes.

the car slowed. you peeked out the window. it wasn't some mansion, like you feared. wasn't a dungeon either—at least you think so.

it was a private-looking building—modern, sleek, tucked down a quiet alley with a gated entrance. definitely expensive. definitely secluded.

you were dropped off at the curb. the driver didn't say anything—just nodded toward the front door.

you stepped out slowly, phone gripped tight in your hand, ready to fake an emergency call or scream if necessary.

a man, different from the driver, opened the front door. another silent guy in all black gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated, then followed him down a short hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, until you reached a door with a single number carved into it: 17.

he knocked once, then opened it.

you stepped in—and stopped.

jake was inside.

he was leaning casually against a wall, dressed in all black—hoodie, chain, jeans, hair tousled, like he hadn't even tried and still looked like a good.

he was scrolling on his phone when you entered, then looked up.

and grinned, "hey." he stops, letting his gaze travel down your trembling form, "glad you could make it, hate blogger."

you wanted to punch him. you wanted to turn around and leave. but most of all—you wanted to know what the hell came next.

and by the look on his face?

he was very ready to show you.

room 17 is quiet. too quiet.

you stand near the door, gripping the strap of your bag like it's your last line of defense. jake hasn't moved from his place against the wall, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. he looks too calm. like this is just some casual meetup and not the most batshit confrontation of your entire life.

"you still haven't told me why i'm here," you say finally, voice tight, trying to sound unbothered even though your throat is dry.

he doesn't answer right away. he just studies you, eyes flicking from your clenched fists to your shifting posture to the tiny, almost-invisible tremble in your knees.

then he lets out a soft little chuckle, the kind that feels mean. smug and quiet and condescending.

"you really don't know?" he asks, stepping away from the wall at last. his strides are slow, deliberate, like he knows you won't run—but that you should.

you take a step back automatically, bumping into the door behind you.

"if this is about suing me," you mutter, chin lifting defensively, "you could've just emailed your legal team. this whole drama king act—" "i'm not suing you." he cuts you off, voice calm but sharp. he walks past you and locks the door with a soft click. your stomach flips.

"then what the hell is this?" he turns back to you, expression unreadable, "this is about correction."

you blink, "what?"

"you posted things that were... inaccurate." he steps closer. you press yourself further into the door. "about me. my body. my performance. my preferences." another step. you swear you stop breathing, "so now i'm giving you a chance to see the truth."

you stare up at him, wide-eyed, "you're joking."

"does it look like i'm joking?" he murmurs.

you're momentarily speechless. your brain is whirring, trying to process what's happening. jake sim—international idol, global heartthrob, the man you've memed within an inch of his digital life—has dragged you to a private room to debunk his dick size?

you should laugh, but you can't.

because he's standing too close. because he's looking at you like prey. because his voice is dipped in amusement but his eyes are furious.

"you're out of your mind," you whisper, eyes wide and your jaw slacked.

he shrugs, "maybe."

his hand lifts, knuckles brushing your chin—just enough to make your breath catch.

"but you made this personal. you dragged it out. you turned it into a running gag." he leans down slightly, until your noses are nearly brushing. "and now you're gonna watch what happens when you say shit you can't back up."

your throat works around a swallow. your persona starts to crack.

still—you can't not be a brat.

"so what, you're gonna just pull your dick out like some frat boy in a scandal?" you snort. "you're so mad over a joke, you're—"

"baby," his voice cuts you off again, soft but dangerous.

"a joke is calling me clingy or annoying. a joke is editing me into a pink onesie." he steps even closer, "but accusing me of being a submissive pillow princess with a dick that couldn't break a hymen?" he tilts his head, mocking, "that's slander."

you flush. deeply, "you saw that post?"

"i've seen every post," he says coolly. "and the reblogs. and the tags. and the memes."

you suddenly feel so small. not because he's taller—though he is—but because you'd spent months building this image of jake sim as a joke. a punchline. a target.

and now he's right here. and he's pissed.

"you're really that bothered?" you ask, but your voice is quieter now, unsure. "bothered?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "sweetheart, i was obsessed." his hand lifts again, brushes your hair away from your face, fingers dragging a little too slow behind your ear.

"you don't understand what it's like to be degraded by someone who's too cowardly to even show their face." he pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips, "but i'll show you."

you swallow hard. "so what?" you ask, trying not to waver. "you want me to apologize? to... take it all back? post a formal retraction about your dick?"

he grins. slow and sharp, "nah."

"i want you to see it," he pauses, lets the words sink in. "and then i want to see the look on your face when you realize you were dead fucking wrong."

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. your heart is pounding so fast you think you might throw up. because there's teasing and there's joking and there's flirting with danger—but this? this is crossing the line, and you don't know if you want him to stop.

you laugh, it comes out breathy and nervous and completely unconvincing. "okay," you say, holding your hands up a little, trying to cut the tension with sarcasm, "haha, very funny. you got me. you've officially scared the shit out of me, and if that was your goal, congratulations."

jake just stands there. watching you. expression unreadable, unreadable and dark. you shift on your feet, trying to find a way out of this, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"look," you continue, "i'll take everything down, okay? every post. every meme. every stupid out-of-pocket caption." you swallow. "i'll issue an apology. hell, i'll write a thread. a whole google doc. whatever you want."

you inch away from the door, toward the side of the room, trying to put some space between you.

"i crossed a line. i get that now." you laugh again, weaker this time. "like—clearly."

jake still doesn't speak, he starts walking.

slow. silent. like a cat with its prey cornered.

your back hits the wall.

"i'll stop posting about you," you rush out, your heart beating frantically when you feel jake's breath fan against your cheek. "seriously. no more degrading content. no more jokes. you win, okay?" his palm hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud.

you freeze.

he leans in.

"i don't want a fucking apology," he murmurs, voice thick and low, the sound of it making your legs weaken. you try to hold his gaze, but it's hard when he's this close. when you can smell his cologne—clean and warm, like cedar and skin. when you can see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

"i want you to look at me," he says, "and admit you were wrong."

"i just did—" "no." his other hand comes up, fingers ghosting your chin, tilting it up. "not because you're scared. not because you think i'm gonna sue your ass. i want you to say it because you know."

you suck in a breath as his fingers graze your throat. not squeezing. not threatening. but claiming, staking a presence.

"you think i'm some submissive little pushover," he whispers, "who just lays there and takes it. soft. boring. harmless."

your heart pounds in your chest so loud you swear it echoes. "you think you own the narrative. that you get to decide who i am, what i'm like in bed, how big my fucking dick is."

you flinch at the way he says it, so vulgar and harsh it shoots straight to your core.

"but the second i show up—" his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "you're quiet. nervous. twitchy. like you already know you were talking out of your ass."

you suck in a shaky breath and try to bite back the heat that's crawling up your neck. "you're insane," you whisper, but there's no bite behind it.

his body is so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him. he hasn't even touched you properly and you already feel like your knees are going to give.

"what do you want from me?" you ask, voice barely holding together. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"i want to fuck the lies out of your mouth." his voice is so low, it vibrates down your spine. "i want you to choke on everything you said about me and realize i was never the one being dominated."

you let out a small, shaky sound—and that's when he finally kisses you.

not soft.

not slow.

possessive. like he's claiming what he's owed.

like he's trying to shove every insult back down your throat, one filthy kiss at a time.

your mind blanks the second his mouth claims yours. his tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you right where he wants you, and you feel it deep—too deep. like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage and brand himself there.

his kiss isn't gentle. it's punishment. all teeth and tongue, your back shoved harder into the wall as he presses against you. his body completely, deliberately dominating yours.

"still think i'm soft?" he growls against your lips when he pulls back, breath ragged, thumb digging into the underside of your chin to keep you looking at him.

you don't answer. you can't.

your mouth is open, panting, lips wet and swollen from how violently he just kissed you. your knees barely hold.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, and lower.

he smirks.

"you look scared," he says, tilting his head slightly. "thought you liked writing filthy shit about me. what happened to all that confidence?"

you swallow hard, still in absolute disbelief, "you're—you're actually insane."

"and you're actually still turned on." his hand drops to your hip, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him—and fuck. he's hard. painfully hard. pressing right against your lower stomach. and he knows you feel it.

your eyes widen. you try to squirm away but there's nowhere to go, your back hits the wall again and his thigh wedges between your legs.

"not so micro now, is it?" he breathes against your neck. you let out a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—and that's when jake loses it.

he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, other hand sliding beneath your shirt, grazing skin and pulling a shocked noise out of you. he doesn't give you room to breathe.

"say it," he growls. "say you were wrong."

you shake your head. still stubborn. still you.

"no?" he scoffs. "fine." his thigh presses harder between your legs, rocking up once. your clit throbbed pathetically at the feeling, it was just enough friction to make your eyes roll back. you try to keep your composure, but he watches your face change—watches your pride falter.

"don't lie to me, baby." his voice drops lower—hungrier. "you're dripping. over the same guy you dragged for months."

you gasp, trying to turn your face away from him, but he leans in again, his nose brushing your cheek.

"you gonna blog about this too?" he whispers. "tell your little followers how jake sim manhandled you and made you eat your words with his cock halfway down your throat?"

you whimper and it disgusts you how fast your body betrays you. how wet you already are. how much you want him to ruin you just to prove you were wrong.

and he can tell.

he sees the shift in your expression. how your resistance is slowly, deliciously, falling apart.

your wrists are still pinned, your breathing uneven, chest rising and falling fast as jake leans in like he owns the air around you.

"i'm done hearing you talk," he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "i think it's time you showed me just how sorry you really are."

he releases your hands and steps back. you don't move. your legs are trembling, your pride hanging on by a thread.

"on your knees," he says simply.

you scoff, arms folding defensively across your chest, "you can't be serious—"

he tilts his head, "i'm not asking again."

there's no loud threat. no yelling. just the terrifying calm of someone who already knows he's won. you hold your ground—barely. but something about the way he looks down at you, already palming the bulge in his jeans, makes your body respond before your mind does.

you sink, slowly. knees hitting the floor like it's a confession. he watches you with quiet satisfaction, like he's waited for this exact moment.

he had been dreaming about the moment he would get you to himself, on your knees—right where he wanted you.

"look at me," he says, and you do—eyes meeting his as he unzips, the sound ridiculously loud in the silence.

he's already thick in his hand when he pulls it out, and your mouth goes dry. you don't want to admit it, but fuck. it's big. way bigger than you ever gave him credit for. your throat tightens at the sheer weight of it, thick and flushed and veined.

his smirk deepens when he sees the way your eyes drop.

"what was that again?" he mocks, giving himself a slow stroke. "micro?"

you glare up at him, heat crawling up your neck. "i was clearly misinformed."

"say it properly."

you hesitate, his free hand tangles in your hair—firm, but not painful. just enough to tilt your face up toward him.

"say. it."

you grit your teeth, "i was wrong."

"about what?"

you groan. "about your dick. okay? you don't have a micro dick."

he raises an eyebrow, "that all?"

"it's big," you mutter, cheeks burning. "you made your point." he laughs—low and satisfied—and guides your face closer, "not yet."

you gasp when you feel his tip touch your cheek, he grins at your expression—feeling satisfied with your shock. he does a few experimental taps, dragging his length over your lips. you hold in a whine when he smears his pre cum over your bottom lip, almost as if he was applying lipgloss on you.

and then he pushes in.

there's no easing into it—he gives you the thick weight of his cock all at once, making you choke. your hands scrambling to grip his thighs as he holds you there, watching with dark, satisfied eyes.

"look at that," he murmurs. "mouth so full of me you can't even talk shit now." you gag again, but his grip stays steady, fingers flexing against the back of your head as he rocks his hips in slow, controlled thrusts. just enough to make you feel how deep he is and prove how wrong you were.

he could feel how warm your mouth was around him, basking in the feeling of not only pleasure but the satisfaction of shutting you up.

"this what you wanted?" he groans. "to see what i've been hiding in those pants you loved to degrade?"

you can't respond. not when he's using your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking every insult out of you with a punishing rhythm. spit drips from out of your mouth and onto your chin. tears prick at your eyes and yet—somewhere deep in your gut—you like it.

jake's grip on your hair gets stronger, the pain causing your jaw to slack as you continue to take his brutal pace. you could feel the head of his cock  rub against the back of your throat, the force not strong enough to make you gag but enough to cause a stream of tears to run down your face.

your nose touched his pelvis with every thrust, indicating how deep he was going. "fuck. look at you, __. who knew cock being in your mouth is the only way to shut you up."

you whine at his words, looking up at him with pleading eyes—yet you didn't know what exacting you were begging for. you rub your thighs together in hopes for some temporary relief, the scene so lewd that you could feel yourself gush in your panties—holding in the urge to let your hands wander down to touch yourself.

jake looked down at you with hungry eyes, his lip twitching as his grip in your hair grew tighter with each thrust. he let low moans slip from his mouth every time his dick grazed the back of your throat.

"aren't you a dirty little whore.." jake drawls out, his chest heaving with pleasure when he notices how tightly you have your thighs clenched. "getting all worked up for someone you've publicly shat on for having the least sex appeal."

you moaned around him when suddenly he pushed your thighs apart with his foot, wedging his sneaker between your legs—giving you something to ease up the tension in your core.

you mewl when he pushed against your clit, almost urging you to grind down against him while he used your mouth to his hearts content. slowly, but surely—you allowed yourself to ground yourself against him. it sickened you how desperate you had become in just a span of a few minutes.

jake almost cums when he sees you move your hips, desperate for any kind of friction to relieve you from your throbbing clit.

the familiar feeling in his stomach begins to tighten, his grip on you becoming unforgiving as he loses self control and allows himself to push himself into your mouth as much as he could. his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly now, a mixture of his cum and your spit dribbling out of your mouth.

"f-fuck," he groans. "m'gonna cum.. you're gonna take it? yeah? take it in that bratty mouth, hm?" jake murmurs to what seems himself just before he combusts in your mouth. you swallowed a chocked moan when you feel his warm cum coat your mouth, gagging around him as he twitches.

jake felt as if he was on cloud 9, his head lulling to the side as he keeps your head planted where it is—ensuring that you swallow what he gave you fully.

when he finally pulls back, cock glistening with your spit and his cum, your jaw aches as you swallow the salty yet sweet taste of his release.  your chest heaving like you've just survived something.

"mouth open and tongue out," he demands. you hesitantly open your mouth, your tongue out as you show him that you swallowed everything.

you whine out desperately when he slides his foot away, leaving you aching again. jake tsk's, "desperate slut."

he crouches down to your level, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth.

"still think i'm a pillow princess?" his voice is a little breathless now. dark and smug. "or you finally ready to admit you don't know shit about me?"

your throat still burns. your lips are swollen, coated in spit and shame, and jake's leaning over you like he's just getting started.

"on your feet."

you hesitate, still panting, still dazed from the way he fucked your mouth like it was owed to him. but something in his voice—firm, expectant—makes you move. your knees tremble as you rise.

jake doesn't give you time to adjust. the second you're upright, he steps in close, hands on your waist, guiding you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

you're pressed back against the mattress, thighs parted under his hands, still catching your breath from how rough he'd just been with your mouth. but instead of backing down, you do what you do best—deflect.

"look—how about this," you say, voice shaking but holding onto some scrap of cocky defiance. "i'll just say the blog was satire. irony. you know, performance art or something. no one has to know i meant any of it."

jake's expression doesn't change.

"or better yet—i'll make a new post trashing someone else. redirect the attention. easy." you flash a grin that's all teeth. "maybe i'll even throw in a little praise for you. balance it out."

he just blinks at you. slowly.

"you think you're negotiating right now?" his voice is calm, but the grip on your thighs tightens.

you blink. "i mean, i'm trying to be reasonable—"

"reasonable?" he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "you publicly dragged me for weeks. humiliated me. and now that you're caught, you want to rewrite the narrative?"

"i'm offering solutions—" "you're offering bullshit," he snaps, and in a second he's climbing over you, his body slotting between your legs like it was made to be there. "and you think you still have leverage? cute."

your breath hitches. your hands push at his chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them down again, harder this time—your body arching into him involuntarily.

"here's what's really gonna happen," he says, leaning in, nose brushing yours. "you're gonna try to flip this. act like you're still in control. try to turn the tables on me."

your throat tightens.

"but you won't. because the second you try, i'll remind you who made you beg. who had you gagging on the dick you said didn't exist." his voice drops lower, dangerous. "and then i'll ruin you all over again."

you glare up at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and defiance."you know what? fine." your voice is sharp, shaky. "you wanna play games? i'll play. let's see how fast you fold when i turn this around."

he raises an eyebrow. "is that right?" you reach down between your bodies—slow, deliberate—wrapping your hand around him. he's still hard. unfairly so. hot and heavy in your palm.

"maybe i was wrong about the size," you murmur, stroking him slow, his breath hitching. "but maybe you really are just a pillow princess. maybe you like being praised more than you like fucking."

his jaw ticks.

you press a kiss to his neck, voice a taunt against his skin. "what happens if i ride you instead? if i make you cum all over yourself."

he freezes.

"what if i write about that next?" you sit up dragging your tongue along the edge of his jaw. "'jake sim—big dick, zero stamina.' think the internet'll love that?"

you think you've got him.

until suddenly—he flips you.

you yelp, back hitting the mattress again as he rips your hand away from his cock and shoves your thighs up around his waist. the shift is fast, dominant, practiced.

"you really thought that'd work?" he's laughing now—mean, breathless, hungry. "thought you'd rile me up and get the upper hand? you forget who tracked you down and got you here in this room." his voice is pure venom now, thick with want. "who had you gagging and drooling on your knees while you fucked yourself on my shoes not even 5 minutes ago?"

his hands expertly yank off your jeans, his thumb hooked around the waistband of your baby pink cotton panties—teasing you. you writhe beneath him, but he doesn't budge—he presses into you, cock sliding between your clothed folds just to tease, just to show you what you don't get to control.

"you wanna test stamina?" he growls. "i'll fuck you 'til that smug little attitude disappears. 'til you're begging me to stop. 'til you're crying and calling me daddy."

you gasp—rage, arousal, panic blending in your gut—but you can't deny the throb between your legs. the way your body betrays your pride.

he feels it too.

his free hand runs up your sweater, your breath shaking as you feel him run his fingers up your stomach and make themselves comfortable on your tits. letting your hands go momentarily, he's yanking your sweater off and throwing it across the room.

"didn't know bratty girls like you wore baby pink. ruffles, lace trim—bows?" he grins, his hands playing with the frills of your bra as you twitch beneath him.

"fuck you," you spat out, voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. jake only smirks, his hand reaching up to pull the straps of your bra down—letting your tits fall out. "oh i will," and with that he's taking one of your nipples hostage in his mouth. his grip on your wrists stays planted, not allowing you to move or struggle against him when he nips at the sensitive skin of your breasts.

he switches from left to right for a few minutes, basking in your whimpers and mewls before he kisses down your stomach. pulling away he's back to being face to face with you, a smug look on his face before he plants a kiss to your jaw. the kiss turns into bites, nipping at your neck and chest as he leaves behind purple splotches.

"maybe you can post the marks i left and then bash me," jake grins against your skin. you roll your eyes in response only for jake to shoot you a look that says: behave.

he moves your underwear to the side, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. he runs his thumb through your slit, gathering your slick.

"so wet," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock against your slit. "guess your body knows who's in charge, even if your mouth doesn't." he slams into you—deep, all at once—and you scream.

no teasing now. no easing in. no prepping.

just punishment. just proof. just him, ruining you from the inside out like it's the only way to shut you up.

"gonna make you forget every insult," he grits, hips snapping into yours over and over. "gonna fuck the hate right outta you."

he could feel your velvet walls convulse, sucking him in like a vacuum as he thrusts into you. you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching, mind blurring. you hate how good it feels. how right.

"gonna ruin you," he whispers, lips at your neck. "and you're gonna thank me for it." his mouth traveling down to your tit to engulf one of your nipples once again.

your body jolts with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping and moans filling the room as you struggle to adjust to his girth.

you're still trembling when jake lifts your chin. his touch is deceptively gentle, but there's nothing soft in his expression. smug. commanding. dangerously patient.

"you still think you were right?" he asks lowly, voice scraping down your spine like velvet over steel. you blink up at him, lips parted, but your throat is dry. no sass now. not with the way your body's still recovering, knees weak, throat raw from every choked sound he pulled from you.

when you don't respond jake stops his movement, his hips go still as he simply stares down at you with a dark look in his eyes.

you were falling apart.

his cock was deep inside you, filling you so completely you couldn't even think straight— but jake wasn't moving. he just held you there, pinned beneath him, wrists trapped against the mattress, his hips grinding slow and mean against yours.

you whimpered, hips twitching up against him helplessly, desperate for more. he smirked down at you, cruel and smug, loving the way your body shook, the way your face twisted in frustration.

"what's wrong?" he murmured mockingly, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. "thought you'd be tougher than this."

you rationed with yourself for a moment, were you really going to beg? yes.

you tried to twist your wrists free but his grip only tightened. "please," you gasped out, tears welling in your eyes from how badly you needed to cum. "please, jake, i need it—"

he laughed, low and sharp, and snapped his hips forward once—deep and brutal—making you cry out. but then he stilled again, ignoring your desperate whines.

"you need it?" he repeated, pretending to think. "need my cock? need me to make you cum like the stupid little whore you are?"

your cheeks burned, shame rolling through you, but you nodded frantically.

"say it," he ordered, voice dropping, rough. you squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated, but the words still poured out.

"i need your cock," you sobbed. "please jake, please—i'll do anything, i'll be good, just let me cum—"

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied with himself.

"should've thought about being good before you started running your mouth online," he muttered, dragging his cock slow and deep inside you, making you arch and cry out.

you were shaking now—your whole body burning, every nerve stretched tight and ready to snap.

"you want it that bad?" he asked casually, grinding his hips just enough to make you sob.

"yes," you choked out. "please, jake—please, i need to cum, i can't—"

he grinned wickedly and finally, finally started fucking into you hard—deep, punishing thrusts that made you see stars. your walls clung onto how dick like a suction in attempt to milk him dry.

your moans spilled out loud and wrecked, your whole body bowing off the bed.

"good girl," he murmured darkly, "you're gonna cum when i say. not a second before." you nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. and when he finally, finally leaned down and growled, "cum for me, slut,"

you shattered.

you came so hard you were sobbing, spasming around him, your body giving out completely under his.

jake fucked you through it, laughing under his breath, dragging every last bit of pleasure and humiliation out of you until you were left shaking and gasping for air.

and even then, he wasn't done with you yet. he hadn't cum yet, and at the end of the day that's what you were here for—to be his little cum slut.  you barely had time to breathe—your body still spasming from the orgasm he tore out of you before jake grabbed your hips and pulled you back down onto him, grinding even deeper.

you yelped, broken noises spilling out of your mouth, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"no," he snapped, voice sharp and final, one hand locking tight around your waist to keep you from moving. "you don't get to run."

your head lolled back, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body a twitching mess.

"too much," you sobbed, trembling violently.

he laughed—laughed—at your misery.

"too bad," he muttered against your ear. "you're not done." he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard, fast, merciless. your thighs shook, your nails dug into the sheets, your mouth fell open in helpless, gasping cries. you could feel yourself spiraling again—pain and pleasure tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"you think you're in control?" he grunted, slamming into you harder, making you scream. "you think you can say whatever you want about me and not pay for it?"

your whole body jolted with every thrust, the humiliation making your head spin.

"say it," he growled. "say you were wrong."

you whimpered, stubborn even now, biting down hard on your lip. he slowed down, grinding his cock against your sensitive walls in deep, deliberate circles that made you keen helplessly.

"say it," he repeated, cruel and low, "or i'll edge you until you're fucking crying."

your pride crumbled fast.

"i was wrong," you gasped out, voice cracking. he smirked, hips snapping forward again. "about what?"

you squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. "about—about your dick," you choked out. "i lied, you're big—you're fucking huge—"

he chuckled darkly, like he already knew. "good girl," he breathed, voice dripping with mockery. "what else?"

you shook your head frantically, body jerking with overstimulation. he pulled almost all the way out—your cunt squeezing around nothing— before slamming back in so brutally you cried out.

"what else?" he hissed against your throat.

"i—i'm just a stupid bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about," you sobbed, face burning hot.

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied, so cruel.

"that's right," he murmured. "a stupid little whore who can't stop begging for the cock she said was too small."

you whimpered, broken, humiliated beyond repair. and still—your body clung to him, desperate for more. you realized with a sick twist in your gut that you would do anything—say anything—just to have him fuck you harder.

and jake knew it too.

he leaned down close, mouth brushing yours cruelly.

"beg," he whispered. "beg me to ruin you."

you could barely think. your body was burning, trembling, stretched tight around him— your mind a broken mess of shame and need. and still jake kept fucking you deep, rough, relentless.

his hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, your throat, your jaw—manhandling you like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

you whimpered when he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him.

"beg," he ordered again, voice dark, breathless with lust. "beg me to ruin you, slut."

you shook your head at first, a broken little sob tearing from your throat. he growled low, slammed into you even harder—your back arching, a scream ripping from your lips.

"you don't get to say no," he hissed. "you wanted this." tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling violently.

"please," you gasped out, the word slipping before you could even think. "please jake..ruin me, use me. fuck me however you want—"

he laughed, so fucking smug, dragging his cock out slow just to make you whine. "good fucking girl," he murmured. "finally learning your place."

you babbled desperate nonsense, sobbing into the sheets, your pride shattered into dust.and jake fucked you through it all—using you like a fleshlight, pounding into you until your legs gave out, until your voice was wrecked and broken.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he sneered, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a sting. "to get fucked dumb? to get put in your place like the stupid little whore you are?"

you nodded frantically, gasping, sobbing, brain completely mush. "can't even speak anymore," he muttered, mocking. "just a cockdrunk mess." your nails clawed helplessly at the sheets, your cunt squeezing him so tight he groaned.

you felt another orgasm building—sharp, unbearable—but you were too gone to even ask permission. you just sobbed and gasped and let him take everything from you.

"yeah, that's right," he growled, voice thick with pleasure. "cum all over my cock, slut. make a fucking mess."

you shattered, your whole body convulsing around him, screaming his name like a prayer, a curse, a broken confession. and jake fucked you through it, dragging every last bit of your pride and resistance out of you, until there was nothing left but a crying, ruined mess on his cock.

you were shaking. your body was limp, wrecked, trembling under the weight of everything he made you feel.

and jake still wasn't satisfied.

he kept moving, grinding his cock deep inside your overstimulated cunt—mocking every broken sob that fell from your lips.

"what's wrong?" he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "too much?"

you could only whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he grabbed your face again, rough, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his.

"you wanted to run your mouth so bad," he sneered. "now you can fucking thank me." your brain barely processed the words, too fogged with shame and pleasure. he slapped your cheek lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back.

"say it," he barked. "say thank you."

you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"th-thank you," you stammered, voice barely a whisper.

he smirked, cruel and satisfied.

"louder," he ordered, snapping his hips forward viciously, making you cry out. "thank you!" you sobbed, your voice hoarse and broken.

he chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down your throat, pressing lightly just enough to make your head spin.

"thank me for ruining you," he muttered, rolling his hips slow and deep, dragging another helpless moan from your lips.

your pride was turned into ash, your mind gone.

"thank you for ruining me," you gasped out, shaking uncontrollably, completely destroyed. he groaned, clearly getting off on how ruined you were—your body slack, twitching, drooling, your cunt spasming weakly around him.

"pathetic," he muttered against your ear. "look at you." you could feel how wet and messy everything was—your thighs sticky, the sheets underneath you soaked.

and still—still—he wasn't finished.

"gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice rough with the effort of holding back. "gonna fuck you so full you'll be leaking for days."

you sobbed, the humiliation sinking deeper into your bones.

"please," you whispered, because you didn't know what else to say anymore. he grunted low in his chest, thrusting faster, chasing his release. he could feel that familiar tinge in his stomach, he was close.

"such a good little cumdump," he growled. "just a hole for me to use." you broke again, another weak orgasm rolling through your abused body.

and jake finally spilled inside you—deep, hot, filling you up exactly like he promised.

he didn't pull out immediately. he stayed pressed deep, making sure you felt every drop. when he finally did pull out, you collapsed completely, a ruined, twitching, crying mess.

and jake just chuckled, so fucking smug. running his fingers down your slit before plugging your fluttering hole, making sure that his cum stays in you for as long as it could.

"maybe next time you'll think twice before running your mouth about me," he said, releasing your wrists before he gets off the bed. he left you there, spread open, dripping, humiliated beyond repair.

and you realized with a sick twist of your gut— you liked it.

you fucking loved every humiliating second of it.

✎﹏﹏

your body aches.

not in the romantic, soft-lit, post-orgasm kind of way.

no. it's raw. it's degrading. it's embarrassing.

your legs are trembling so badly you have to lean on the sink just to stay upright. your thighs sticky, sore. your throat dry and stretched thin from the pathetic, wrecked sounds he pulled out of you.

you yank your clothes back on as fast as your shaking hands allow, muttering curses under your breath. you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. because you know what you'll see: the ruined, wrecked version of yourself jake created.

and you hate him.

you hate how smug he looks when you finally stumble back into the room—hair mussed, shirt untucked, standing like he didn't just break you open with nothing but his cock and his fucking mouth. you hate how he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that says he's already won.

you hate that he was right.

and you really, really hate that you liked it.

you roll your shoulders back, force yourself to stand straight even if your body is begging you to drop.

"that what you wanted?" you rasp out, voice wrecked and scratchy. "you win. congrats. want a trophy or something?"

jake doesn't say a word. he just watches. calm. amused. smug.

and it pisses you off. burns you alive from the inside.

"you got what you wanted. you ruined my pride," you snarl, stepping closer even though your knees are ready to give. "so what now? supposed to kneel and thank you? beg you to keep ruining me?"

he cocks his head slightly, lips twitching.

you hate how unbothered he looks. you hate it so much it makes you reckless.

"you don't actually believe i meant all that, right?" you spit. "you really think i meant it when i said you're big? when i cried about how good you fucked me?"

you scoff, shaking your head with a cold, sharp laugh.

"you're pathetic. you got played because i moaned a little."

and that's when everything shifts.

because jake steps forward—smooth, controlled—grabbing your jaw so hard you gasp, slamming your back against the wall without even looking like he's trying. his face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes dark and furious.

"still lying?" he murmurs.

your heart pounds wildly. you try to twist away but his grip on your jaw tightens, bruising.

"you begged for my cock," he hisses, thumb dragging across your trembling bottom lip. "you fucking cried for it. and you're gonna stand there and lie to my face?"

you choke on your words, humiliation pouring down your spine in cold waves.

he laughs bitterly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "guess you really are as dumb as you look."

you flinch.

and jake leans in closer, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanna pretend you're still in control?" he taunts, dragging his fingers down your throat slow, almost tender. "you wanna act like you didn't cum so fucking hard you couldn't even say my name?"

you tremble.

but you don't back down—not yet. pride and fear tangled up, keeping you frozen.

he chuckles darkly.

"fine," he says, voice a low threat. "i'll remind you."

his hand snakes between your thighs, shoving your jeans down again, your underwear dragging with it, baring you completely in seconds. you gasp, struggling—but he's too strong, too fast. he grabs you by the hips, throws you onto the bed like you're weightless.

and then he's on you.

he presses your wrists to the mattress with one hand again, his weight pinning you down, his other hand roughly forcing your legs apart.

you barely have time to gasp before he's inside you again—deep, brutal, fucking the defiance out of you one savage thrust at a time.

you cry out, throat raw. he fucks you like he's furious, every slam of his hips meant to punish. "not so fucking smug now, huh?" he pants against your ear.

you whimper, broken sounds spilling out without permission.

"what happened to all that fake confidence, princess?" he mocks, rolling his hips harder, forcing your body to take every inch. "thought you said you could handle it."

you sob, writhing under him, but he doesn't let up. he leans down, dragging his teeth across your jaw, making you shudder helplessly.

"gonna make you beg again," he growls. "gonna make you say it like you fucking mean it."

you try to shake your head—but you're drowning. he's everywhere. he's everything. and no matter how much you try to cling to your pride, it crumbles between your shaking hands.

you're crying now—humiliated tears streaking down your flushed face—as he pounds into you mercilessly.

"please," you choke out, voice cracking.

he chuckles, cruel and satisfied.

"please what, baby?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to a deep, punishing grind that makes your whole body twitch and seize.

"please," you sob again, shame burning you alive. "please let me cum."

he leans back slightly to look at you—hair a mess, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"you don't deserve to cum," he says, voice mocking. "whores who lie don't get rewards."

you whimper, hips stuttering against his, desperate, broken.

"but," he adds slowly, almost lazily, "if you beg real nice... maybe i'll consider it."

you sob harder, pride shattered into dust. and then—you beg.

you beg like a good little whore.

"please, jake," you cry, voice wrecked and hoarse. "i need it—i need to cum—please, please—"

he grins, dark and cruel, and finally—finally—lets you fall apart again, your body convulsing, cunt clenching around him helplessly as he fucks you through the brutal, soul-crushing orgasm. and you barely have a second to breathe before he's moving again—pulling out, grabbing your face in both hands, forcing your mouth open.

"open wide," he orders.

you're so wrecked you don't even think to disobey. you just open—lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

and jake leans over—spits straight into your mouth, thick and wet and humiliating.

you gag slightly, tears burning your eyes.

"swallow," he commands sharply.

you do.

you obey without even thinking.

and he smirks—grabbing his phone, flipping open the recording he just made of your pathetic begging, letting you hear it on loop while you lie there ruined, body trembling, throat raw.

he tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. "remember this next time you wanna talk shit," he says, voice low and smug.

he kisses you—mocking and possessive—and leaves you there: used, wrecked, humiliated, and so thoroughly owned that you can't even pretend anymore.

jake sim ruined you and there's no taking it back.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[reignpage]

ᥫ᭡ Pegging Gojo as a reward for being so good

More than eager, he was ecstatic when you broached the topic with him, even insisted he didn’t need any preparations because he’s ‘always ready.’ Whatever that means. The strap-on is bright blue with rhinestones on the harness; his amazing princess deserves to feel pretty, he said. 

On all fours, completely bare except for his blindfold, he impatiently awaits to be stretched out. “Come on, baby. I’m ready. Don't be scared. You won't hurt me. I can take it. My ass will eat it up like a buffet.”

“That’s what I’m scared of most, idiot.”

When he laughs, his puckered hole quivers and the sight entrances you out of your fears. The fake cockhead kisses the hole, circling and pushing in slightly just to test the waters. Still a little cold, your boyfriend jolts at the odd sensation of the strawberry-flavoured lube aiding the mouth-watering rubbing of the fake cock against every sensitive nerve ending in his most vulnerable area. 

Satoru lets out a breathy moan. Then, inch by inch, he’s taking it all in like a pro — he’s even got a perfect arch you can’t help but run your nails down, teasing him. 

“Woah,” he says, feeling insanely full when you bottom out with no problems. “This is what you feel every time? I just gained a n-new —hngh, ooh that’s in deep, baby—newfound respect for you.”

Admittedly, you’re enjoying this more than you thought you would. There’s something about bringing the strongest sorcerer to his knees, watching his adorable, pink hole flutter around a cock, albeit a fake one, and seeing a blush erupt all over his pristine, pale skin. He’s moaning like crazy, pushing back ever so slightly like he can’t help it. 

“Feel good, Toru?”

He groans and squeezes down. Hard. “D-don’t. Ha, don’t talk like that.”

“Like what, baby?”

“Like that. It’s got my dick leaking l-like crazy. Ah, I don’t think I’ll —oh, damnnn— l-last very long. Not when you’re fucking me so good, baby. K-knew you’d be a natural at -ngh!- this. I love you so so soooo much. You're a champ.”

And he’s right: he doesn’t last very long at all. Satoru shoots out ropes and ropes of pearlescent cum all over his stomach and the satin sheets, body shaking from the heavenly sparks of delectable lightning emanating from deep inside of him, and you swear he even whimpers in the midst of his fierce orgasm. 

Giggling, you wrap your hand around his super sensitive cock, loving the way it pulses in your grip. Like a reflex, he thrusts forward, keen to milk himself for all he's worth. He can't get enough of the feel of you, and darn it if he doesn't wish he could feel your real cock inside of him instead of a silicon one. "Oh, fuuuuck, that was a good one."

Slumped on the bed in front of you, you let him reorient himself — he gets mean when he doesn't get a break in between orgasms. You're mulling the last ten minutes, thinking that the blue dildo looked great against his pale skin, that it did somehow come naturally to you, and that it was oddly enjoyable. There was a notch in the strap that was rubbing your clit just right, and if he had lasted longer, despite the aching in your hips from the unusual movements, you totally would have orgasmed. 

"Would it be too," he breathes out, sentence fragmented by a sudden shudder, "t-too much to call you mommy? 'Cause it kinda feels right."

"Shut up, you dork."

It takes only mere seconds for him to ask for another round once the wave of pleasure subsides, the dildo still lodged deep, held tight by his gummy walls. And you're not hesistant either to oblige. After all, he's worked so hard; he deserves this. 

“H-hey, do me against a mirror. I wanna see how pretty you look.”

You roll your eyes. “You mean, you want to see yourself.”

A grin creeps its way onto his face, which you feel more than you see. “I can multitask — that’s what the Six Eyes are for, baby.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

WHERE IT HURTS THE MOST

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: getting shot is bad. bleeding out in your boss-slash-ex’s arms? somehow, worse. based on this request. warnings | an: hurt, some comfort (not too much because i wrote this when i was sad lol) descriptions of getting shot, bleeding out, hospitals, needles, mentions of death, ok maybe there is physical comfort because i couldn't help myself, probably a v unhealthy relationship with ur ex—move on girl! word count: 2.6k

✧ masterlist

fav song & perhaps hotch x ex!reader’s national anthem

You didn’t notice the pain at first—just the strange sensation of heat blooming beneath your skin, like a match pressed to paper, a kiss of flame before the burn. The bullet had slithered into your side, embedding itself as if it were searching for home. Still, the sting didn’t register—not right away. Maybe it was the adrenaline taking its turn, or maybe it was his voice in your ear.

“Talk to me. Are you hit?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes found Prentiss, her expression faltering as her gaze dropped. You followed it down, almost confused by the slow bloom of crimson spreading across your side and belly—like a cruel artist dragging a brush through water, letting the pigment bleed. The soft grey shirt you’d thrown on that morning—chosen with little thought—now looked like it had been made for this exact kind of tragedy. You hadn’t considered how well it would pair with blood.

The fabric clung to your skin now, hot and wet. The bleeding wasn’t fast—it was abiding, resolute, like your body had made peace with the idea of unravelling slowly. There was a pressure building beneath your ribs, sharp and incessant, like something vital had been nicked and was now screaming for your attention.

Your knees gave way first.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement, sounding somewhere far off. Or maybe they were close. It was hard to tell with everything starting to muffle, feeling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears and the world was beginning to fade.

Above you, the sky wavered, as if seen through glass smeared by an unkind hand—smudged and streaked, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or fade with you. Your fingers twitched against the asphalt, seeking something solid to hold onto.

“Move! I’ve got her—move!”

His voice came before the rest of him and you forced your eyes to stay open.

Just a little longer.

Just to see him.

If this was it—if this was the breath before the end—then let it be him you carried into whatever came next. Let his face be the last light seared into the backs of your eyelids, the last shape your body remembered before becoming nothing more than a bloom in soil.

Let it be him.

He dropped beside you like gravity had pulled him down harder than the rest of the world. You felt the absence of his hands for a single, suspended second—like the earth had held its breath with you—and then they were everywhere. One braced behind your head, the other pressing into your side firmly, and oh, God, it burned.

You gasped, a wet, broken sound that cracked from somewhere beneath your ribs and he flinched, just once.

“S’okay,” you managed, your voice thready, ghostlike. “Not as bad as it looks.”

His eyes snapped to yours, overflowing with disbelief, and you tried to offer a smile—something crooked, something brave—but it faltered the moment you tasted copper. A metallic bitterness coating your tongue.

Your lips parted in confusion before the nausea caught up. You turned your head just as a frenzy of coughs clawed their way up your aching chest, wracking your frame.

Warm and slick blood found its way past your teeth, past your lips.

“No—” His voice cracked, low, hoarse, and terrified. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as you shuddered, trying to hold you steady, trying to keep you here. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—just breathe.”

But it was getting harder to do even that.

Air was beginning to feel like smoke in your lungs, thick, stinging, and impossible to hold. Every inhale caught somewhere halfway, like your body was forgetting how to stay alive, or simply beginning to make peace with going.

Your gaze fluttered to his mouth, watching the way his lips moved.

The sound wasn’t reaching you anymore, not clearly. You had to focus, had to summon what was left of your strength just to hear him, just to hold onto his voice.

“…vest…” You watched his mouth shape the word, his hand still pressing against your side. “You didn’t have your vest on…”

Regret twisted in his features—not anger, never that—just devastation carved into bone. Like he was trying to figure out how to bargain with the universe. Like if he could go back, he’d put the damn thing on you himself.

“T-took it off,” you murmured, each syllable slow and splintered, barely more than air. You didn’t know if he could hear you. You weren’t even sure you were making sound anymore. “D-didn’t know…there w-was a second unsub…”

“You should never take it off.” The words sounded like they belonged in of his lectures, but his voice lacked the sternness it usually carried. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He hadn’t called you that in months.

Not through the check-ins he made under the guise of protocol. Not during the late dinners, the endless conversations in half-lit hotel rooms or your apartment where the line between exes and colleagues blurred just enough to hurt.

But now—now—when you were bleeding in his arms and slipping further from him with every breath, the word had tumbled out like muscle memory.

And for a second, it didn’t matter how much time had passed.

You were still his.

“T-tell me something,” you whispered, the words barely forming. Your eyes felt impossibly heavy now, taking more effort to keep them open than to let go. “Something warm,” you breathed. “I feel…so cold…”

You weren’t sure of much anymore—weren’t even certain if he was really there—but then his grip tightened around your hand, grounding you in the space between pain and unconsciousness. Your eyelids fluttered right as he leaned his head closer, his breath a small comfort against your cheek.

“Do you remember that night in Georgia?” he murmured, moving a blood-matted piece of hair from your face. “The motel with the broken heater…and the vending machine that ate your dollar?”

You blinked. Slow. Maybe a nod. Maybe just the way your breath caught a little differently.

“You were freezing,” he went on, the memory spilling out like a lifeline, “wrapped up in that ridiculous blanket you stole from the jet.”

“It was itchy,” you rasped, voice so faint he had to lean in closer to catch it. “The blanket… so itchy…”

“I remember, honey,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your temple. “It was your excuse to steal my sweatshirt… and half the bed.”

You blinked again, slower now—and this time, your eyes didn’t reopen, content to shut with the memory of his face carved into the darkness behind your eyelids.

The soft curve of his mouth. The small, reluctant smile you hadn’t seen in so long. You clung to it, tucking it somewhere safe inside you, wondering if the universe would be kind enough to let you keep it.

“I…I still have it…the sweatshirt…w-wear it every night I miss you.”

You didn’t see the way his face crumpled, how his eyes squeezed shut like he’d just taken a bullet too. But you felt him. The gentle press of his forehead into your own, the way his hand tightened around yours like a vow.

“I never slept better than I did that night,” he murmured, his voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone hear. “You curled into me, and I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. Just to feel you near…. just to hear your heartbeat…”

You gathered what little strength you had left and squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough.

“I used to think,” he whispered, “that if I stayed still enough, breathed quiet enough… you’d never leave.”

“M’sorry,” you managed, two syllables slurred and soft, trailing into silence before everything went dark.

The unforgiving light clawed and seeped into your eyes, prying them open. You winced against it, lashes fluttering. Your tongue dragged over your lips—dry, cracked, and peeling like old paint left too long beneath a scorching sun.

Everything ached.

Not sharply, not suddenly—but deeply, as if your body was punishing you for choosing survival. As if every cell was still mourning the lost promise of eternal rest.

Your fingers twitched. Even the smallest movement stirred something beneath your skin. A needle—an IV, maybe. You hated needles. Hated the way they sat inside you, like splinters in your veins, begging to be torn free.

And lower, at your side, a steady throb pulsed there. Not bleeding anymore. Not fresh. There was no urgency in it now.

You were no longer bleeding.

You were clean.

The dressing gown they’d put you in was pristine white—so white it felt unnatural. Blinding. The colour of surrender. And the brightness of it overwhelmed you, pushed you back into yourself, and made you shut your eyes again.

Until—

“Hey you…”

You turned your head toward the sound instinctively, and pain lanced through your side, cauterizing and immediate. It stole the breath right out of your lungs, made you suck in sharply and squint against the fresh wave of ache as your eyes opened again.

“You’re okay,” the voice soothed, closer now. “Can I get you anything?”

Your vision cleared slowly, and there he was—Hotch—standing rigidly by the bed, one hand braced against the bedrail like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer without breaking something.

You tried to speak, but your throat seized, burning the words before they could form.

He stepped closer, reading the pain on your face like a map he knew by heart. "Water?"

You gave the smallest nod, and he was already moving, reaching for the pitcher near your bed. His hands, usually so sure, fumbled just slightly, the water pouring in a slow, uneven trickle into the cup.

Your vision wavered, but you caught it anyway, the faint smudges under his nails. Dark stains that might have once been red.

Blood.

Your blood.

Even now—even close to death—parts of you had found their way onto him, marking him in ways neither of you would ever be able to wash clean.

Hotch guided the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the back of your head with a tenderness that threatened to undo you. You reached out too, a weak attempt to mask the need—the way your fingers curled around his, under the guise of helping hold the cup up.

The rim pressed against your mouth, trembling slightly between both your hands and his. You took a small sip, the water sliding down your raw throat like broken glass softened only by his touch.

His hand stayed cradling your head, his thumb unconsciously brushing the curve of your skull in grounding strokes. You swallowed, the effort exhausting, and leaned a fraction more into his palm without thinking, without guarding yourself like you usually would.

Your gaze lifted to meet his, blinking heavily, fighting against the pull of sleep. And when you found him—really found him—you sensed it in your chest, that same ache that had never faded, merely rested in the depths of your stomach, anticipating. Anticipating the times when both of you looked at one another for too long, lingered in touch for too long, spoke to each other for too long.

You wanted to reach out, to gentle the line between his brows with your fingertips, to dissolve the way he wore worry as if it were woven into his very skin. He didn’t deserve that weight. You didn’t deserve to be the reason it sat there.

You were not supposed to be his burden anymore. You had made sure of it. And yet—here he was, still looking at you like losing you would have hollowed out the parts of him you used to call home. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more coherently this time, just as he pulled his hands away, setting the cup back down.

“No.” He shook his head immediately—the quickest movement you’d seen from him since you woke. “You don’t apologise. Not for this. Not for surviving.”

You wanted to tell him you weren’t apologising for surviving. You were apologising for still wanting him like this. For still reaching for him in the dark, even when you no longer had the right.

“Rest,” he instructed, his voice softening. “I’m staying.”

His hands found you again, one settling lightly on your shoulder, guiding you down against the bed. You didn’t protest. You let him adjust your pillow, let him fuss over you, knowing you would start scolding him for it tomorrow.

But for today, you let yourself bask in the comfort he was offering without thinking about how much it would cost you later. How much it would set you back. You shut your eyes, listening to the chair scrape as he pulled it nearer to your bedside, then the gentle thump of him settling in.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.

"Do you think things would’ve turned out differently if I’d gone through with the transfer?” The question slipped from your lips before you had a chance to consider the pros and cons of posing it. "Between us, I mean..." you added, voice unsure. "We always said it was the job that got in the way.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

You took the quiet as a chance to glance at him, wondering if he’d even heard you. But when you shifted your head in his direction, you found his eyes already on you.

"Maybe," he answered finally, elbows resting on his knees. "You would’ve still been here. Still at Quantico. Still... close."

You nodded, a minor movement against the pillow.

“But close doesn’t always mean easy,” he continued. “And we were never very good at easy.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, the world barely scraping out. “Guess it always felt easier blaming the job than—”

“Me?”

“Us,” you corrected, shifting weakly against the pillow, the ache in your side feeling like nothing compared to the one rising in your chest. Again.

“You shouldn’t have had to choose between what you wanted to do and…me.”

“Why? Because you’d already made your choice?”

His eyes dropped to his fingers, until he noticed the dried blood under his nails. He quickly concealed his hands, as if he could somehow mask the guilt persistently attached to him.

You sighed, peeling your eyes away from him. “I don’t blame you, Aar,” you whispered. “We both made the same choice. I suppose now we’re both left to question if it was the right one.”

You heard him exhale, followed by the rustle of fabric. A second later, you felt his hand enveloping yours again. “I’ll always be here. In whatever way you need me to be.”

"I don't know if that's a good thing anymore," you admitted, voice cracking right down the middle. You closed your eyes—not just from the exhaustion pulling at you like a riptide, but because the tears behind your lids were so close.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he answered, and it almost broke you, the way he made it sound so simple. So easy. Like healing could be a choice you could make tomorrow instead of something you’d spend years bleeding over.

"Just rest," he murmured, voice dropping even softer. "And if you still feel like this in the morning... if you want me to go... I'll go."

You felt him gently squeeze your hand, like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to ask him.

“But I’m staying tonight.”

You said nothing.

Instead, you tried to will yourself into sleep, knowing full well you wouldn’t have the strength to tell him to leave. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[iwishiwasawhiteguyin1985]

Okay I’ve actually been re-watching with my sister and I forgot how genuinely *good* it is most of the time.

Also, it’s nice to see a gen alpha kid watching shows that are a little more focused on storytelling and less focused on bright saturated colors and sensory or educational experiences. Like yes educational cartoons are good too but so many cartoons now are focused on lessons and have the saturation cranked way up to ten and that makes them very overwhelming to watch, even to me as an adult.

They also tend to be way more episodic than cartoons were back then. Sure most 6-10 year old target demographic cartoons could be watched as stand-alone episodes 90% of the time, Avatar was revolutionary for a reason, but most also had longer plots that developed over time, if gradually! There was foreshadowing, and plot and character development, and the need to use critical thinking to see what’s going on. Sure it wasn’t learning the alphabet or very scripted interactions with other people, but it made you think in other ways and use problem solving skills on a much bigger scale. Most newer cartoons don’t do that.

Let’s normalize having the children in our lives watch older more story driven content. Because our generation proved kids were actually capable of that, and kids still would be if we gave them the chance to be. They would also likely be less overstimulated and better behaved and more willing to engage in society.

I’m not an expert in child dev or anything, I’m just an autistic adult in an autistic family with an autistic baby sister who in about a month has been going from total I-pad kid to a kid who likes to play her iPad. She’s lashing out less. More willing to do things off her iPad. Off screens. Enjoys the cartoons I introduce her to that are less over saturated much more than the explosions of bright saturated color that make up most modern kid show options. So these are just… my personal thoughts.

The wildest thing about Ben 10 is that it took until 2005 for someone to have the idea "what if a kid could turn into a bunch of aliens" like this isn't obviously the coolest and most marketable premise for anything ever. Each design is a new toy. A new powerset. Come on.

But to prove that it wasn't a fluke, they continued to have the best ideas for every aspect of it. How does he transform? A cool watch you can also sell as a toy. That watch's name? Omnitrix. Say it. It's so satisfying. How many aliens? Ten. Nice round number. The kid's name? Ben. The show's name? Ben Ten. His full name is Benjamin Tennyson, a normal, plausible name, but he also turns into 10 aliens.

Bigger brands dream about this synergy. Better writers would kill for this coherence. So holistic. So intuitive. The identity alone!!! The retro alien sound motif? Chilling. The green? Any other color would be wrong. The kirby krackle pattern? It seems so obvious in retrospect. The roadtrip format? Genius. Lesser writers would've done the spider-man high school thing. His arch nemesis being Cthulhu darth vader? Inspired, iconic, intimidating!

The execution has its highs and lows, but the idea??? Game changing. So self-evident that it seems inevitable. If Ben 10 didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him.

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong pt.2 (alternate ending)

pairings: oscar piastri x reader, ex!lando norris x reader

summary: in which you move on... with his teammate

warnings: mentions of cheating

a/n: so oscar didn't actually win the poll but i didn't actually agree with lando since he did cheat and cheating is not okay!! so i decided to make this and the lando one.

prev || alt ending

it was nearly a week before you heard from him.

a message. a simple text. just his name at the top of the screen. but the seconds before you opened it felt like hours. and when you saw the words, a bitter chuckle escaped you. "can we talk?"

no. you didn’t want to talk. not yet. maybe not ever.

but you couldn’t ignore it. not completely. you were still tangled up in him, in what you thought you had with him, even though the wound was fresh. so, you replied, terse but polite, "what do you want to talk about?"

the response came quickly: "i’m sorry. i messed up. i need to explain."

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. you didn’t want to hear his explanation. you didn’t want to hear anything that might make you feel like it was still salvageable.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to delete the message either. you stared at it, fingers frozen on your phone, mind a mess of conflicting thoughts.

you couldn’t keep living in the past, though. you couldn’t keep waiting for someone who no longer seemed to care. so, you didn’t answer. you left him on read, and for the first time, that felt like a small victory.

instead, you’d been finding solace elsewhere.

oscar had been there. quiet, patient, and understanding. he didn’t ask questions about what had happened in melbourne or why you’d gone there in the first place. he just let you be. he shared your silence, your grief. sometimes, he would crack a joke to lighten the mood, but he never pushed. and when you finally let your walls crumble, when you finally talked about lando—about the heartbreak, the betrayal, the way it felt to be forgotten—oscar just listened. without judgment. without expectation.

the two of you started spending more time together. at first, it was just small outings. a quiet coffee here. a walk around the city there. oscar didn’t rush anything, didn’t ask you to open up faster than you could handle. it was a slow burn. but somehow, in the midst of the heartache, he became a constant presence.

oscar was different. he had a steadiness about him. the kind of calm that made the world feel less chaotic when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control. when you’d spent so much time looking at lando, trying to understand him, trying to hold onto a love that wasn’t meant to be, oscar made you see that maybe there was something else. something real.

it wasn’t love. not yet. but it was something that felt more like a foundation. and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

but even with oscar’s quiet support, you still couldn’t escape the shadows of your past with lando.

the moment you ran into him again—at an event oscar had invited you to—it felt like the earth shifted under your feet. you had barely even expected to see him. the gala was supposed to be a night for celebration, for oscar’s achievements, but it was hard to ignore the uneasy feeling when lando walked into the room.

he wasn’t the same as he was in melbourne, his eyes searching for someone—maybe you, maybe anyone who could make him feel whole again. you didn’t want to look at him, but he found you, anyway. there he was, across the room, eyes wide as he locked onto yours. it was like a magnet pulling at your chest, dragging you back to a place you couldn’t afford to visit again.

you felt your breath catch, just for a second, before you reminded yourself that you weren’t that person anymore.

oscar, sensing the shift in your mood, slid his hand gently over your back, offering comfort without a word. the touch, the steadiness of him, helped you hold it together.

“do you want to go?” oscar asked quietly.

you shook your head, forcing a smile. “no. i’m fine.”

oscar’s grip tightened just a fraction, and you knew he was only asking out of care. he wasn’t pushing you, but he could tell the air between you and lando was thick. but instead of shying away, you stood your ground. you weren’t running from him anymore.

lando, sensing your resolve, slowly made his way over, his expression unreadable. when he reached you, he paused, his gaze flicking between you and oscar.

“hey,” lando said, his voice quieter than you remembered. “can we talk?”

oscar’s hand didn’t leave your back, a silent protector, a reminder that you didn’t have to do this alone. you wanted to tell lando that there was nothing left to talk about. that the time for explanations had passed. that the person he had kissed on that rooftop was a reminder of just how little you mattered.

but instead, you looked at him, emotion swirling within you, threatening to choke you. “what is there to talk about, lando?” you forced the words out, cold and sharp. “you already made your choice.”

he flinched, and it cut deeper than you intended. but it didn’t matter. you weren’t the one who needed to apologize.

his voice faltered, guilt and regret swimming in his eyes. “i never meant for it to happen like this. i—I thought you weren’t coming, and i was confused…”

“you were confused?” you repeated, your laugh bitter, hollow. “you thought i wasn’t coming? what was i supposed to think, lando? you kissed her like it was nothing. like i wasn’t even real.”

oscar’s hand slid from your back to your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent show of solidarity. you squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his presence.

lando’s face crumpled, and for a brief moment, you saw a flash of the man you used to love. but it was fleeting, and the ache of that realization only made your heart feel heavier.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “i should’ve waited. i should’ve told you what was going on. i should’ve…” he trailed off, looking helpless.

but you didn’t need his apologies. not anymore.

“no, you shouldn’t have. you shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place,” you said, your voice steady, but the pain in your chest was real. “i don’t need your excuses. i just need you to understand that i’m done.”

there was no satisfaction in the words. no catharsis. you just felt… empty.

oscar’s grip on your hand tightened. you could feel the quiet support, the strength in his quiet presence. and you realized then that he wasn’t just offering comfort. he was offering a future. a future that lando couldn’t be a part of.

“come on,” oscar said, giving your hand a gentle tug. “let’s get some air.”

you turned away from lando, walking with oscar toward the door. there was a lump in your throat, but you held your head high. you didn’t look back. not even once. you had no need to.

oscar’s soft chuckle broke the silence as you stepped outside, the cool night air feeling like a welcome balm against the heaviness that had been suffocating you inside.

“guess i’ll have to fight for your attention now, huh?” he said, his voice playful, but there was a warmth there that you hadn’t realized you needed.

you smiled, just a little. “i think you’re already winning.”

oscar stopped walking for a moment, his hand gently brushing your hair from your face. when his eyes met yours, there was something there that wasn’t just friendship. something new. something real.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it. you believed in the future, in the possibility of moving on.

“i’m here,” he said softly, his voice a promise.

and this time, you didn’t feel the need to look back at the past. because with oscar by your side, the future was already beginning.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @oddends, @mimisweetz, @theselilwonders, @superlegend216, @shigarika, @executioner-s, @fastandcurious16, @landofotographyy, @star73807-blog, @staple-your-mouth, @milkysoop, @ashopeworld, @ilovemeni, @shininfate, (i hope i got everyone!)

[mintyys-blog]

Loving all your work you're the bestttttt ❤️. Whenever you finish all your other request I'd like to ask for the aphrodisiac ask but instead of reader, mark and his variants were the ones who took it. Reader would not rest easy I bet lol. Thanks for all your great writing!

HEADCANON | if the variants took a aphrodisiac

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: sexual themes, drugging, breeding kink, swearing

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

MAIN MARK

Mark had never considered taking an aphrodisiac before, but when Y/N handed him the bottle, claiming it would “help,” he wasn’t going to question it. She said it was just to make things a little more fun, something lighthearted. What could go wrong?

He downed it with a chuckle, not really thinking much of it, but as the minutes ticked by, he started to feel… off. A heat settled in his chest, and his thoughts became clouded. The rush of warmth spread to his limbs, making him shift uncomfortably on the couch.

“Y/N?” he called out, voice a little deeper than usual, and his eyes narrowed, half-lidded. “What the hell did you give me?”

Y/N smirked, watching his reaction as he tried to remain composed. “I thought you wanted to relax a little, babe. What’s the matter? You look a little… flushed.”

Mark’s cheeks burned, and he didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or the growing, undeniable desire that he could feel building in him. His gaze locked onto her, and suddenly, the room felt smaller, as if everything else around him didn’t matter except for her. Every movement she made seemed to intensify the heat he felt in his body.

He stood up abruptly, his movements jerky, his breath coming a little faster than usual. “Y/N… I—what the hell is going on?”

“Why don’t you sit down, Mark?” Y/N said with a playful edge to her voice, a slight tilt of her head as she watched him squirm. “Let’s see how long you can handle it.”

Mark clenched his jaw, trying to hold himself together. “How is this supposed to help me relax? Feels—“

But his voice betrayed him, the low growl in his tone barely masking the frustration and desire that twisted through him. He stepped toward her, slowly at first, then more urgently as the sensation inside of him grew stronger. “Why do I..?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, watching him struggle to control himself. She knew exactly what had happened, and she loved the power it gave her. “I didn’t do anything, Mark. You’re the one who wanted to have fun, right? Guess it worked.”

Mark groaned, pinning his eyes on her as his body was no longer under his control. He felt like his skin was burning with the need to be closer to her, to feel her touch, to feel everything. He was caught between frustration and yearning, and there was no way out. “Y/N, please…” he said, voice strained, eyes begging even as his body betrayed him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she teased, stepping closer. “I’ll help you out. But you’re going to have to be a good boy for me.”

She knew exactly what she was doing, playing with him, taking her time as she watched him squirm. Mark may have been the superhero, but tonight, he was entirely at her mercy.

SINISTER MARK

Mark’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he felt the strange heat pulse through his veins. He wasn’t sure how to explain the sudden surge of warmth spreading across his chest and down his limbs. It was like a fire that couldn’t be extinguished, and it was rapidly getting worse.

“Y/N…” he muttered, voice low and dangerously calm. “What the hell did you do?”

She looked at him innocently, though a knowing smile played at the corner of her lips. “What do you mean?”

He tried to focus on her, but it was hard when all he could think about was the intensity growing inside him. His hands were starting to shake, his body reacting to the overwhelming sensations.

“I didn’t give you anything,” Y/N said with a casual shrug. “If you’re feeling this way, then I guess you’ve just… had too much fun tonight.”

His patience was wearing thin, and it wasn’t because of her. It was because of himself. His usually cold, controlled demeanor was slipping, his anger barely contained by the simmering heat that was threatening to consume him. He leaned against the wall for support, his breathing shallow as his gaze fixed on her.

“I don’t like being messed with,” he growled, a deep, dangerous edge to his voice. “What the hell is going on?”

Y/N’s smirk deepened. She had seen him go through many things—fights, difficult situations, betrayals—but this was different. This was a crack in his perfect, brutal exterior. The power dynamic had shifted, and she could feel it.

“I told you, Mark, I didn’t do anything. But I think you’re enjoying it,” she teased, stepping closer. The challenge was obvious in her eyes, and her casual, carefree demeanor only made him seethe with frustration. She knew exactly what was happening to him, and she was enjoying every second of it. He narrowed his eyes, and in a flash he was behind her. She gasped, as she felt his chest against her back, his hand wrapped tightly on her throat.

She felt him a poke at her back, confirmation that the drug did work. He suddenly pushed her down to bend over the counter. “Is this what you wanted? You little slut. Getting me all hot and bothered.” She wiggled her ass against his cock, he groaned. Making quick work to pull down her pants; and his own. “Now you can face the consequence of your actions.”

MOHAWK MARK

Mark paced around the room, every step slow and deliberate, like he was trying to keep his mind in check. But there was no denying the growing heat in his body, the tension that seemed to hum under his skin. Something was off—he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was, but it was messing with his focus. His gaze shifted to you, watching with an amused, knowing smirk as you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re looking… uncomfortable,” you teased, voice light but laced with something more playful. You could see the way he was clenching and unclenching his fists, how his eyes seemed to darken just a little more with each passing second.

“Don’t start with me, Y/N,” he warned, his tone low and dangerous. His eyes flickered over to you, and you could see the effort it was taking for him to hold himself together.

You simply grinned, uncrossing your arms and stepping toward him. “What’s the matter, Mark? You look like you’re about to explode.”

He huffed, turning away from you to look at the wall, as if that would help him regain some kind of control. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though it was clear he was anything but.

“Sure,” you said with a knowing smirk, taking a step closer. “But you’re also getting pretty… worked up. I can see it. I’m not stupid.”

You walked slowly to him, standing behind him and lightly resting a hand on his back. The heat radiating from his body told you everything you needed to know—he was feeling it, whatever it was, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“Let me guess,” you continued with a teasing voice. “This has got to be so frustrating, huh? Can’t stop thinking about it, but you can’t do anything about it…”

He let out a frustrated growl, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t act like you know what’s going on inside my head, Y/N.”

“Oh, I do,” you said, stepping closer so you could press against his back, your breath warm against the nape of his neck. “I know you, Mark. You want relief. I can give you relief… if you want it.”

He tensed under your touch, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His eyes flickered to the floor before meeting yours, and for a moment, you saw that flicker of vulnerability—a break in his usual stoic, cool demeanor.

“Don’t mess with me,” he growled, but you could tell he wasn’t fully resisting. He was too far gone in his own need, whatever it was that was tormenting him.

You tilted your head slightly, a sly grin on your face. “I’m not messing with you, Mark,” you said softly. “I’m offering to help.”

There was a pause, the room thick with the tension between you two. He could feel the heat building, both from his own body and from the closeness between you. His thoughts were clouded, his control slipping as the need pulsed through him like a wildfire.

“You think you can handle it?” he finally said, voice low but edged with a challenge.

Without hesitation, you stepped around to his front, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I can,” you replied, a wicked glint in your eyes.

He stared down at you, his breath uneven as his usual composure began to break apart, piece by piece. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you,” he warned, the dark, playful edge in his tone making it clear that he wasn’t entirely in control of himself anymore.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you replied with a smirk.

He didn’t say another word before his hand reached for you, pulling you flush against his chest. “You’re gonna regret offering to help me, Y/N.” You grinned, pressing yourself even closer to him. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

PRISONER MARK

Mark paced back and forth in the room, his mind racing with thoughts that didn’t quite make sense. His body felt like it was on fire, and it wasn’t just the usual heat from his Viltrumite physiology. There was something else—something pulling at him, making him more aware of every sensation, every shift of his muscles, every breath.

His eyes darted to you, and he froze. There was something in the air, an intensity he couldn’t escape. Your casual presence seemed to only make it worse, heightening his already overstimulated senses. You weren’t doing anything—at least, not on purpose—but every time you moved, every time you looked at him, it felt like the heat inside him grew.

“Y/N,” he muttered, trying to force his voice to stay steady. “What the hell is going on?”

You just stood there, arms crossed over your chest, looking cool and calm as usual. But Mark could tell you were watching him, noticing the way his hands clenched, the tension in his jaw. You were more aware of his discomfort than he was willing to admit.

“Nothing,” you said lightly, your tone a little too innocent. “You just seem a little… off. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He wanted to deny it, but the truth was obvious, and the tightness in his chest made it hard to think clearly. “I’m fine,” he gritted out, voice rougher than usual. “It’s nothing.”

But you saw through him. It was obvious to you. There was no way he could hide it—this was far more than a typical bad day. He couldn’t shake the discomfort in his own skin, the itch that wouldn’t be scratched. He was barely holding himself together, and he hated it.

“You sure about that?” you asked, taking a step closer to him. The air between you two felt heavy, thick with something neither of you could ignore. “Because you look like you’re struggling to keep it together.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his tongue. He couldn’t even focus on what to say, his gaze locked onto you as if you were the only thing in the world. You weren’t doing anything different, but everything about you seemed to make the heat inside him surge. He could smell you, hear your breath, feel your presence.

“Maybe I could help,” you said, your voice low and slightly teasing. There was a knowing glint in your eyes, and it made his heart rate spike even more.

Mark’s body tensed, and he instinctively took a step back, trying to distance himself. “I don’t need your help,” he snapped, though it came out more desperate than he intended. “I can handle this myself.”

But his words didn’t match the way his hands shook at his sides or the way his breath quickened when you moved closer again.

You raised an eyebrow at him, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “You sure about that?”

For a moment, he thought about pushing you away, ignoring the way his body betrayed him. But you were too close now, and there was something in the way you looked at him that made it impossible to deny. His resolve faltered as he found himself unable to look away from you.

“I can help,” you said again, this time more softly. The way you said it made the entire room feel like it was closing in, like the air was getting heavier by the second.

He bit back a groan, trying to maintain control, but his body was betraying him. He was so damn close to losing it.

You reached for him, your fingers grazing his arm lightly, and Mark couldn’t hold back the shudder that ran through him. It was subtle, but it was enough to make him realize how much he was really struggling to keep his composure.

Before he could respond, you stepped closer, your hand resting on his chest. “You can let go, Mark. It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice smooth and tempting.

He finally gave in, his hands coming up to pull you closer, desperation clear in his movements. His lips crashed against yours in a heated kiss, and the world around him seemed to disappear. All that mattered was the overwhelming need for release that had consumed him.

OMNI MARK

Mark sat rigidly at the edge of the bed, his hands clenched into fists. His Viltrumite physiology was doing nothing to quell the fire surging through his veins. He was usually in control—calm, collected, precise—but right now, everything felt off. His skin felt hot, his breath shallow, and the sense of urgency building within him only made it harder to concentrate.

He looked at you, but you were just sitting there, casually reading, utterly unaware of the battle going on inside him. He couldn’t figure out why his thoughts kept drifting to you, why everything about you was turning his world upside down.

“Y/N…” he rasped, his voice rougher than usual. He almost couldn’t recognize himself in the way he spoke, strained and desperate.

You didn’t look up right away, and it only made the frustration boil inside him. He could feel every nerve ending, every thought, every urge trying to break free. No. Not like this.

But it was becoming harder to resist. Every breath he took seemed to pull him closer to the edge. It was as if he couldn’t escape the pull you had on him, and it drove him to the brink of madness.

Finally, you looked up, catching the wildness in his gaze, the tension in his jaw. You could tell something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Mark,” you said softly, setting the book aside. Your voice was like a balm, but it only made everything worse. You stood, stepping toward him, concern knitting your brows together. “What’s going on with you?”

Mark exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the bed. He was on his feet in an instant, towering over you, but there was something different about him now—like he was barely holding it together. His usual calm, no-nonsense demeanor was shattered, and all that was left was a man needing something. Something he couldn’t quite control.

“I… I’m not sure what’s happening,” he admitted, his breath coming faster. “But I can’t think straight. I can’t—” He stopped himself, frustrated by the words that wouldn’t come out. This wasn’t something he was used to. Being vulnerable.

You didn’t say anything, your eyes softening as you reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The touch was simple, gentle—but it made his heart race even faster.

“Mark…” you whispered, trailing your fingers down his chest. “I can help, if you’ll let me.”

It was the way you said it that made him feel like he was barely holding onto his own sanity. The offer hung in the air between you two, thick with unspoken promise. He clenched his fists again, battling the urge to give in, to pull you close and just feel.

His resolve shattered when you stepped closer, your body almost flush with his. He could feel your heat, your closeness—every part of him wanted to take you then and there, to make the ache stop. But it wasn’t just the hunger inside him; it was something deeper, more personal.

“I can’t…” he started again, his voice shaking.

But you didn’t give him time to finish. Your hands cupped his face, drawing him down to you. Your lips met his in a kiss that burned through him, and everything he had fought to maintain melted away.

You didn’t pull away; instead, you held him tighter, sensing the way he was trembling, the way he was clinging to the last thread of control. Mark’s hands moved of their own accord, his grip possessive as he pulled you closer. He was almost rough, as if he needed to feel the intensity of it all—like the fire inside him couldn’t be tamed without it.

When you broke the kiss, your lips were swollen and breathless, and Mark could barely focus on the words you said next.

“Let me take care of you, Mark.”

His body betrayed him again, a low growl escaping him as he pulled you back into his arms, but this time he wasn’t going to resist. He was too far gone, and you were the only thing that mattered. With a breathless laugh, he gave in, fully aware that his need for you would never fade. And it was far too intense for either of you to ignore.

VILTRUMITE MARK

Mark stood in front of you, eyes narrowed as he looked you over. His usual calm demeanor was strained, his chest rising and falling slightly faster than usual. The air between you was thick with tension, and he could barely focus on anything other than the overwhelming sense of need crawling through his veins.

It was like something inside him had snapped. It wasn’t just the overpowering desire to claim you, to feel you under him—it was the primal urge to make you his in every way possible. To see you carry something of him. The thought took over his mind like an all-consuming fire.

He stepped closer to you, towering above you with that unnerving intensity only a Viltrumite could exude. You could feel his heat radiating off of him, his chest almost brushing against yours.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, laced with something darker than usual. “Do you feel that?” He didn’t need to explain—he knew you understood. The pull between you two had always been strong, but tonight, it was different. Something deeper was surfacing. Something more dangerous.

You swallowed, trying to calm the heat building in your own body as he stepped closer, until you were backed against the wall. His hands came to your sides, gripping you firmly, and there was no denying the urgency in his touch now.

“I need you,” Mark muttered, his breath hot against your ear. His hands slid down to your hips, pulling you against him, and you could feel the solid evidence of his desire pressing against you. It made your head spin, your heart racing as you felt your own arousal flare.

But there was more to it than just the desire. You saw the way his eyes flickered, how the primal hunger was shifting in his gaze, and you realized what he truly wanted—what he had always wanted deep down.

“You want me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice thick with possessiveness, and you couldn’t help but nod, your breath catching in your throat. “I’m going to make sure you carry my blood, Y/N.” His voice was almost a growl as he held you tighter. “I’m going to breed you. You’ll carry my child. Do you understand?”

You gasped, the words hitting you harder than you’d anticipated. It wasn’t just the intensity of the moment. It was the idea—the power behind it. The thought of him owning you in such a deep, irreversible way sent a shiver through your body.

“You’ll be mine. Completely,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands traveled lower, caressing the curve of your hips and thighs. “And I’ll make sure you’re filled with my blood—nothing will ever be the same again.”

His hands moved under your clothes, pulling you against him even more insistently, and you felt the flood of desire crash over you. Mark’s grip on you tightened, and he leaned down to kiss you, rougher than he usually was, demanding more than just a simple kiss.

“Mark…” you whispered, breathless as you finally met his intense gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. “Are you sure about this?”

He smirked, his usual cool demeanor replaced with something possessive, something raw. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

[masorciereviolette]

Could I request an Agatha Harkness x Reader Fic? One where Agatha is Reader’s Mom’s best friend but Reader has a huge crush on Agatha. Reader is in her last year of college and has too much to drink one night and calls Agatha to tell her she has feelings for her. Agatha picks her up and takes her back to her house but tells her nothing can happen between them. However, some time later they do sleep together but Agatha tells reader it can’t happen again as she’s her mom’s best friend. Reader gets upset and avoids Agatha when she goes round her mom’s house. But Agatha realises she also has feelings for reader so they talk it out and decide to have a secret relationship. Maybe there could be a mommy kink in there 🙈 thank you in advance.

Confessions In The Dark

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Feelings, Hurt, Pining, Comfort, Legal Age Gap Relationships, Minors DNI 18+, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 16.3k

A/N: Thank you for this absolutely fucking phenomenal request. The older woman, forbidden relationship tropes are always a favorite of mine!!!!! I hope I did your request justice:))))))) if anyone would like to be added to my tag list please feel free to let me know!!!

Taglist: @harknessshi @atlasimagines

Masterlist Link

It starts with one too many drinks and a number you know, deep down, you shouldn’t have dialed. You’re slumped in the shadowed corner of a half-crowded bar not far from campus, the stale scent of beer and cheap cologne thick in the air.

The worn leather of the booth creaks beneath you as you fumble with your phone, your fingers clumsy, your vision a little too blurry. You stare at her name—Agatha—glowing back at you like some forbidden temptation. You shouldn’t call her , you know you shouldn’t.

It’s reckless.

It’s selfish.

It’s dangerous.

But she’s always been your comfort zone. Your mom’s best friend—the one who used to sneak you extra food at parties when you were a kid, the one who looked at you like you were seen when no one else seemed to bother. The woman who, at some point over the years, shifted in your mind from safe to utterly, devastatingly irresistible. And tonight, when your heart feels too heavy and your body too weightless from bad decisions, something inside you just—snaps.

You press the call button without giving yourself another second to think. The phone rings twice. Each second drags too long and not long enough. You almost hang up, panic flaring, when her voice comes through—low, tired, edged with sleep, but still that same velvety rasp that always makes your stomach flutter “Hello?”

Your breath leaves you in a shuddery rush “Aggie—” you slurred , her name falling from your lips far louder than you intended. You wince, glancing around at the other patrons, but no one’s paying you much mind.

“Hi,” you continue, blinking hard, struggling to corral your swirling thoughts into anything coherent. “I just—listen. I’m drunk. Like… bad. And I shouldn’t be calling you, but I did, and—I think you should come get me.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

A long one. You can almost feel the wheels turning in her head, the tension humming through the phone line. She’s weighing a hundred things you can’t see. When she finally speaks again, her voice has shifted—no longer groggy, no longer casual. It’s sharp. Focused. Worried “…Where are you?” she asks, tight but calm.

You glance blearily at the neon-smeared window beside you, trying to focus on the bar’s name painted in backwards cursive. You mangle it the first time you try to say it, dissolving into a breathy, embarrassed giggle before correcting yourself.

She sighs on the other end, soft and almost fond in a way that makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs “Don’t leave,” she says. “I’m coming.”

You clutch the phone a little tighter, pressing it against your cheek like it could somehow hold you together “okay—,” you whisper.

And even as you end the call, letting the screen go black, your hands still tremble—not from the alcohol. But from what you just did. By the time she pulls up in her sleek black car, headlights cutting through the misty spring night, you’re already outside the bar, teetering slightly on the curb.

The pavement feels uneven beneath your shoes, and the damp chill in the air is just sharp enough to start dragging some of the drunken fog from your mind. When the driver’s side door clicks open and Agatha steps out, you blink up at her, heart thudding stupidly against your ribs.

She’s still in what must have been her evening clothes—dark jeans, black boots, a fitted jacket—but her hair is slightly mussed, and there’s a sharpness to her movements. Like she dressed fast. Like she came for you without hesitation. You see it immediately—the look on her face when her eyes land on you. Exasperation, yes. A familiar thread of it. But layered thickly with something else. Concern most likely.

She exhales through her nose as she strides over, slipping her coat from her shoulders in one smooth motion. Without a word, she swings it around you, tugging it snug across your frame before her hand finds the small of your back “You shouldn’t be calling me when you’re like this,” she mutters, steering you gently toward the car, her voice low and tight.

You catch the way her fingers linger at your side, more careful than irritated “You could’ve called your mom,” she adds, unlocking the passenger door.

You slump into the seat with a graceless thud, the coat swallowing you whole. The interior smells like leather and the faint trace of her perfume—amber and something sharp underneath. Comforting. Dangerous.

You turn your head to the window, forehead bumping the cool glass, and mumble without thinking “Didn’t want Mom.” Your eyes flutter shut for a second before you add, softer but no less true “I want you.”

She’s halfway around the car when you say it. You hear the stumble in her steps. When she slides behind the wheel, she’s stiff, too controlled. Her hands grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her steady “You don’t mean that,” she says carefully, finally starting the engine.

But you catch the way her voice wavers at the end, the crack she can’t quite hide. You lift your head enough to glance sideways at her, your vision swimming just slightly. Your body feels heavy, pliant, but your heart is a live wire inside you “I do,” you whisper, blinking slowly. “I’ve wanted you forever.”

The words hang between you—thick, electric. Agatha doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at you. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes stay locked on the road. The drive to her house is silent except for the low popping of the tires against the wet pavement, the occasional sigh from the heater.

You don’t remember much of how you get inside. You just remember her arm tight around your waist, steadying you as you stumble up the steps. The warmth of her hand between your shoulder blades as she guided you inside. The familiar creak of her front door swinging shut.

The guest room—your room—feels exactly the same as always. Safe. Familiar. Infinitely more dangerous now. She disappears briefly down the hall and returns with a pair of soft pajamas “Bathroom’s the second door on the left,” she says quietly, not meeting your eyes.

You nod clumsily, managing to shuffle away, the pajamas clutched to your chest. She waits in the hallway as you change, giving you privacy but hovering close enough that you feel her presence like gravity. When you emerge—cleaner but still woozy—she just smiles tight and leads you back to the bed, pulling back the covers for you.

You collapse into them without protest, sinking into the familiar, worn sheets. It’s only when you’re curled up beneath the quilt, your cheek pressed to the pillow, that you notice her still standing there.

She lingers at the side of the mattress, her hand gripping the bedpost so tightly you’re amazed it doesn’t splinter. You blink up at her, vision swimming, throat raw with the words you barely have the strength to say.

“This can’t happen sweetheart….I- I’m sorry” Agatha says softly, it sounds like she’s ripping the words from her own heart. “You’re drunk. And you’re—” She falters, her jaw clicking “It’s not okay,” she finishes, voice breaking.

You watch her through heavy, hurting eyes “Is that the only reason?” you whisper, your words slurring, your consciousness slipping fast. Agatha’s mouth opens—but no sound comes out. You don’t hear an answer.

Sleep drags you under like a tide, pulling you into the dark. But if you’d stayed awake just a moment longer, you might have seen it The way Agatha’s hand twitched toward you— Then froze. The way her whole body leaned forward, like she was about to fall to her knees beside you.

The way her mouth formed your name on a breathless exhale she didn’t have the right to speak. And the way she finally tore herself away from the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her, leaving you alone in the bed… because if she stayed another second, she would’ve given in. And she knows once she has you—She’ll never be able to let you go.

It’s been almost two days since that night. Two days since you embarrassed yourself. Two days since you cracked your heart open and exposed the messy, desperate feelings you’d tried so hard to bury.

You woke up before dawn, the room still cloaked in a soft gray darkness. Your head was pounding, your mouth dry, but it wasn’t the hangover that made you want to sink into the mattress and disappear. It was her. The memory of falling into her arms. The ache of the things you said.

The unbearable kindness in the way she tucked you into bed instead of pushing you away. You slipped out of her house as quietly as you could, barely breathing as you eased the door shut behind you. You couldn’t face her.

Not then. You should’ve just left the pajamas on her porch. Dropped them like an apology you didn’t have the courage to say. But something in you—something stubborn and wounded and aching—needed to see her. Needed to really know. So here you are, standing on her front step, the weight of the folded clothes like a stone in your arms.

When the door finally swings open, it feels like the air is sucked from your lungs. Agatha stands there, framed by the soft light spilling from inside, and she looks—wrecked. There’s no polished mask today.

No carefully curated smile. Just raw exhaustion stamped into every line of her beautiful face. Her hair is pulled back hastily, loose strands falling into her tired eyes. She’s wearing a soft sweater that hangs off one shoulder, rumpled like she’s been dragging herself through the hours without really noticing.

Her gaze sweeps over you—sharp, conflicted, hungry. You swallow hard and force a sheepish smile, holding out the bundle of clothes between you like a peace offering “Thought I should return these,” you say, your voice soft, almost apologetic.

For a beat, she doesn’t move. Then her hand reaches out, slow and tentative, fingertips brushing against yours as she takes the pajamas from you. The touch is feather-light, barely anything at all. But that all it takes to shatter the fragile thread of restraint between you like a snapped cable.

You barely register the soft thud of the clothes hitting the floor before she’s pulling you inside, her hands fisting in your jacket, slamming the door shut behind you with a shaky breath. Your back hits the wall and then—then—her mouth is on yours.

There’s nothing tentative about it. Nothing careful. It’s brutal, needy, a crash of teeth and lips and desperate hands. She kisses you like she’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world. You moaned into her mouth, your fingers scrambling for purchase in her sweater as her body presses flush against yours.

She tastes like desperation. Like regret. Like everything you’ve ever wanted but were too afraid to ask for. Her hands roam your body with a feverish intensity—tugging, squeezing, memorizing. She touches you like she knows she shouldn’t. Like every second of it is killing her and saving her all at once.

Heat floods you, dizzying and wild, the kind you’ve only ever dreamed about in the quietest corners of your mind. You barely remember how you make it to her bedroom. Clothes trailing behind you like discarded promises, your hands frantic and greedy as you pull her down to the bed with you “Fuck please—“

Agatha's eyes darken with a hunger you've never seen before as she propped herself up above you, taking in your naked form laid out beneath her like an offering. She licks her lips, a slow, deliberate motion that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

"Please what, baby?" Agatha purrs, her voice a low, seductive rasp. "Gotta tell me what you need, sweetheart. Tell me how to make this feel good for you..."

Her hand trails up your thigh, fingers dancing along your skin with a feather-light touch that has you arching into her, craving more. She leans down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across your collar bone stopping at your chest taking a nipple into her mouth, rolling the bud between her lips.

"Is this what you need, baby girl?" Agatha murmurs against your skin, her breath teasing, tormenting, making your core throb with anticipation. She nips at your nipple, not hard enough to mark, but enough to make you gasp, to feel the sharp sting morph into a dark thrill of knowing she wants you, desires you with a savage intensity.

"Or do you want my fingers baby?" Agatha continues, proving her words by trailing a finger down your stomach, pushing teasingly along your folds, not dipping inside, but tracing your slit like a map, committing every inch to memory.

"Want me to fuck this pretty pussy until you can't remember your own fuckin' name, sweetheart?" Agatha growls in between nips to your skin, the crude words falling from her lips like salvation, each syllable one step closer to the edge of the abyss. Your back arched in pleasure at her assault of your chest, each bite sending a bolt of lightning through your spine. your fingers slipped up into her hair tugging softly. Hips rocking forward, chasing her teasing strokes just shy of where you wanted her most “please mommy I want you—“

Agatha grins wickedly at your breathless plea, the desperation in your voice igniting a feral hunger within her. She can feel your body trembling with need as you arch into her touch, your fingers tangling in her hair, silently begging her for more "Listen to you, baby girl," Agatha purrs, her voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "Begging so sweetly for mommy's touch..."

She rewards your plea by abruptly thrusting two fingers deep inside your dripping cunt, burying them to the knuckle. Your slick walls clench greedily around the sudden intrusion, trying to suck her in deeper "Fuck, you're absolutely soaked," Agatha groans, pumping her fingers slowly, teasingly, watching your face for every reaction. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you sweetheart?"

Her thumb finds your swollen clit, circling it with a maddeningly slow rhythm, applying just the right amount of pressure to have you seeing stars. The stimulation makes you clench tighter around her fingers, aching for more.

"Want me to make this sweet cunt all mine?" Agatha growls, punctuating her words with a particularly hard thrust of her fingers, curling them just right against that spongey spot that makes your toes curl "You gotta show me, sweetheart..." she demands, scissoring her fingers inside you, stretching your walls exquisitely. "Show mommy exactly just how you need it..."

Agatha's other hand skims up your side, cupping the soft swell of your breast. She squeezes, kneading the tender flesh as her fingers plunge harder, faster, fucking into your desperate sex with a renewed vigor "Louder, baby..." she coaxes, thumb flicking quickly over your clit, the obscene sound of your juices filling the room. "Let me hear those pretty moans, please"

Your curled your fingers deeper into her hair, a pathetic mewl clawing up the back of your throat. Agatha hissed in pleasure as your nails sunk into her scalp, your hips bucking wildly against her hand as you chase your pleasure. She can feel your slick walls clenching rhythmically around her fingers, your body trembling on the edge of ecstasy.

"Fuck yes, just like that sweetheart. Take what you need from mommy's fingers," Agatha growls, pistoning them harder, faster, the obscene sound of your juices filling the room. "Ride them baby, paint my fingers with your fuckin' cum..."

She leans down and captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your shameless moans and whimpers as her free hand roams greedily over your curves. Agatha pinches and rolls your nipple between her fingers, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

Breaking the kiss, Agatha trails her lips down the column of your throat, biting and sucking as she goes. She's determined to mark you here as well, to claim every inch of your skin as her own as her fingers plunge mercilessly into your dripping heat "C'mon baby. Wanna feel you," Agatha demands, twisting her fingers inside you, rubbing your g-spot dead-on. "Let go, sweetheart"

“Fuck mommy—" you keened desperately, the words ripped from the depths of your lungs as your body seizes with pleasure. Your cries only spur Agatha on, spurring her fingers to plunge even harder, even deeper. Your cunt grips them like a vice as your climax crashes through you, wave after wave of electric bliss radiating from where you two are joined.

"Fuck just look at you—dripping all over me." Agatha snarls in unbridled lust as your release gushes out around her pumping fingers, soaking her hand. She punctuates each word with a savage thrust, drawing out your high until you're utterly spent and shaking. Finally she pulls her fingers from your fluttering channel.

You’re both lying there tangled in sweaty sheets, your heartbeat thundering against hers—you think, for a moment, she might finally stay. Might finally stop pretending. Might finally stop running from this.

The room is thick with the scent of skin and salt and something far too deep to name. Your bodies are still touching, limbs tangled loosely, breaths slowly evening out.

Agatha rolled to lie beside you, now utterly still. Her chest rises and falls steadily, but her eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling as if she can’t quite believe what she’s just done. As if the weight of it is crashing down on her all at once.

You shift slightly, reaching for her without thinking—but her body tenses at the movement, a subtle flinch so quick you almost miss it. She drags in a shaky breath. And then, like something in her breaks wide open, she moves.

She peels herself farther away from you with a gentleness that somehow hurts more than cruelty ever could. Her bare skin brushes yours as she sits up slowly on the edge of the bed, her back to you.

Her shoulders are stiff, her spine rigid—every line of her body radiating guilt, conflict, regret. You watch, helpless, as she buries her face in her hands, her fingers threading into her hair like she’s trying to disappear and you know. You know what’s coming before she even says it “This shouldn’t have happened—,” she says, her voice hoarse, broken.

“What?” you croak, even though you heard her perfectly. She scrubs her hands over her face like she can wipe the moment away.

“I shouldn’t have done that, fuck—” she says bitterly, the self-loathing clear in every syllable. “I’m supposed to protect you, not—” She cuts herself off with a frustrated growl, shaking her head like she can’t even say the rest aloud “This was a mistake.”

You sit there, frozen, the weight of her words pinning you in place. The ache in your chest flares sharp and ugly. You don’t argue. You don’t beg. You just gather your clothes in silence, hands shaking slightly as you dress. Ignoring the way her shoulders tense when you turn away.

Ignoring the way your heart feels like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces. You walk out of her house without another word, leaving her there—In a room that still smells like you. In a bed that still remembers us. And the worst part is? You already know.

You’ll never stop wanting her. Even if she keeps breaking your heart one shattered goodbye at a time. The door clicks shut behind you. And for a long moment, Agatha just sits there. Frozen. Numb, just listening to the hollow echo of your absence rattle through the house.

The scent of you still lingers in the air—sweet, familiar, devastating. It clings to the sheets twisted around her waist, to the pillow where your head had rested, to her own skin where your hands had touched her like she was something precious.

Slowly, she leans forward, her elbows digging into her thighs, her hands burying into her hair with a quiet, shuddering breath. She can feel it—all of it—settling heavy in her chest like a second heartbeat. The want. The guilt. The bone-deep ache of something she’s tried for so long to pretend wasn’t there.

Agatha squeezes her eyes shut. But it’s too late. The imprint of you is everywhere. She presses her palms against her face, her body trembling under the weight of it, and lets herself break—silent, small, unseen. No sobs. No dramatic collapse. Just the quiet, relentless pain of a woman who let herself taste happiness for a moment—only to shove it away with bloody hands.

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, anchored to the edge of the bed where your warmth is already fading. All she knows is she’s never hated herself more. And she’s never wanted you more.

The following weeks after—what was possibly the best and utterly worst afternoon of your life—are a special kind of torture. You avoided her Completely. At first, it’s easy enough. You’re buried under the weight of finals, endless papers, and late nights spent hunched over textbooks, your brain numb from exhaustion. It’s a ready-made excuse, one no one questions. Not even your mom. But the truth is darker, heavier. You’re hiding.

Because facing Agatha now—facing what you did, what you almost had—feels unbearable. You slip into a rhythm of evasion. You skip family dinners with vague apologies about needing to study. You dodge casual invites and gatherings with muttered excuses and sudden headaches. You stop lingering in places where you know she might be. You stop asking if she’ll be there. You stop saying her name.

You carve her out of your life like she’s a wound you’re trying to stitch closed—but every movement aches. Your mom notices the change before you realize you’re being obvious. The way your shoulders tense when her name comes up. The way you offer tight, hollow smiles instead of real ones. The way your patience shrinks, your presence in the house becoming something thin and ghostlike.

She doesn’t press—not yet—but you see the worry etched deeper into her eyes every time you brush her off and retreat to the isolation of your room. When you do see Agatha—on accident, through cruel twists of timing—you pretend you’re fine.

You school your face into something blank and pleasant. You speak to her like you’re making polite conversation with a stranger in a checkout line. Nothing more. You don’t let your gaze linger on the way her fingers twitch at her sides. You don’t acknowledge the way her jaw tightens when your eyes slide right past her.

You don’t dare notice the sadness leaking from the edges of her carefully composed smile. Every meeting becomes an exercise in survival. Smile. Nod. Look away. Smile. Nod. Look away. You have to, if you stop pretending, even for a second, you’ll crack wide open. And Agatha—She sees it.

Every calculated glance you avoid. Every breath you hold when you pass her in the hallway. Every word you don’t say. She sees it all. And she feels it like a blade twisting in her gut but she says nothing. Not yet, But it kills her.

One night, it all comes crashing down. You barely have time to brace yourself. You’re in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, helping your mom prep dessert for what’s supposed to be a “small family dinner.”

You’re distracted, half-listening, until she mentions it too casually “Agatha’s coming too. She just got promoted! Can you believe it? I thought we could celebrate her with a nice homemade dinner.”

You freeze where you stand, the bowl of batter wobbling slightly in your hands. Before you can protest—before you can find an excuse to vanish—your mom turns and flashes you that look. The one that means no arguments “She’ll be so happy you’re here. So you’re coming.”

And just like that, you’re trapped. Now you stand in the kitchen, helping lay out plates and folding napkins with mechanical movements as the evening drags on. You haven’t even looked at Agatha once. Not properly. You feel her though.

Her presence presses at the edge of your awareness like a tide you can’t hold back. Every brush of her voice in the room. Every shift of her body when she thinks you’re not watching. It’s unbearable. And worse, it still hurts.

It throbs dully under your ribs with every laugh your mom shares, every glass clink, every casual conversation you’re expected to smile through. Then your mom suddenly claps her hands and chirps, “Shoot—I forgot the wine!”

You glanced up sharply “I’ll be right back,” she says brightly, already grabbing her keys. And before you can even suggest going yourself, she’s looking back over her shoulder key in hand “Y/N, keep Agatha company for me, will you? I won’t be long!”

The door swings shut. Silence falls over the kitchen. The weight of it is suffocating. You lower your head, pretending to fuss with the dessert, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You hear the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

You can feel her getting closer. The air shifts. Charged. Electric. Unforgiving. Then— “Why are you avoiding me?” Her voice is quiet. Low. But it cuts through you like a blade. You stiffen. For a second, you consider ignoring her. Pretending you didn’t hear. But something inside you is too tired to keep pretending anymore.

You turn.

Slowly.

Meeting her gaze for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. “Why do you think?” you ask, your voice rough and breaking around the edges. The hurt is written all over your face. You know it. You don’t even try to hide it, she didn’t deserve the curtesy.

Agatha flinches, just barely—but enough. She starts toward you, her movements cautious, deliberate. You stand abandoning your dessert on the table, taking an instinctive step back—But the wall behind you limited your space. You’ve got nowhere to go now.

“Don’t do that,” she says, her voice cracking a little around the edges now too. “Don’t push me away.” You laugh bitterly, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.

“You told me i was a mistake,” you breathe. Your hands fist at your sides “You said you didn’t want me. And I—I believed you.”

Agatha closes her eyes like the words physically hurt her. She presses her palms flat against the wall on either side of you, not trapping you—but steadying herself. She leans in just enough that you can feel the warmth of her body, the trembling in her breath.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” she says, her voice raw. “I thought it would protect you. Protect us. But it didn’t.” She swallows hard, and you see it—the regret carved into every line of her face “It felt like I was lying to both of us,” she finishes, her voice so soft you almost miss it.

You stare at her, your chest burning, every inch of you aching “So now what then?” you whisper.

Agatha’s eyes flicker—relief, sadness, longing—so many things crashing into each other at once. She leans closer, bracing her palms completely against the wall behind you. Not trapping. Just there. A barrier between herself and the urge to shatter all the rules again.

Her body cages yours in—but her voice is the softest thing you’ve ever heard when she finally speaks “Now we stop pretending this isn’t real,” she breathes. “I want you. I care about you. Im tired of pretending that I don’t.”

Her words sink into you like sunlight on frozen skin. Your heart slams against your ribs, aching so sharply you almost gasp. You breathe her name, a broken prayer “Aggie…” And she moves.

She kisses you—not with hunger. Not with desperation. But with something truer. Like it’s the only truth she knows anymore. Like she’s sorry for every second she made you doubt it. It’s meant to be a kiss. Just one. But the second Agatha’s mouth finds yours again, it’s over.

The tension between you doesn’t just crack—it shatters, spilling into every desperate movement, every hungry breath. Her fingers tangle in your shirt like she can’t bear to let you go again.

Your hands slide up her sides, pulling her closer, closer, until her body is flush against yours “I missed you—” you whisper between kisses, the words raw and broken against her lips.

Agatha groans quietly, her forehead falling against yours. “Fuck—don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you ask, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You started this.” She doesn’t answer. Instead, she kisses you harder, like it’s a confession. Her hands dip under your shirt, trailing warmth over your skin. The air feels charged, like it’s about to combust—and maybe that’s exactly what’s happening.

Because for all her rules and restraint, she wants this. Wants you. You let her push you back , gasping when her mouth finds that sensitive spot beneath your jaw. Your fingers dive into her dark hair, tugging lightly, and that earns you a low, dizzying sound from deep in her throat “We can’t do this here,” she mutters, but she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop—,” you breathe, tilting your head back to give her more. She groans, frustrated, and kisses you again—slower this time. More deliberate. Her tongue slips past your lips, and your knees nearly give out.

You barely hear the gravel crunching outside. Barely see the familiar glow of headlights through the front window—until Agatha stiffens, breaking the kiss with a sharp inhale. Your head whips toward the window. Shit. Your mom’s car pulls into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the kitchen like a spotlight on two criminals caught red-handed.

Agatha stumbles back like she’s been burned, hair mussed and lips swollen, breathing hard “Okay—okay,” she says, more to herself than you. “This is fine. I can fix this.”

You blink at her, still breathless. “Fix what? We didn’t—”

“You’re flushed, your shirt’s wrinkled, and I look like I just rolled out of your bed,” she hisses, smoothing her blouse with shaky hands. You look down. Yep. Your shirt’s halfway untucked, your mouth still tingles from her kiss, and you’re 100% not emotionally ready to see your mom right now. Her lipstick is smudged telling you the evidence was most likely adorning your face as well.

“Go sit at the table,” Agatha orders, voice tight but composed. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened.”You nod wiping the back of your hand across your mouth wiping away any remaining proof, heart racing, you stumbled toward your chair just as the front door opens and your mom calls out cheerily, “I’m back!”

Agatha’s already plating dessert, her back turned to the door, somehow radiating the picture of calm. You’re not sure how she does it. But as your mom walks into the dining room and says, “You two behave while I was gone?”—Agatha doesn’t even flinch.

You swallow and nod. “Totally.” Agatha hands your mom her plate. Then, with a perfectly practiced smile, she meets your gaze and in that look—quiet, smoldering, unspoken—you know this is far from over.

Later that night, after dessert and wine and what should’ve been a perfectly innocent conversation that had you squirming in your seat, your mom finally leans back with a satisfied sigh.

The kitchen is warm, the soft clink of dishes being cleared mixing with the faint hum of music playing from the living room. Everything feels easy, relaxed. At least, it should. You can barely focus on your glass of wine, not with the way you can feel Agatha’s gaze brush against you every few minutes — casual, careful, but enough to turn your skin electric under your clothes.

Every laugh from her lips, every subtle glance in your direction, coils tighter in your stomach until you’re dizzy from pretending not to notice. You’re almost relieved when your mom claps her hands together and says brightly “Sweetheart, would you mind helping Agatha carry a few boxes over to her place before you head to bed? Just some books I’m giving her. They’re on the hall table.”

You pause, blinking as the words register. Your gaze flickers instinctively toward Agatha. She sits back in her chair, utterly calm, swirling her wine lazily in the glass.

Her expression is the picture of innocence — if innocence looked just the slightest bit smug. Suspiciously unbothered. Your stomach twists “Uh… yeah,” you say, forcing your voice to sound casual. “Sure.”

Your mom smiles, already pushing up from her chair “Thanks, honey. I’m gonna go get ready for bed,” she calls lightly as she disappears down the hall. She pauses just long enough to add, teasingly, “But if you end up staying awake a little longer when you come home, just be quite okay? I could hear your music playing last night.”

You swallow hard. From the corner of your eye, you catch it—the subtle curve of Agatha’s mouth as she hides a smirk behind the rim of her wine glass. You narrow your eyes slightly at her. You don’t trust it for a second.

Your heart beats faster as you gather the dishes, your mind already racing ahead even though you don’t dare admit to yourself what you’re hoping for. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Agatha Harkness—It’s that she never plays fair.

Especially when it comes to you. The walk to her house is short. Too short. Each step feels weighted, heavy with everything left unsaid between you. You each carry a box—something light, unimportant—but it feels like you’re hauling the entire weight of the last few hours in your arms.

The night air is crisp, a gentle breeze lifting the edge of Agatha’s jacket, stirring your hair. It should cool you. It doesn’t. Your body’s still humming. Still thrumming with the memory of her hands brushing against you earlier.

Of her voice dropping low and wicked during dinner, making your heart stutter. Of her mouth—God, her mouth—haunting every single breath you take. Neither of you speaks. The silence stretches taut between you, straining with every step closer to her door, until it feels like a single word might snap it wide open.

When she finally unlocks the door and swings it open, the tension follows you inside, thickening the air. The familiar scent of her home wraps around you—clean linen, aged wood, something darker and headier that you recognize immediately as her.

She steps in first, setting her box down with an exaggerated stretch, arms reaching up lazily as if this is just another ordinary night. It’s not. You watch the way the hem of her sweater rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above her waistband. Your hands itch. Your mouth goes dry.

She turns back to you with an easy shrug “Put yours down anywhere,” she says lightly, almost teasing. You do—more by instinct than conscious decision—but your eyes never leave her. Not for a second.

The moment your box touches the table, you straighten and square your shoulders, something reckless burning low in your stomach “So,” you say, your voice rougher, lower than it had been minutes ago “Are you gonna act like earlier didn’t happen this time?”

The words hover between you—bold, daring. Agatha’s brow lifts in an elegant arch, the corner of her mouth twitching into something wicked. Slowly, she starts to step toward you, hips swaying just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Which part?” she murmurs, her voice a velvet drag over your skin “The part where you kissed me like you’d die if I stopped you…” she teased softly taking another step closer. “Or the part where headlights saved us both from making a terrible decision right there on the dining table?”

The memory flashes hot behind your eyes—her body pinning yours against the counter, her hands wandering, her mouth bruising yours like she owned you. You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. She stops just in front of you, arms folding slowly across her chest, head tilting as if daring you to deny it.

You meet her gaze, the words scraping your throat raw as you force them out “It wasn’t a terrible decision.” Your voice is steady. But your whole body is trembling. Agatha smiles then—slow and dangerous, like a fuse sparking to life. And before you can think, before you can second-guess, she closes the last inch of space between you and kisses you. This time, there’s no hesitation. No cautious pause. No careful pulling away. Only heat.

Only hunger. Only her. Her hands find your waist first—firm, greedy, trembling just enough to betray how long she’s been holding herself back. She drags you into her body, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips that she swallows hungrily as your mouth opens beneath hers, soft and desperate. You melt into her without thinking.

Without fear. Like you’ve always been hers, and every second spent apart was a mistake you’re finally correcting. Agatha pulls you even closer, her hands sliding around to your back, splaying across your spine possessively. Her mouth never leaves yours—not even for breath. She devours you slowly, deliberately, savoring you like she’s trying to memorize the taste.

And when you slide your hands under the hem of her sweater, your fingers skimming the burning-hot skin of her waist, she makes a sound— a low, wrecked noise in the back of her throat—that almost undoes you completely.

It’s raw.

Unrestrained.

Hungry.

She breaks the kiss only barely, her forehead resting against yours, her breath coming in fast, shallow bursts “I said this couldn’t happen again…” she pants against your mouth, her voice shaking, her fingers flexing at your waist like she’s already well and lost that battle with herself.

“You lied…” you breathe, your nose brushing hers.

A bitter, broken laugh escapes her lips “I did.”

You don’t hesitate—you tug her closer again, your grip fierce, your nails catching lightly in the fabric of her clothes. You need her pressed against you, you need her everywhere “What now?” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

Agatha runs the tip of her nose along the line of your jaw, her mouth ghosting over your skin in a way that makes your whole body tremble. Her breath is hot and uneven, her chest heaving against yours.

“Now,” she murmurs, rough and ragged, “I remind myself what I’ve been trying to forget every night since I touched you.” Her words shatter something inside you. You barely register the way she laces her fingers with yours before she’s moving—guiding you, pulling you with her like a force of nature. Dragging you to her bedroom like she owns you. Like she always has.

Clothes fall away in a reckless trail behind you, careless and frantic—pieces of armor discarded in favor of something real. The door closes with a soft click that feels final. Inevitable. The moment is urgent—yes—your hearts beating loud and wild in your chests. But it isn’t rushed.

It’s slow.

It’s deeper.

Every kiss feels deliberate, each press of her mouth against your skin heavier than the last, like she’s trying to brand you into her memory. Every soft gasp and whimper you make is gathered up in her hands and tucked into the hollow of her chest like a secret she can’t let go of. When she touches you now—

it’s not reckless or proving. It’s reverent almost careful. Her fingers tremble against your hips, her palms smoothing down your thighs as if mapping every inch of you to memory. She touches you like you’re fragile. Like you’re precious. And every time she pulls you closer, every time she lets her mouth trail fire down your neck, it feels like she’s trying to say all the things she’s too scared to speak aloud.

You feel everything. Every shake in her breath. Every tremor in her hands. Every heartbeat slamming against yours. And when she finally whispers your name—quiet, reverent, devastated—like it’s sacred, like it’s hers, you forget the world entirely. There’s only her. There’s only this.

And you never want it to end. After, when you’re tangled together in her bed spent but satisfied, the room dim except for the faint golden glow of the bedside lamp. The sheets are a mess, twisted around your legs, the air still heavy with the scent of skin and sweat and something deeper—something dangerously close to love.

You lie there, blinking slowly up at the ceiling, your body still buzzing from her touch, your heart pounding a beat you don’t want to analyze too closely.

Her bare legs are intertwined with yours beneath the covers, warm and firm against your skin. One of her hands rests on your stomach, fingers splayed wide, grounding you there with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

She strokes absentminded patterns over your ribs with her thumb, lazy and slow, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Like she can’t not touch you. You think she might say something this time.

You can feel the words perched on the edge of the moment, heavy and trembling between you. Something about your mom. About how wrong this is. About how much she regrets letting this happen.

You brace yourself for it. You wait. But she doesn’t. The silence stretches on, thick and strange but not uncomfortable. Not painful. It’s just—there. Instead of words, there’s only the steady sound of her breathing. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against your side.

For once, she lets the moment stay. No running. No apologies. No breaking the fragile peace with things you’re not ready to hear. You stay there longer than you should, letting yourself memorize the feeling of her—her weight, her scent, the way her body curls slightly toward yours even in sleepiness, as if drawn to you by gravity itself. But you don’t stay the night. You can’t.

You know the risks. You know how reckless it would be. And if you don’t go now, you might never want to leave. So eventually, reluctantly, you slide out from beneath the covers, careful not to wake her fully.

You pull your shirt back on in the low light, the soft cotton catching awkwardly against your flushed, still-sensitive skin. You cross the room quietly, reaching for the door handle, heart clenching with every step away from her. And then—“Hey.” Her voice is soft, scratchy with exhaustion, but it stops you like a hand closing around your wrist. You turn, heart in your throat.

Agatha’s sitting up now, the sheet slipping down to her waist, baring the smooth expanse of her shoulders and collarbone. Her hair is a tousled mess, wild and beautiful, her cheeks still flushed with leftover heat. She looks unfairly beautiful like this. Raw. Unmade. A little unguarded, like she forgot for once to build her walls back up.

Her eyes find yours across the darkened room. “Be careful,” she says quietly, voice fragile around the edges “Someone might notice if you keep looking at me like that.”

Your throat tightens. You manage a small, wry smile, even though your chest feels like it might break open “Then stop looking at me like you want me just as bad,” you murmur back. Agatha doesn’t respond.

She just stares at you—long and slow and full of something you’re too scared to name. Something she’s too scared to say. She doesn’t stop looking at you. Not even as you slip through the door and into the night, carrying the ghost of her touch on your skin and the weight of her silence in your heart.

The Easter barbecue is your mom’s favorite kind of event—an excuse to decorate the entire house in pastels, make too much food, and gather everyone she loves under one roof. Family, old friends, your college buddies… and Agatha.

Of course, Agatha. She arrives a little late—draped in a soft lavender blouse tucked into high-waisted black slacks, sunglasses pushed into her waves, mouth painted a criminally tempting shade of plum. You nearly drop the deviled eggs when you see her “Don’t stare,” your neighbor teases, nudging you with her elbow. “She’s always been that hot.” You choke “What? I’m not blind.”

You laugh, but your face is burning—and it only gets worse when you check your phone and see a text waiting for you, Agatha: The violet you’re wearing is very pretty color. Very wholesome. A shame what lies under it isn’t.

You suck in a breath. You reply, half-defiant, You: Bold of you to say that when you’re the one who couldn’t keep her hands off me.

Her answer comes seconds later, Agatha: True. I could make it worse? Tell everyone here how our hosts precious daughter, moans my name like a filthy prayer.

You nearly fumble your drink. The next hour is pure torture. Agatha’s across the yard, sipping a lemonade and chatting casually with your mom’s coworkers like she hasn’t been whispering filth into your phone for days.

She’s teasing, calculated, throwing you little glances over the rim of her glass that make your stomach flip and your thighs clench. Your phone buzzes again while you’re helping serve food Agatha: Come say hi, sweetheart. Or are you worried I’ll behave badly?

You reply through gritted teeth You: If you keep this up I’m not gonna be able to restrain myself much longer

Agatha: Promise? You snapped. Not with anger—but with a plan. You wait until she’s leaning against the back patio door, her empty bottle in hand, half-listening to one of your cousins. Then, with innocent precision, you walk up beside her—offering her a new beer.

She smiles eyebrow raised suspiciously “How sweet—” And that’s when you “trip.” The drink slips forward, splashing cold and golden across her blouse and all down her chest. Gasps. A few laughs. A chorus of “Oh no!” from the group nearby. Agatha freezes. You gasp and lunge forward with a napkin, patting her front with theatrical guilt. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Let me help—I’ll grab you a towel.”

You grab her arm and guiding her inside before she can say a word. The second the bathroom door shuts behind you, everything shifts. She locks it “Accident, huh?” she says, voice low, amused, blouse clinging to her curves. You press her back against the door, your hand already sliding up her soaked shirt popping open each button at a time. “You’ve been torturing me all week,” you growl. “I warned you what would happen.”

Agatha smirks, eyes dark. “I was counting on it.” You kiss her hard, hungrily, your body flushed with adrenaline. Her hands are under your shirt instantly, nails dragging down your back as you grind against her with a soft whimper “Someone’s going to notice,” she breathes.

“Then shut up and be quiet,” you whispered kissing her again. Your hands slipped down around her waist unzipping her pants. You shoved them down around her hips, fingers slipping further, pressing against her soaked panties.

Agatha groans lowly as your fingers press against her, feeling the damp fabric cling to her aching sex. "Fuck, sweetheart, you've got mommy so fucking wet," she whispers breathlessly against your lips, rocking her hips to grind herself against your hand. "I've been thinking about this all fucking day, about bending you over that counter and fucking that pretty cunt until you scream my name—"

To emphasize her point, Agatha hikes your top up further, her hands splaying across your bare back, nails raking down possessively. You hissed softly nipping at her jaw teasingly “feeling territorial mommy?” You hummed trailing a line of kisses down her neck, across her collar bone and down her torso. You softly dropped down to your knees, curling your fingers into the waistband of her pants and panties.

You guided them, swiftly down her legs, lifting each leg up individually to remove them from under her. Tossing them aside you gripped one of her calves tightly, resting her leg over your shoulder before borrowing your face between her thighs. Agatha inhales sharply, the cool air hitting her dripping sex making her shiver with anticipation. She tangles her fingers in your hair as you guide her leg over your shoulder, opening her up completely to your hungry gaze.

"Fuck, baby, look at you," Agatha breathes, voice thick with desire. "On your fuckin' knees for me already, so eager for a taste..." She rocks her hips forward, painting her slick arousal across your parted lips, a filthy tease. "Go on then, sweetheart. Memorize just how wet mommy is for this greedy little mouth of yours."

Agatha tangles her fingers tighter in your hair, guiding your face closer to her aching cunt. Your nose brushes against her clit, and she can't help but gasp at the contact, hips bucking forward, trying to grind herself against your face.

You licked a broad strip up her dripping slit, lips wrapping around her clit, suckling the swollen bud as you groan your pleasure into her sex. The vibrations shoot straight through her core, making her legs tremble and her abdomen clench. You slipped both hands around her hips pinning them back against the door, Agatha lets out a strangled moan, fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair as your tongue delves between her folds to lap at her aching sex. Her hips buck against the tight grip of your hands, seeking more delicious friction.

"Oh fuck baby," Agatha gasps, head falling back against the door with a soft thud. "Your tongue feels...fuck, just like that..." She grinds herself harder against you, smearing your chin and cheeks with her slick arousal as you work her sensitive flesh. She can feel her climax approaching fast, spurred on by your dedicated focus.

You feel her thigh start to tremble and quiver around your head as you suckle her clit more greedily, your tongue flickering against the sensitive bud. Her grip in your hair tightens as she grinds herself shamelessly against your hungry mouth, desperate for release. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." she chants breathlessly, the obscene wet sounds of your feasting filling the small bathroom.

"Don't stop baby, please don't fucking stop..." Agatha head thuds back softly against the door, letting out a strangled whimper as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave.

Her sex clenches rhythmically, gushing arousal into your eager mouth as she rides out her high, holds you flush against her throbbing core, shuddering helplessly from the force of her climax. You released her pulsing bud, tongue stroking deeper between her folds, lapping at her clenching hole. Groaning at the taste, you speared your tongue inside.

"Oh god, fuck!" Agatha mewls, her orgasm still coursing through her as your tongue plunges deep into her fluttering channel, lapping up every drop of her release. Her grip on your hair becomes almost painful as she grinds herself shamelessly against your face, riding out the aftershocks.

"Fuck, I need... I need..." Her words dissolve into incoherent moans and whimpers as her pleasure builds again frighteningly quickly, her body still so sensitive from her first climax.

She hooks her other leg over your shoulder, balancing herself against the door to open herself completely to your hungry mouth and probing tongue as it fucks into her, curling and stroking her innermost depths. The sounds spilling from her lips turn higher, more urgent, her hips starting to jerk and shudder with a second impending release already.

"Please baby, please, god never stop—" Her begging dissolves into whimpers of ecstasy as a second explosive climax hits her like a freight train, she bit her lip attempting to quiet herself. Her second climax gushing out, flooding your mouth with her sweet nectar as she thrashes against you and the door wildly, completely lost to the intense pleasure consuming her.

She's not sure how long she stays like that, trembling and shaking apart in your grasp, her lip bloody from how hard she bit down. But as the waves of rapture finally begin to ebb, she collapses back against the door, panting and spent, thighs still trembling and squeezing around your head. Her fingers stroke almost gently through your hair as she slowly returns to herself, basking in the afterglow.

"God, sweetheart..." she manages to rasp out, voice wrecked. "That was...fuck, that was incredible. You're incredible." She smiles down at you dreamily, eyes hazy and unfocused. She stroked her hand through you hair affectionately "Such a good girl, making mommy come so hard. I'm so fucking proud of you right now." You guided each of her shaky legs down, one at a time, pressing soft kisses along the top of her thighs.

When finally you slipped back outside fifteen minutes later, a wicked smirk is painted on your lips. Agatha’s wearing your oversized denim jacket and a fresh white T-shirt, face flushed and slightly breathless. Trying very hard not to look like someone who just defiled the guest bathroom.

Your mom glances up from the grill and squints “Everything okay?”

Agatha smiles sweetly beside you. “Your daughter was a perfect hostess. Even offered me something dry to change into, are started a fresh load so the silk wouldn’t stain.”

You blink. Onec the attention was no longer on the both of you. Agatha leans in from behind you, lips brushing your ear “You’ll get your reward later—” she whispers, “Mommy promises.” The tempting words sent a shiver down your spine and suddenly you couldn’t care less about the parties proceedings.

It’s just dinner. That’s what your mom said, standing in the kitchen with a grin while she stirred something in a pot and adjusted the napkins for the third time “I invited Carol and her son Mikey. You remember her—from the office party last year?”

You nod distractedly, helping set the table. You vaguely remember Carol. Couldn’t pick Mikey out of a lineup. You’re not even really paying attention. Because Agatha’s coming, too. That’s all you really care about.

It’s been a week since the barbecue. Since the bathroom. Since you dragged her against the door, your mouth on her like you owned her. And she let you. You’ve seen each other twice since then—both under innocent circumstances. Family lunch. Errands. Nothing touching. Nothing obvious.

But the texts haven’t stopped. And the tension? It’s only gotten worse. By the time everyone arrives, the house smells like rosemary, garlic, and warm wine. The kitchen glows under soft golden lights, pots clattering gently in the background, and your mom is practically radiating happiness as she flits around, fussing over every tiny detail.

You hover near the dining room archway, offering a polite smile when Carol steps inside—elegantly dressed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears, already chatting brightly with your mom like old friends. Behind her is Mikey. You straighten slightly on instinct.

He’s tall. Neatly put together in a way that practically screams med school or future suburban husband material—slacks, a button-up, a too-bright smile that feels just a little too polished “Hi,” Mikey says, stepping toward you with a confident grin, extending his hand.

You take it automatically, trying not to wince at the firm, eager shake “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he adds, chuckling lightly as he scratches the back of his neck.

You blink, caught slightly off-guard. “Oh?”

He laughs, a little sheepishly, as if realizing how forward he sounds “Yeah—your mom’s been kind of… hyping you up.” You force a polite smile, nodding once, even as your stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Cool,” you say simply, your voice a touch too flat to be enthusiastic. You’re saved from further small talk by the sharp creak of the front door swinging open again. You turn—and time stutters in your chest.

Agatha steps inside with the kind of casual grace that makes it feel like the entire room rearranges itself around her. She’s wearing black slacks that hug the lean lines of her legs and an ivory sweater—soft, slouchy in all the right places, clinging unfairly to her curves. She looks effortless. Polished.

Dangerous. Your pulse kicks instantly, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. Agatha’s gaze scans the room—and then lands on you. Her lips curve into a polite smile, but you see it—the stiffness in it. The way it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her eyes flick quickly to Mikey, then back to you. A flash of something dark passes through them before it’s tucked neatly away “Evening,” she says smoothly, her voice low and rich like poured velvet. She crosses the room to set a bottle of wine and a pie dish down on the table with a soft clink.

Carol lights up beside your mother “Not at all!” she chirps. “We were just about to sit.” Agatha’s eyes linger on you a beat too long. And then she moves. As she passes by you on her way toward the kitchen, her hand grazes your lower back.

It’s barely anything—a ghost of a touch, featherlight and practiced enough to seem platonic to anyone watching. But to you? It feels like she set fire to your skin. The spot she touched burns, and every nerve in your body strains toward her without permission.

You stand there for a moment too long, rattled, your heart thundering in your ears, desperately trying to pretend like you’re breathing normally. Like you didn’t just feel her claim you in front of the whole room—in a way no one else would notice. No one but you.

Dinner starts off pleasant enough. The table is set beautifully, candles flickering gently, the scent of roasted rosemary and butter still hanging thick in the air. Your mom is absolutely glowing, chatting animatedly with Carol across the table, her wine glass already half-full. The clink of silverware and the low murmur of polite conversation fills the room.

It should feel warm.

Comfortable.

Easy.

And it does—on the surface. Mikey, to his credit, is quite nice. Polite. Smart in the well-practiced way that checks every box your mother would ever dream of. His posture is perfect. His smile a little too polished. His answers to every question rehearsed like he’s been coached for this moment his whole life.

He should be perfect. But he’s not. Because no matter how nice he is—no matter how neatly he fits into the space your mom is trying to carve out—you barely hear a word he says. Not with Agatha sitting directly across from you.

She stirs her wine slowly, the stem of the glass turning between her fingertips with idle, calculated grace. Her head is tilted slightly, lashes lowered just enough to seem disinterested. But you feel it. You feel her watching you. Measuring. Seething.

Every laugh you force for Mikey’s sake goes unanswered by her. Every smile you offer dies a little more quickly under the weight of her silent stare. It’s suffocating. It’s thrilling. It’s Agatha.

“Do you like hiking?” Mikey asks suddenly, shifting just a little closer to you—subtle, but noticeable. You force your eyes away from Agatha and blink at him.

“Uh…” you hedge, stabbing at your plate with your fork. “Not really.”

Mikey grins, undeterred “Well, maybe I could change your mind sometime.” You open your mouth to respond—something neutral, something noncommittal—But you don’t get the chance.

Across the table, Agatha clears her throat. It’s a soft sound.Barely polite. But it slices through the conversation like a knife “Please,” she says, her tone all sugar and steel, “she once pretended to sprain her ankle just to get out of a two-mile loop.”

Heat floods your face immediately. You duck your head, cheeks burning. Mikey laughs it off like it’s adorable “Maybe she just needed a better hiking partner,” he says easily, flashing you a wink.

You risk a glance across the table. Agatha’s smile sharpens like broken glass “Doubtful,” she purrs. Your fork stills halfway to your mouth. The tension is sharp enough to taste.

You glance at her properly this time—really look—and your chest tightens. Her jaw is rigid. Her wine sits untouched by her hand, forgotten. She’s leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, looking casual—disengaged—but you know her better than that. You know every crack in her armor. And right now? She’s raging beneath it.

Your mom, of course, is oblivious to the slow-brewing storm. She beams across the table at you, radiating approval “Isn’t Mikey wonderful?” she says, practically bouncing in her seat. “He just got accepted into a law fellowship—”

“That’s great,” Agatha cuts in smoothly, her voice bright and pleasant in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up “But,” she adds, smiling thinly, “I bet you’re very busy. No time for distractions.”

There’s a barb there. You hear it. You feel it. Mikey, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the dagger buried beneath her words. He just shrugs good-naturedly, flashing another easy grin “You make time for the right people.”

Agatha’s brows lift elegantly. For a moment, she says nothing. Then her gaze slides to you—lingers just a second too long “And how,” she drawls, “do you know who’s right?”

Mikey chuckles, lifting his wine glass in a casual shrug “I guess you just feel it.” The room dips into a moment of tight, uncomfortable silence. You barely breathe.

Agatha smiles again—but this one is different. Tight. Dangerous. A flash of teeth behind velvet “Hm,” she hums, swirling her untouched wine lazily. “Dangerous logic.”

You can feel it building—the sharp edge beneath every word, the tightening in her shoulders, the bitter bite waiting just under the surface. You can’t let it go on. Before anyone else can speak, you scrape your chair back with a soft squeak, forcing a smile onto your face “I’m gonna… clear some of these,” you say, voice too bright.

You stand smoothly, grabbing your plate. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Agatha’s chair shift instantly “I’ll help you,” she says, already standing.

Of course she does. You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You can feel the heat of her body already moving toward you, can feel the tension snapping tighter and tighter in the small space between you—And you know. You know this isn’t over. Not even close.

The moment the door swings closed behind you, the noise of the dining room muffled into a distant hum, you exhale sharply—like you’ve been holding your breath all night. The kitchen is dimmer, quieter, the warm overhead lights catching the shine of polished countertops and clean dishes stacked neatly by the sink. The air feels heavier here.

You set the stack of plates down on the counter a little harder than necessary and glance over your shoulder “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice low, tentative.

Agatha leans casually—too casually—against the counter, her arms folding across her chest in a loose, practiced motion. She tilts her head slightly, arching a brow “Peachy,” she says flatly.

You narrow your eyes at her “Peachy,” you repeat skeptically. There’s a sharpness in the way she holds herself, tension bleeding into every line of her body no matter how hard she tries to look detached.

“You sure?” you press, stepping closer, your voice softening just slightly. “Because you’ve been glaring at Mikey like he kicked your dog.” A muscle ticks in her jaw, almost imperceptible. She shrugs, nonchalant on the surface, but you see the way her shoulders stiffen.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” she says simply. There’s no humor in her voice. No teasing. Just that low, quiet simmer you’re starting to recognize too well—the slow burn of something darker underneath.

“Why?” you ask, searching her face, your heart pounding a little faster.

Agatha shrugs again, a roll of her shoulders that’s too sharp to be casual “He’s not subtle.”

You frown, stepping closer still “And you are?” The corner of her mouth twitches—but not in amusement. It’s a humorless, bitter thing. A crack in the armor she’s struggling to hold together all evening.

You stare at her. You stare until she looks like she might break. And then you whisper it—soft, but certain “You’re jealous.” Agatha scoffs under her breath, turning her head away like she can hide from it. But you see it. The way her throat works around the words she won’t say. The way her fingers tighten where they grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening.

“You are,” you murmur, taking a step closer, your voice coaxing, almost tender. “You’re jealous, and you won’t even admit why.” She closes her eyes for a beat, like she’s praying for patience she doesn’t have.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—she says “I don’t like watching someone else try to take what’s mine.”

The words punch the air from your lungs. Your breath catches audibly, your heart stuttering against your ribs. She still won’t look at you. Still won’t move. As if staying perfectly still might protect her from the enormity of what she’s just confessed.

You hesitate, your hand curling loosely at your side. Then, voice trembling despite yourself, you ask “…Am I?” A beat “Yours?”

At that, Agatha finally turns her head. And when she meets your gaze—for a moment—she looks utterly wrecked. Like the admission costs her something she doesn’t know how to give. Her eyes flicker, shining with something raw, something broken and desperate, and she whispers “Yes.”

A simple word. A shattering truth “But I shouldn’t say that,” she adds, her voice a rasp, breaking apart on the edges. “I shouldn’t let it mean anything.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everything hanging between you. You step closer anyway, closing the final breath of space between your bodies, your hand brushing lightly against hers in a barely-there touch “But it does,” you say, so quietly you’re not sure if you even breathe the words aloud. Agatha doesn’t respond. Not with words.

But the way she closes her eyes—like she’s fighting something inside herself—and the way her fingers flex against the counter says more than anything else ever could. You don’t push her. You don’t force her. You just stay close, breathing the same air, feeling the ache of what almost could be, if only the world outside didn’t exist.

Before either of you can say more, your mom’s voice cuts cheerfully into the heavy air, oblivious. “Dessert’s ready To be plated! Don’t stay gone too long—you’ll make Mikey think you’re not interested!”

You snap your head toward her voice, blinking hard to pull yourself out of the moment. Agatha straightens instantly, pasting a smile on her lips so quickly and flawlessly you might’ve believed it—if you hadn’t just seen her stripped bare. But her eyes—Her eyes don’t smile at all.

You say nothing, simply nodding, grabbing a fresh stack of plates with fingers that tremble almost imperceptibly. When you follow your mom back into the dining room, you feel it.

Agatha’s gaze, heavy and searing, pinned to your back the entire way “Would anyone like some dessert?” your mom beams, her energy undimmed by the undercurrents threading through the room.

She’s already halfway out of her chair and to the serving table, moving with that unstoppable hostess instinct that no one ever dared challenge—smoothing her hands over her apron, practically glowing with pride over the spread she’s laid out.

Carol and Mikey both nod politely, chiming in with soft “Sure”s and “Sounds wonderful”s. You muster a tight smile, your fingers clenching slightly around your fork beneath the table, willing yourself to stay composed.

Across the room, you notice Agatha hasn’t moved. She stands instead, lingering by the kitchen door—her purse gripped loosely in one hand, her body tense in a way only you would recognize.

Something twists low in your stomach. You look up, locking onto her just as she clears her throat lightly “I should get going,” she says, voice smooth but a little too rehearsed. She slings the strap of her purse over her shoulder in one fluid movement, her smile strained at the edges. “Something came up for work—I need to handle it tonight.”

You blink, heart stumbling “Now?” you ask before you can stop yourself, the word escaping softer than you mean it to. For a second—barely a second—her eyes meet yours across the space between you. It’s fleeting. But it’s enough.

You see it there. The flash of guilt. The sadness. The way her mouth almost moves like she wants to say something else—but clamps it shut instead. It’s a lie. You know it instantly. And it sinks into your chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Still—you nod. What else can you do?

You don’t argue, Not with your mom fussing at the dessert table, humming to herself. Not with Mikey sitting across from you, still smiling like he has a prayer in hell. You force yourself to nod again, sharper this time, biting the inside of your cheek to keep everything else contained.

“Thanks for dinner,” Agatha says sweetly, turning her attention to your mother, who blinks in mild surprise but recovers quickly, flashing a concerned smile.

“Of course, honey. Everything okay?” your mom asks, setting down a dish of pie with a little frown. “You brought the dessert it only fair you say and enjoy it a little—“

“Just one of those last-minute emergencies,” Agatha replies smoothly, breezing past the question with practiced ease. But then—Then she looks at you again. Just for a moment. And it’s different this time. Softer.

Heavy with things she can’t say aloud “I’ll see you soon,” she murmurs, the words almost an apology. You force yourself to meet her gaze but offer her nothing but a slight nod in return, your throat too tight to risk speaking.

You watch her turn away, her heels clicking faintly against the floor as she crosses to the front door. Every step she takes feels like it’s dragging something vital out of you. Tearing something unseen between you that you don’t know how to fix.

Your chest aches—deep and hollow—the entire time she walks away. And even after the door swings shut behind her, sealing her absence into the night, the space she leaves behind feels impossibly large. Empty in a way no one else seems to notice. Except you.

One painful hour and a half later, Carol and Mikey are finally gone. You breathe a small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief the moment the front door closes behind them. The house feels instantly lighter, though the polite hum of leftover conversation still seems to echo against the walls.

Mikey had been perfectly nice—charming, even—offering another too-bright smile as he pressed a folded napkin into your hand before he left. You didn’t even glance at it. You dropped it near the sink without a second thought, the scrawl of his number already blurring in your mind like it was never meant to matter.

Because it didn’t. Not when every thought you had still clung stubbornly to the woman who ran from dessert—and from you. Now, you’re elbows-deep in soapy water, scrubbing plates with mechanical movements, the heat of the water doing little to thaw the cold knot still twisted deep in your chest.

The kitchen is mostly quiet except for the low gurgle of the faucet and the occasional clink of glass against porcelain. You’re so lost in your own swirling thoughts that you barely notice your mom step up beside you. She moves casually, almost breezily, placing a glass pie dish down on the counter with a soft clatter “Hey,” she says lightly, like she’s asking you to pass the salt “Can you return this to Agatha tomorrow? She left in such a hurry, I doubt she even realized it was mine.”

You wipe your dripping hands on the towel at your hip before she even finishes speaking “I’ll take it tonight,” you say quickly, a little too quickly. Your mom blinks, taken slightly aback by the eagerness threading your voice. She squints at you—sharp, suspicious in that way only a mother can be—but you refuse to meet her eyes, busying yourself with folding the towel, setting it neatly aside.

“You don’t have to go now, sweetheart,” she says, slow and careful, watching you more closely now.

“I don’t mind,” you reply, your voice tighter, more clipped than you intend. For a second, she hesitates, like she might push. You brace yourself. But then she just smiles softly, stepping forward to kiss your temple.

“Tell her thanks again for the wine,” she says, her tone returning to easy warmth. You nod, grabbing the pie dish with hands that aren’t quite steady. You shrug on your coat, feeling the weight of the glass in your hands like an anchor tethering you to something you can’t walk away from. And with every step you take toward Agatha’s door—through the crisp night air, across the dark stretch between your houses—your heart beats faster.

You knock softly, barely more than a tap. For a heartbeat, you wonder if she’ll pretend not to hear. But then the door swings open—and Agatha stands there, framed in the warm, low light spilling out behind her.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, she looks like she’s been waiting. Gone are the polished slacks and fitted sweater she wore to dinner. Instead, she’s in a loose, worn T-shirt and a pair of soft joggers that hang low on her hips. Barefoot.

Her hair is tied back messily, a few dark strands falling loose around her face. And for a woman who supposedly had an “emergency” urgent enough to skip dessert, she looks… eerily calm. Relaxed in a way that only makes your chest tighten painfully. You lift the pie dish in your hands, your voice small “Emergency handled?”

Agatha exhales slowly, a sound heavy with defeat, and steps aside, motioning you in “Come in,” she murmurs.

You cross the threshold without hesitation, your pulse hammering a little harder with every step into her space—the space that feels too much like home and too dangerous all at once.

You set the pie dish down on the entryway table, the faint clink of ceramic against granite sounding loud in the otherwise still house. When you turn to face her, she’s already watching you. There’s a beat of silence. Long. Heavy.

Only the soft tick of the clock on the far wall and the low hum of the heater break the quiet “You left early,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, too weighted with everything you don’t know how to say. Agatha’s mouth tightens “I did,” she answers simply.

“You lied about it.”

“I did,” she echoes again, her voice softer this time, almost like she hates how true it is. You stare at her.

At the woman you’ve loved in quiet, impossible ways for longer than you want to admit “Why?” you ask, your heart beating harder, the word raw in your throat.

Agatha crosses her arms over her chest, holding herself tightly, like she needs the pressure to stay upright “Because I couldn’t stand it,” she says, her voice rough around the edges.

Your stomach flips violently, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your coat at your sides. She keeps going, her words picking up momentum, tripping over themselves “I couldn’t sit there and pretend it didn’t bother me. Him, sitting next to you. Your mom beaming like it was meant to be.”

She laughs bitterly, the sound brittle and self-mocking “Watching him talk to you like he had any right to know you—”

She cuts herself off abruptly, dragging a hand down her face in frustration “It’s stupid,” she mutters. “I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t—” You take a step closer. Not fast.

Not demanding.

Just there.

Present.

You wait until her eyes lift to meet yours. And then you ask, soft and steady “To what?” For a second, you’re sure she won’t answer. But then— Her gaze shatters. Tired. Vulnerable. Frighteningly, achingly possessive.

“I wanted to drag you upstairs,” she whispers, voice like steel, “make you whine my name so loud they’d all know exactly who you belonged to. Instead of trying to peddle you off like a damn dowery maid—”

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath catches painfully, your whole body going still. Agatha flinches at the silence, stepping back half a pace, her hands fisting at her sides “But I can’t,” she says quickly, brokenly. “I won’t. Because no matter how I feel, I’m still your mother’s best friend. I watched you grow up.”

Her voice cracks, and she presses her mouth shut hard for a second before continuing “I shouldn’t—” she chokes on the words, “—I shouldn’t want you the way I do.” You don’t realize you’re crying until her hand lifts hesitantly between you, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, catching a tear.

The touch is unbearably gentle. You close your eyes briefly, feeling the tremble in her fingers “So you do,” you whisper when you can finally breathe again. “You do want me.”

Agatha exhales shakily, the sound like something crumbling inside her “Yes,” she admits, her voice breaking apart completely. “So much it hurts.”

Your heart splinters open. You step in, slow and certain, pressing your forehead to hers, feeling the unsteady rhythm of her breath against your skin. Your hand slides up her arm, anchoring you both to this moment, to this choice you are both making even if the world outside demands you don’t.

“Then stop running from me, I’m capable of making my own decisions….” you whisper. She lets out a strangled sound—a soft, broken thing that makes your chest ache

“I’m not good for you,” she murmurs, and you feel the fear in her words, the way she believes them like a prayer.

“You’re everything Ive ever wanted, don’t say that—” you say simply. Agatha trembles under your touch. So close. So desperate. So fragile.

“I’m scared,” she confesses, her voice barely audible. “I’m scared of what this means. Of how much I already care about you. Of what happens when it stops being easy to hide.”

You nod gently, your hand smoothing up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw “Me too,” you breathe.

You don’t kiss her. Not this time. Instead, you just hold her face in your hands, cradling her like something precious and breakable. You lean in and press your forehead firmly against hers. Letting her feel it, All of it. Not lust. Not just aching want.

Devotion.

Care.

Something painfully real.

Something terrifying and beautiful that neither of you can outrun anymore. Agatha’s eyes flutter shut as you stay there, forehead pressed to hers, breathing the same fragile air. Neither of you speaks.

You just exist—suspended in the heavy quiet, in the aching hum of something too vast, too dangerous, too real to name out loud yet. It feels like the whole world narrows to the inch of space between your bodies. The place where her breath mingles with yours. Where her skin brushes yours, featherlight but unignorable. You feel it when she moves—slowly, tentatively.

Her hands settle at your waist, trembling just slightly as she spreads her fingers wide, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you under her palms “Come here,” she murmurs.

The words barely reach your ears, so soft they might be imagined. You barely have time to react before she’s guiding you backward, her hand finding the small of your back, pressing there gently—grounding you, anchoring you to her as if you might float away if she didn’t tether you down.

Her other hand brushes your wrist, fingers skimming lightly over the place where your pulse thrums madly under your skin. Like she’s trying to steady herself with the proof of your heartbeat.

She sinks down onto the couch in one smooth movement, pulling you down with her—into her—like a tide drawing you helplessly toward the shore. You end up straddling her lap, your knees braced on either side of her hips, feeling the steady, burning heat of her body pressed close against yours.

Agatha exhales, a long, trembling breath that shudders out of her like she’s been holding it trapped in her lungs for days. You start to shift, unsure if you’re too heavy, if you’re asking too much—But her arms tighten instantly around your waist, tugging you flush against her.

“No,” she whispers against your shoulder, a desperate thread lacing her voice. “Don’t move. Just—just stay.” You do. You let your weight sink into her. You wrap your arms loosely around her neck, your fingers finding the ends of her hair, twisting them idly between trembling fingertips.

And in turn, she wraps herself around you—arms strong, certain, almost possessive—holding you like you’re something rare she doesn’t know how to trust but can’t bear to lose. Her face finds the curve of your shoulder, nuzzling there lightly, her nose brushing the warm skin of your neck.

Her breath is soft, steady, but you can still feel the faint shiver beneath it “I’m sorry I left earlier,” she says, her voice muffled against you. You smooth your fingers through her hair, combing them gently through the silky strands at the nape of her neck.

“I know why you did,” you whisper back. Agatha shifts a little, enough that you can feel the tension rolling off her shoulders, sharp and restless.

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of someone else touching you,” she murmurs, her voice cracking around the edges, raw and honest in a way she never lets herself be “Not when you feel like…”

She trails off, the confession breaking halfway free but too dangerous to finish. You lift your hand, cupping the back of her head, guiding her gently to look at you “Like what?” you whisper.

Agatha pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. And what you find there steals the air from your lungs. Desire, yes—an ache written deep into the stormy blue of her gaze. But also longing. Fear. Love—or something that feels terrifyingly close to it.

“Like home—safety.” she says hoarsely, each word pulled from her like it hurts to admit. “And I don’t even know when that started. Or how it got so deep so fast. But it’s there. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Your throat tightens painfully. Your whole body feels full of something too huge to hold “You hold me,” you whisper, your forehead tipping forward to brush hers again. “You stop pretending we’re just a mistake waiting to happen.”

Agatha stares at you, her lips parted slightly, her breathing uneven. And then, slowly—so gently it feels like a promise—she presses her lips to your temple. She lingers there, warm and trembling, letting the touch speak all the things her voice is too broken to say.

“Okay,” she breathes against your skin. You don’t argue. You don’t push for more. You don’t need more—not right now. Instead, you shift closer, curling yourself fully into her lap, resting your head against the strong line of her shoulder. You breathe her in—clean linen, worn cotton, something uniquely Agatha that fills your lungs and steadies the wild beat of your heart.

Her hand traces slow, absent patterns down your spine—over and over, soothing, worshipping. The other hand comes up, threading gently into your hair, cradling the back of your head with careful fingers, like she’s afraid you might break if she’s not careful.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing. The soft hum of the heater. The low, steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear. You both just exist there—tangled together, holding each other together. Until, after what feels like hours, Agatha speaks again—so quietly you almost think you imagined it “I wish I met you in another life,” she murmurs into your hai “Somewhere where I didn’t have to pretend I don’t need you to breath.”

Your fingers tighten in the hem of her shirt instinctively, as if anchoring yourself even closer to her “You don’t have to pretend with me,” you whisper.

She exhales shakily, her mouth brushing the crown of your head in a featherlight kiss that feels like it costs her everything to give. That night, you don’t ask for more. You don’t kiss. You don’t undress. You just stay—wrapped around each other like a lifeline—letting the weight of everything unspoken settle between you. Because somehow, impossibly, this—This is the closest either of you has ever felt to home.

You feel yourself melt deeper into her lap, your body sinking against hers like you were made to fit there. The warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her breathing—it lulls you into something softer, something quieter.

Your fingers trace lazy patterns on the sleeve of her shirt, your head tucked against the curve of her neck. You’re so tired. But for the first time in a long time, it’s not the kind of tired that comes from running or pretending.

It’s peaceful. Agatha shifts a little beneath you, pulling the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch around your shoulders, tucking you closer like she can’t stand even a few inches of air between you. Your voice is small when it comes—barely a breath against her collarbone, so soft you wonder if she even hears it “Can I stay tonight?”

Agatha goes utterly still beneath you. You feel it—the way her entire body freezes for a heartbeat, as if the world itself has tilted and she’s trying to find her footing again.

You lift your head slightly, blinking up at her through heavy, sleep-laden eyes, your heart thudding painfully against your ribs “I’ll leave before anyone could see me,” you add quickly, voice picking up with quiet desperation. “Early. I swear.”

You pause, the weight of vulnerability crashing over you, and then, in a voice even smaller than before, you whisper “I just really want you to hold me tonight.”

For a moment, Agatha doesn’t speak. She just stares at you—really sees you—like you’ve peeled yourself open in front of her and handed her the fragile, beating thing inside your chest. Something inside her broke. You see it happen. Right there in her eyes. The cool mask she always wears—the teasing smirks, the sardonic shields—all of it drops away like it was never real to begin with.

All that’s left is raw emotion. Bare. Open. Unguarded. Her arms tighten around you without hesitation, an instinctive, protective gesture like she couldn’t say no even if she tried. Like the thought of turning you away is physically impossible.

“You can stay,” she murmurs, her voice rough, thick with emotion she doesn’t bother trying to hide. Her fingers comb tenderly through your hair, slow and soothing, as if trying to memorize every strand “Stay as long as you want.” Your throat burns. Your eyes sting with the pressure of unshed tears—but you don’t cry.

You just let yourself melt against her again, surrendering to the comfort, the safety, the overwhelming rightness of being in her arms. You pressed your cheek back to her chest, feeling the strong, steady thud of her heart beneath your ear. A rhythm you could memorize in your sleep.

Agatha presses absentminded kisses to the crown of your head—one, then another, then another—like she can’t help herself. Each brush of her lips is featherlight, reverent, anchoring you to her.

The world beyond the walls of her house fades into a muted hum, meaningless compared to the soft sounds of her breathing, the gentle glide of her fingers down your spine. You drift, caught in that hazy, blissful space between wakefulness and sleep, cocooned in her warmth and the steady cradle of her arms.

At some point, you feel her shift beneath you—so carefully, so gently it barely registers. She slips her arms under your legs and back, lifting you with surprising ease, cradling you close against her chest as she stands. You stir slightly, a quiet, content sound escaping your lips, but you don’t resist. You trust her implicitly.Her heartbeat thunders against your cheek as she carries you through the dim hallway, the soft creak of floorboards underfoot the only sound.

She reaches her bedroom and lowers you onto the mattress with painstaking care, like you’re something precious she’s terrified of breaking. She tugs the covers up around you, brushing your hair back from your forehead with trembling fingers. The touch is so tender it steals the air from your lungs.

Then she slides in beside you, slipping under the covers, letting you curl into her side, her arms coming around you fiercely—as if daring the world to try and take you from her. You cling to her without shame, your hand finding hers under the blanket, fingers tangling together tightly.

Her thumb strokes slow, soothing circles against your wrist, each movement like a promise she’s too scared to say aloud. The room is silent but alive—charged with everything you’re both too exhausted, too overwhelmed to speak.

And just as the last threads of consciousness begin to unravel, just as sleep pulls you deeper into the quiet safety of her arms, you hear her whisper—So faint you could almost believe it was a dream “I’m already yours.”

[4bsurdcreature]

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong.

You don’t drop your drink on the bar floor, you place it gently on the bar it was served on, as you feel your heart pulse in cut time, while your face flushes and your hands shake. Next to you, a warm smile, a gentle hand, a deep voice asks,

“Are you alright?”

And your heart sings, your pulse leaps, all you can think is I love you, I love you, I love you! and you feel sick with the infatuation of it all. “I’m fine.” is what you eventually say, but it comes out unstable, higher pitched, than you want it too, and in turning away you watch your friends trade glances with one another.

“She’s in love!” One of them, Rachel, says to the other.

“I never thought I’d see the day!” The other, Beth, replies.

Something is wrong! You try to tell them, but you can’t get the words out, as they trade giggles and hushed tones while you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.

----

Inside, you face yourself in the mirror. Water has done nothing to calm the fire in your gut, and the butterflies in your stomach swirl to a stampeding rhythm.

You’ve never been in love before, and you never thought you would be. You love, you have always loved, or sometimes loved, or kinda sorta loved, before. But you’ve never been *in* love; beyond passing curiosity, you’ve never wanted to be. It took a while to be okay with that, and an even longer time to acknowledge it, but this is how you are and regardless of how you, or other people, feel on putting a term to it, it’s how you imagined your future remaining.

Asexual. Aromantic. The bane to love-song propaganda. The constant butt of every joke that cries “This is what it means to be human! To Love! To Love! To Love!”.

Right now, you don’t feel human. This feels wrong, like a violation, like someone reaching into your nerves and burning them with the uncomfortable jolt of electricity, forcing you to jitter and move against any conscious choice. Forcing your blood to rush, and your mind to fill with him, him, Him!

Ants bearing love notes and centipedes scrawling heart-felt confessions skitter and scrape across the undersides of your skin. You would cry, you think, if your mind wasn’t cotton stuffed full of Love.

“There you are!” Rachel says, entering the bathroom to find you, shaking, wiping down your face one last time with water and crumbling brown paper towels.

“Something is Wrong.” You tell her, finally able to think without that man drowning your thoughts, content to be a constant undercurrent for now.

“I’ll say!” She laughs, “Look at you, you couldn’t take your eyes off of Joshua back there!” No, no no, she has it wrong. You’re not here to think about Joshua’s soft blue eyes- Stop it! Blue: ice scrapping, chilling you to the bone.

“You don’t get it. This isn’t normal. I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve never felt like this before.” You try to impress. You want to scream. You want to throw up, a little, too, but you can’t tell if that’s you or the Love.

“Twenty-seven is pretty late to get a first crush, sure, but Joshua’s a nice guy, I get it! Not to mention big, strong, and handsome~” She does that thing with her voice. That double entendre waver that you always thought was a little gross, when talking about someone in love.

Why doesn’t she understand- “No, I mean- Don’t you think it’s weird? Isn’t this out of character? I don’t-” You can’t, “But now-” You can’t even say it, “It won’t let go. It won’t stop. I want to be with him, I want him to be with me! I feel weird! This isn’t right!”

“You’re being dramatic... but I guess that makes sense- it’s your first time, after all! Oooh, I can’t believe I got to be there when you fell in love for the first time! This is so romantic, it’s like a fairy tale! No one was right, no one fit, you had resigned yourself to living a Loveless life, until suddenly, He appeared!” She sighs, dreamily. You think you’re going to be sick again.

But still, you stop and think. Stop to partition the little idiot in your brain that keeps designing cursive versions of your name next to Joshua, blossoming with bloodstained hearts in-between. Resigned, that’s how Rachel phrased it. Is that how she saw it, saw you? The bathroom door opens- it’s Beth. She’ll understand.

“You two were having a gossip party without me?” Beth says, but there’s no hurt in her eyes as she gives a sly smile.

“She’s In Love~” Rachel taunts you, incriminating flush branded deep in your flesh burning all the brighter.

“I saw!” Beth squeals, and your stomach drops, hope failing, while your Love soars.

“Beth, you’ll listen to me, won’t you?” You ask, desperate, a last ditch effort “This isn’t normal, this isn’t right- I think maybe someone poisoned my drink-”

“Oh, she just won’t stop.” Rachel cuts you off, rolling her eyes, “She’s convinced, that just because she’s never been in love before, that must mean there’s something wrong.”

“Being in love isn’t wrong!” Beth responds to Rachel, sympathetic gaze turned towards you, reaching out to hold your hands like you’re a child needing comfort, “Sure, you’ve never been in love before, and change can be scary when you’re not ready for it, but shouldn’t you be celebrating? Now you know you were wrong! It is possible for you to love! Isn’t that wonderful?”

You’ve known Beth the longest, you’ve confided in her the most. Every moment of your life had been charted out and experienced with her by your side, your best friend and confidant. She knew you before you had a name for what you were, and she had always acted supportive of your decisions. She was the first person you told, when you discovered your relationship with love.

Beth looked so happy, as she said those words ‘Now you know you were wrong!’

You can’t. You can’t look at them. But you also can’t stay here.

“I’m going home.”

“Already?” Rachel scoffs, arms crossed, looking at you like you’ve said something ridiculous.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” Beth calls out to you, as you shoulder your way past her to leave.

----

No one believes you. You think that’s the worst thing you’ve discovered, about being in Love.

They see how your rash of a blush spreads when you talk about him, how you choke and stammer out praises mixed in with your loathing. They think you’re an idiot, new to your feelings, bumbling about them like a hormonal teenager, Love too big to think clearly. That last one is true, (Love all but suffocates you) but not in a way that you can make people listen.

It’s amazing, how few people truly care, when they think it’s about Love.

You ask for help, but it’s not the kind anyone wants to give.

‘Self Sabotaging’, ‘Repressed’, ‘Denial’, you’ve learned there are a million different ways to tell you that you’re wrong for thinking it’s wrong you’re in Love.

----

It is with vindictive satisfaction that you eventually prove your claims correct. When enough time had passed without you throwing yourself at Joshua like he undoubtedly assumed you would (and you were terribly grateful you were able to prevent), you caught him in the act of poisoning another drink. You had proof, and you took it to the right channels; you were cured and he would never do it again.

You were overjoyed, for a bit, but the victory itself was tainted. You stopped the villain, but the damage had already been done.

How quickly did those close to you turn, and how alienating it was, for no one to believe you. Puppeted by Love, reciting poetry of rotting verses, they mistook sweetness for healing rather than underlying disease. They must have seen the festering spread of Love as something to fill in the cracks of your character, instead of covering what little of you there was left beneath it all.

A gift in disguise, you think bitterly to yourself, as you wash the whole event clean. If your friends and family wanted you to be in Love, they can hold onto that fantasy- you don’t plan on speaking with them again, after all. They can read about what happened to Joshua in the news, and you can find a better group of people to spend your time with.

It is with peace you find yourself, in a life without Love.

"Aro/Ace person gets given a love potion" story but instead of them being immune or whatever, it DOES work, and they realize IMMEDIATELY that they've been fed a love potion because this feeling is so wrong and foreign but everyone keeps laughing off the idea of it being a love potion because "they were probably just a late bloomer" or "no, you just finally found the right person!" and it's just a horror story about how no one believes them even though they know, they KNOW this isn't right and they can't stand it.

[lazysoulwriter]

only you. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, lots of love!

---

You knew this part of Pedro's job. You really did.

Late nights on set. Red carpets. Press tours where he had to smile and laugh with people he barely knew outside of the screen. You never thought you’d be the jealous type — not with Pedro. He was warm, and loyal, and yours in every way that mattered.

But lately... lately it was harder to ignore.

You sat curled up on the couch, the TV playing some mindless sitcom you weren’t even watching. Your phone buzzed constantly on the cushion next to you — notifications, articles, tweets. PEDRO PASCAL SPOTTED GETTING CLOSE TO CO-STAR! A NEW ROMANCE BLOSSOMING ON SET? WHERE'S HIS GIRLFRIEND IN ALL THIS?

You hated how easily the words cut through you.

There were even photos — staged or not, it didn't matter. His arm slung loosely around her shoulders, both of them laughing like they shared some secret world you weren't a part of. It was for the cameras, for the movie, for publicity, you reminded yourself. They needed to sell the chemistry. You knew that.

And yet... you couldn’t shake the feeling. That tiny, ugly voice whispering in the back of your mind: What if he realizes he could have someone easier? Someone just as charming, just as magnetic, who understands this life better than you ever could?

By the time Pedro got home, your heart was a tight knot in your chest.

The door clicked open, and you quickly wiped at your eyes, pretending to be engrossed in the TV. Pedro’s voice floated down the hall, soft and tired.

"Baby? I'm home."

You answered with a weak, "Hey."

He appeared in the doorway, still wearing the casual outfit he'd thrown on after interviews — jeans, a soft, worn t-shirt that clung to him unfairly well. His hair was messy, his eyes a little puffy with exhaustion.

And yet, the moment he saw your face, he frowned. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head quickly. "Nothing. Just tired."

Pedro didn’t buy it for a second. He crossed the room, crouching in front of you so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. His hand found yours — warm, calloused, grounding.

"Talk to me, cariño."

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But it tumbled out of you anyway, raw and broken:

"I just... I know it's stupid. I know you’re just doing your job but—" Your voice cracked. "Everyone is saying things, Pedro. About you and her. About us. And I know you love me, but hearing it over and over... seeing it... it just messes with my head. It feels like maybe... maybe you deserve someone better."

Pedro’s face shifted, from confusion to heartbreak to something almost like anger — but not at you. Never at you. He squeezed your hand tightly.

"Baby. No. No. Don’t even—" He shook his head, looking almost panicked. "You’re the only person I want. The only one."

You sniffled, feeling stupid and small. "It’s just so loud, Pedro. It’s everywhere."

He took your face in his hands, gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t afford to break.

"Then let me be louder."

You blinked at him. "What?"

Pedro stood, tugging you up with him into a tight embrace. His heart pounded against your ear where you pressed into his chest.

"I should've seen it coming," he murmured into your hair. "Should’ve realized how this would feel for you. I’m so sorry, amor. I didn’t think— I didn’t think it would hurt you."

You clutched the back of his shirt, feeling the tension bleed out of you the longer he held you.

"I don’t care about the movie, about the press," Pedro said fiercely. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes. "I care about you. I want everyone to know that. Everyone."

You didn’t even have time to ask what he meant before he was pulling out his phone. With one arm still around you, he opened Instagram, switched to his camera, and took a quick selfie — the two of you together, your puffy eyes and his tender smile.

He didn’t even hesitate before posting it with a caption that read:

"Coming home to my favorite person. Every day, every time. Always. ❤️"

Your mouth dropped open. "Pedro— you didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," he cut you off, setting the phone aside to kiss your forehead. "No more rumors. No more doubts. You're it for me, baby. Always have been."

You buried your face in his chest again, overwhelmed by the way he didn’t just comfort you — he chose you. Loudly. Proudly. Without hesitation.

Later, as you curled up together under the blankets, Pedro whispered against your temple:

"I don’t care what the world says. I only care about you knowing, deep down, that you’re my home. Always."

And somehow, finally, the noise faded away — leaving only the steady, unwavering beat of his love.

-----

[prettydaisygirl]

can you do a part 2 about the bf james and peter story? maybe james ghosts her and she runs into remus one day, tells him what happened and he goes back and tells james

Just for you, love! This one turned out way longer than I thought it would, haha! Hope you enjoy <3

(ex)boyfriend!James Potter x fem!reader who finally talk about Peter ✿ 1.7k words

cw: fem reader, break up, Peter is the worst, Remus is the best, angst with a happy ending

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

please read part 1 here

You hate breakups.

Not that you’re entirely sure that is what is going on, but you haven’t heard from James in three weeks. That has to mean you’re broken up, right?

The first week, you’d held out hope that James might call you. Even though deep down you knew, when he’d kissed your hair instead of your lips and Peter looked at you with that smirk… It was pointless to wait around, but you’d been hoping for an opportunity to explain yourself. To tell James that it’s Peter who was saying horrible things, not you. You were trying to defend him!

But the call never came.

So your days go by in a blur, aimless routines and rituals that keep your body occupied and alive while your brain and heart ache for him. Things aren’t the same without James’ bright smile and beautiful aura. Your home feels dull without the promise of his shoes by the door next to yours, or a goodnight kiss where neither of you really want to fall asleep. You miss him. 

The park is your only escape. The light on your skin and the breeze in your hair makes you feel lighter, even if it’s just for a moment. You let the excited dogs and giggling little kids make you happy. It’s enough to get you out of the house. Enough to keep you going. Enough to make sure your heart doesn’t fully shrivel up and die. 

It’s one of those days, the ones where you feel a bit lighter sitting at the park bench and letting your mind go, when you suddenly find that you aren’t alone.

“Hello.” You know that voice. The smooth, honeyed tone you know to belong to James’ friend, Remus. 

“Remus,” You greet him with a smile that doesn’t entirely reach your eyes, “How are you?”

“I’m alright, love. But I’m more interested in how you’re doing. You look…” Remus’ words trail off but you can think of a million different ways he could end that sentence: bad, tired, upset, broken, etc.

“I’m… alive.” You decide on, but the words sound empty even to you. Remus eyes you, clearly deep in thought. 

“It was Peter, wasn’t it?” He asks the question like he already knows the answer. His words surprise you, head turning and brow raising, especially when he continues. “Peter said something that made you upset.”

You nod, throat tightening as you remember that horrible dinner all those nights ago. Your fingers pick at the wood of the park bench, your shoulders sagging.

“Peter is horrible.” You say, and you don’t care if you sound cruel, “From the moment I met him, I knew he was horrid. I know he’s your friend but you all let him say the most disgusting things about people. About each other!”

“What did he say?” Remus asks, and when you turn with your mouth open ready to argue, ready for Remus to defend his friend, he doesn’t. His face is only open, understanding.

You wring your hands in your lap and purse your lips as you think about what you want to say. Remus sits in patient silence, giving you time without complaint.

“He asked me if I think James is obnoxious.” You start, and Remus’ brows raise just an inch on his forehead. But he doesn’t speak. “He told me that… James would be getting bored of me. That someone new would catch his eye and everything we had would just…” You look around the park, eyes scanning everything without really seeing. You just will yourself not to cry. 

“I mean, I guess he was right? James and I haven’t talked in three weeks, he won’t even respond to my texts.”

Remus nods slowly, and your heart sinks a bit more. Maybe Remus agrees with Peter. Maybe he is just here to destroy your last bit of hope and put the final nail in the coffin.

“Peter and James have been friends since before I ever met either of them.” Remus says, finally, his voice cutting through the rest of the peaceful park sounds. “Peter has always been… for lack of a better term, a small man. James is larger than life, and Peter has always been jealous of him, even when we were young.”

“As boys, Peter would scare off anyone who wanted to be friends with James. It was only through Sirius’ stubbornness that he managed to break through them and become a part of the group. And Peter only allowed it if he was there too. I came along a bit later.”

“But even in our group of four, it was obvious that James is Peter’s best friend. He would get… antsy if we ever spent time together without him. It’s gotten better now as we’ve gotten older but it seems as though Peter has shifted his attention.” 

“What are you saying?” Your voice cuts through Remus’, eyes wide and your body turned almost fully toward him at this point.

“I’m saying you aren’t the first girlfriend of James’ that Peter has gotten rid of.” Remus runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily, face turning serious. “I should’ve known he was going to do this.”

The two of you sit in silence for a while, a mutual anger bubbling in the air around you both.

“Has he said anything?” You ask finally, your voice weaker than you’d like it to be. “James, I mean.”

“Oh, he’s devastated.” Remus’ voice is thick with emotion and his face morphs into obvious frustration, “The man is so in love with you.”

“Then why-” It’s like Remus can read your mind, he answers before you can even get the words out of your mouth.

“James loves Peter like a brother. Peter has been by James’ side since before the two of them were in diapers. I think… I think James doesn’t want to see what Peter is doing. He wants Peter to be good but…” Remus’ voice trails off again and you find your stomach churning.

“I love James.” You say, and you’ve never said anything truer in your life. “I just want him to be happy.”

“You both deserve to be happy. I’ll talk to him.” Remus says, and he continues to speak before you can open your mouth to argue, “I mean it. Then, if he doesn’t want to be with you, we’ll know. But he does. And you both deserve to be happy together.”

“Thank you, Remus.” You say, and you hate the way hope creeps back into your soul.

But four days pass after your conversation with Remus, and you still don’t hear from James.

It’s been devastating, almost worse this time, like breaking up all over again. You really tried not to get your hopes up when you spoke with Remus, but you can’t help it. All you want is James back.

You’re in an old t-shirt and putting a frozen meal in the oven when there’s a knock at the door. You groan, moving through the living room to the front door and you open it. 

Your heart stops when you see James’ face. He looks… dull. Not that bright, bubbly ray of human sunshine he always is.

“Jamie.” His name leaves your lips as a breath of relief and also a cry of pain.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and his voice is just as strained and pained as your own. “Remus told me about what you said. About what Peter said…”

You lean against the front door a bit, letting it hold some of your weight since you don’t trust yourself to stand fully on your own at the moment. You watch James, heart pounding in your chest. You’re sure it’s loud enough that he can hear it too. 

“I tried to tell you, but you all just left.” You say, and your eyes burn as the emotions resurface. “And you never called. I just wanted to explain…”

“I know.” James’ eyes squeeze shut and you feel your heart squeeze too. “I know, I’m sorry. I thought Peter was my friend…”

“Friends don’t talk about each other like that.” You step out onto the porch, standing in front of James. You miss being close to him, even just like this.

“No. They don’t.” James agrees, and you find yourself wanting to reach out and touch him. He seems to read your mind, placing a hand on the side of your neck and placing his forehead on yours. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” You say, your voice cracking at the end. “I don’t want to break up.”

“I don’t either.” James agrees softly and it’s like you can feel the broken parts of yourself start to let him put you back together. 

“What about Peter?” You ask, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. You’re worried this is too good to be true. 

“I’m done with Peter.” James shakes his head, his curls swinging in front of his forehead as he moves with vigor, “I confronted him about what happened after I talked with Remus. And he admitted everything! He bragged about it, he said he thought he was helping me out because he thinks you aren’t good enough for me.” James rolls his eyes, but you can still see the emotional turmoil he must be going through.

You pull him close, your two bodies fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, reuniting after weeks apart. 

“I’m sorry.” You say. “I know you love him.”

“I love you.” James says, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “I’m sorry I believed Peter.”

“I’m sorry he wasn’t a good friend to you, Jamie.” Your voice is muffled as you bury your face in his neck. His scent is comforting, soothing the ache of weeks without him. You squeeze him a bit tighter.

And this time, you’re not letting go.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[sylusxyou]

Hey God, it's me again /ref

Sylus with a reader that has family related trauma. More specifically trauma stemming from an abusive father and due to this they have a lot of trauma responses. Flinching at sudden movements, cowering and hiding when breaking something, frantically apologizing for every little mistake, crying very easily, the whole nine yards. And like these responses come way before Sylus even knows the story behind them

oh my lord... i'm so sorry this has taken me a while. i had no inspiration to write this week, but it finally hit me today. i'm realizing i struggle with requests a bit because once my brain gets started in a direction it's nearly impossible for me to veer it anywhere else... with that said, it may not be exactly what you were looking for but i hope it's close and that you enjoy! content warning: mentions of physical abuse (slapping/hitting), angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, non-mc!reader word count: 2.8k divider credit: @uzmacchiato

Memories of shattered glass, shouting that rumbled through your body, and stinging redness across your cheek flooded your mind. You looked down at pieces of a vase that you assumed was worth more than you’d make in the next 5 years combined. Maybe longer.

As a kid you had learned to reign in your clumsiness. You were always aware of your surroundings and you honed your reflexes to catch or swerve when the inevitable happened. Surely as an adult you should be able to avoid situations like this altogether. You had let your guard down though. You were careless. 

Sylus had invited you over for dinner. When you arrived, he was wrapping up a meeting in his office. Kieran and Luke had instructed you to wait for him in the living room. Luckily, you brought a book with you everywhere you went. Legs a little restless from the drive over, you decided to take a few laps around the living room while you dove into the next chapter. 

You weren’t paying attention and now you were frozen in place, eyes unable to move away from the damage you had done. How were you going to explain this to Sylus? ‘I’m sorry, I was walking around with my nose in a book an ran into the side table.’ What a pathetic excuse. You momentarily considered running off, driving back home, before you had to face him. That was out of the question though. He knew where you lived and surely wouldn’t let you off that easily. You’d have to face the music eventually. 

In the distance you heard the sound of a door opening and closing. Footsteps moved your way and you immediately recognized them. Sylus was coming. Anticipatory tears began to form in your eyes. You stayed in place, refusing to face him as you felt him enter the living room behind you. 

“Is everything okay, kitten? I thought I heard a crash.” His tone of concern only made your tears well up more. He thought you were hurt. The minute he saw what you did, that concern would be replaced with anger, maybe even rage. You were certain of it. 

Your voice was barely a whisper as you replied, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Sylus began walking towards you. “What are you sorry for?” 

He came to stand behind you, his chest not quite touching your back, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body. Over your shoulder he peered down to the ground, the destruction glaring back at him. 

There was silence between you as Sylus grabbed your shoulders and began to turn you towards him. You wanted to resist, close your eyes shut, hang your head, whatever it took to avoid looking him in the eyes. To delay what you believed was inevitable. It was no use though. You knew it would be better to just accept whatever punishment was about to be bestowed upon you. 

That’s not right. When your eyes fell on his face there was a soft smile. Not the kind he wore when he was playing with his prey. This was the kind he gave you every day when he held your hand or brushed your hair behind your ear. It should have been darker. He should be upset. Maybe he’s lulling me into a false sense of security…

Sylus looked at the small tears falling from your eyes. He slowly reached out his hand to cup your face and brush one of the water droplets from your cheek with his thumb. “Now why are you crying over a broken vase?” 

“That vase probably cost more than my annual salary!” You gasped. 

He chuckled, “Oh, it absolutely did.” 

You looked at him like he was crazy which only made him laugh more. He pulled you into his arms, one hand wrapped around your waist and the other cradling your head. “I don’t care about some vase. Things are replaceable and replacing it wouldn’t even make a dent in my wallet.” 

Sylus pulled back to look into your eyes. “I was worried you had hurt yourself. You didn’t get cut by the glass, did you?” 

His eyes scanned your body as you shook your head. “No, I just wasn’t paying attention and ran into the table.” 

“That’s good.” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “Sweetie, you could burn down this entire place. As long as you emerged from the ashes unscathed, I’d consider nothing lost.”

Warmth rushed through your body. You felt your heart pounding in your chest. This was completely bizarre. You wanted to smile and laugh at the ridiculousness of what he said, to bathe in the words that he used to tell you he loved you without quite saying it. But you couldn’t. This reaction was so far from what you had experienced in the past. It was hard to believe someone could respond to broken property with anything but anger. You couldn’t shake your shock. 

Sylus furrowed his eyebrows as he searched your blank face. “What’s wrong, kitten? Are you sure you didn’t get hurt?” 

You shook your head. “No, I’m okay. I just expected you to be angry.” 

He smiled and leaned down to press a soft kiss on your lips. “I find it very difficult to be angry with you.” 

This made you smile, finally feeling like you could breathe a little. 

Sylus gently squeezed your shoulders and began to moved back. “I need to go finish this meeting but I’ll be out soon and we’ll have dinner. I’ll send Luke and Kieran to come clean this up. Don’t touch anything. I don’t want you getting cut.” 

You nodded and watched him walk out of the room. As you sat down to wait for Luke and Kieran your mind drifted back to the look in Sylus’ eyes. Hardly ever had you been met with such gentleness in your childhood. Years of being attacked and hurt over the smallest mistakes had made your walls impossibly high. The way Sylus treated you made you wonder if it was time to start knocking them down a few layers. 

Some days later you found yourself in Sylus’ kitchen locked in a staring match, stillness between you as hardly mixed batter dripped from his face down to his clothes.

You had been eager to bake him the new chocolate chip cookie recipe you found. He had insisted on helping you. It was his kitchen after all and you were powerless to resist him. You hadn’t wanted to anyway. There was a certain domesticity to baking cookies together that made your heart flutter. If only the shady criminals he did business with could see him like this. 

Sylus’ kitchen was stocked to the brim the state of the art appliances. You had been so eager to try them out, especially the electric mixer. You had to make due with a hand mixer at your apartment, so when Sylus pulled out his fancy mixer you actually squealed. 

After dumping all of the ingredients into the metal bowl you excitedly went to turn on the mixer. However, in your excitement you had failed to realize the difference between your hand mixer back home and the appliance in front of you now. At home you had to use the highest setting from the get go. Here, that was the completely wrong move. 

Sylus wasn’t able to stop you before the contents of the bowl went flying everywhere. You quickly turned the mixer off and looked at him, mouth agape. Both of you had been hit but he had gotten it much worse. 

Everything had gone quiet. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and the only movement from his was the rapid blinking of his eyes trying to see through the mess on his face. 

You began to stutter, “Sylus, I-I’m so sorry! I w-wasn’t thinking. I got too-“

He cleared his throat to cut you off. One of his hands wiped across his face, smearing the not-quite-batter onto his fingers. Suddenly his hand moved towards your face to seek it’s revenge. You quickly turned your head to the side and squeezed your eyes shut. 

It was an involuntary reaction, one that made Sylus pause. There was something off about the way you flinched as you turned away. You were afraid and he noticed. 

You hadn’t really thought Sylus was going to hit you. In fact, you were becoming increasingly certain with each passing day that he would rather condemn himself to hell than cause you any pain. You couldn’t help it, though. Sudden movements, especially towards your face, had historically meant one thing for you. It was engrained into your brain. 

When the sting never came, you slowly opened your eyes. Your heart sank when you saw the look on Sylus’ face. 

“Kitten…” his voice was soft and broken, garnet eyes glassy. He knew. 

You gave a pitiful laugh, “Sorry, I overreacted.” The sad excuse for a smile on your lips did nothing to defuse the tension.

“Stop.” His voice was stern, but filled with empathy. He grabbed your hands and pulled you to the kitchen table where you both sat. 

Sylus’ hands squeezed yours like letting go would be the most painful thing in the world. “Will you tell me about it?” 

Avoiding eye contact, you sighed, “I’ve never really told anyone before.” The soft brush of his thumbs across your knuckles kept you grounded. 

Talking about it scared you. It would make it too real and you’d much rather pretend like it never happened. But as you sat with Sylus, the man who you were growing to love beyond what you ever thought possible, you wondered if you had any other choice. If you continued to avoid it, were you really allowing yourself to be fully loved? 

Sylus wanted to know everything about you. It was easy to talk about your taste in music or tell stories of times you’d embarrassed yourself at work. Talking about things like your father and how he abused you, that was much harder. 

As you focused on the feeling of his hands, though, your courage rose bit by bit. When you finally made yourself look Sylus in the eyes, your heart squeezed. The man in front of you continuously surprised you the more you got to know him. He was equal parts strong and soft, dangerous and safe, relentless and patient. He was a man who teared up at the mere thought of someone intentionally hurting you. 

Sylus wanted to love you with everything he could. You wanted to let him. It would be difficult, maybe even painful, to relive the past with him. But you knew at the end of it all he would hold you and show you what it meant to be truly loved. 

“It was my father,” you began, “though he wasn’t always that way. My mom died when I was six and he couldn’t handle the grief.” 

You laughed, though it was devoid of any real humor, “It’s a pretty cliche story to be honest. Dad was buried in grief and started drinking. It was a slow progression, just yelling or telling me I was bother. He didn’t hit me for the first time until I was seven.” 

Sylus scooted his chair closer to you, legs resting on either side of your own. His grip on your hands never loosened and the look in his eyes was a swirl of fury and devastation. 

“Keep going,” he urged. 

You took a deep breath and continued, “I was helping him with the dishes. It was my job to dry them. Of course everything he handed to me was dripping wet. It was inevitable, I guess, that something would slip from my grasp. I shattered a mug. It was one of my mom’s favorites which meant my dad used it almost every day.” 

Your hands were shaking now, but you willed yourself to finish, “I knew he would be mad. By then I was used to being yelled at. What I didn’t expect was for him to slap me across the face. He started apologizing immediately, hugging me while I cried. He promised he would never hit me again. That was a promise he was never able to keep, no matter how many times he made it.” 

Sylus pulled you up from your seat by your hands and sat you across his lap. One of his hands grasped your waist tightly as the other laid in your lap, continuing its soothing strokes across your knuckles. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry he ever laid his hands on you.” His voice cracked, the effort he was putting into not breaking down painfully obvious. 

You gently touched your forehead to his and smiled softly. “It’s nothing you need to be sorry for.  You have no fault in this.”

“Still, I-“ 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him as you pressed a finger into his lips, “it got better as I got older. Not because of anything he did. I was just able to learn what triggers to avoid, to get out of the house more, and he started to care less and less about where I was.”

Sylus shook his head. “I want to kill him.”

This made you laugh, “I’m afraid he beat you to it.” 

Sylus eyes widened and you let go of his hand to cup his cheek. “It wasn’t intentional. At least, the police didn’t think so. His drinking was out of control and by the time I was sixteen he had been heavy into drugs as well. I guess his carelessness caught up with him and what he mixed that day killed him.” 

Silence washed over the two of you again. For a few moments you just sat there together. The longer you stared into his eyes the harder it became to hold back the tears. You had tried to keep it light, to let the bitterness outweigh the hurt. But the way Sylus looked at you was disarming. He saw beyond the dark laughter and the emotionless retelling. He saw the pain that plagued you. 

He pulled you close and gently rocked you in his arms. Once the tears started it was difficult to make them stop. So you didn’t try. You let yourself come undone in the arms of the man you loved. Sylus didn’t ask anymore questions, didn’t urge you to continue speaking. He simply held you and whispered words of love and encouragement into your ear. 

‘It’s okay.’

‘I’ve got you.’

‘You’re safe with me.’

‘You’re so strong.’ 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed like this. Eventually the tears ran out and the air in the room felt less heavy. You pulled your face away from his chest, wiping the tears from your eyes. As you sniffled, you took a good look at Sylus’ face. A laugh began to rumble in your chest and, though you tried, you were unable to keep it from bursting from your mouth. 

Sylus look at you in surprise. “Did I miss something? What’s so funny?” 

“I’m sorry,” you giggled, “it’s just, I was so caught up in telling you my story and crying that I forgot.” You grabbed his face with both of your hands. “Your face is still a mess.” 

A wide grin spread across his face. “That’s right and I have you to blame, kitten. If I remember correctly I was just about to enact my revenge.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm, yes,” he hummed, “but before I get back to my plan, I need to clear something up.” Sylus leaned in so his face was inches from yours. 

His voice was barely a whisper as he asked, “You know I would never intentionally hurt you, right? Not emotionally and certainly not physically. I would rather die.” 

You gave him a quick peck on the lips and sighed, “I know that. I didn’t think you were actually going to hurt me. It was just an involuntary reaction.” 

“Good,” he replied, “we’ll work on that. But in the meantime…” 

His voice trailed off and the gentle, loving look in his eyes was replaced by something deeply mischievous. “You should run, kitten.”

As you and Sylus chased each other around his kitchen, cookie batter repurposed as a weapon, you felt a part of your heart begin to heal. It had been painful to relive the past, but you knew it was worth it. You were confident that before long, with time spent in Sylus’ warm and caring presence, you would stop expecting pain and start anticipating love.

[therootbeersprite]

My mother and I were in Yellowstone two years ago, and she almost got killed by a bison because of someone else's stupidity. There was a trail to an overlook, and at the head of the trail was a big ol bison, and a park ranger to ensure that people were keeping proper distance. I got fatigued on the trail and headed back to the car, and my mother said that she would meet me. An hour passed and she wasn't back yet, which made me start to worry. But she's an avid hiker, and it's possible that the trail was longer than she thought, or that she lost track of time admiring the view. There were lots of people on the very popular and well marked trail, and she absolutely knows to stay on the trail, so I wasn't too worried, mostly just annoyed that she was taking her time. After a total of about two hours, she comes back, looking like she had taken a fall in the woods, covered in pine sap, and a mindset that I can only describe as absolutely frazzled. Apparently some idiot got too close to the bison despite the ranger and spooked the animal, and it went charging the only direction that it could - down the trail. People were flinging themselves off the trail left and right to get out of the way of the charging 1500 pound pissed off animal with deadly horns on its head. Except for one tourist moron (we call them "tourons") who stood IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PATH in front of the 30mph charging wild animal to get photos. My mother doesn't know what happened to that person, because she was off the trail, hiding for her life behind a pine tree. It seemed all well and good, she returned to the trail to walk back out, when she heard a comotion behind her. The bull had TURNED AROUND and was charging back up the path. So back off the path and behind the trees goes my mother. Eventually, she was able to come out and eventually get back to the car, but it was an experience that thoroughly terrified her, and she still viscerally remembers.

A lot of people were put in danger by ONE moron who got too close to the wildlife despite all the warnings. But other people KEPT themselves in danger because they didn't take the situation seriously. And this was on a well marked, well populated trail, with a ranger nearby. Of course people go missing and die all the time in the national parks. They are incredibly dangerous, and people are constantly visiting them who don't understand the hazards and refuse to believe that the warnings are for them. Even experienced backwoods campers are in danger, because they think that their experience will save them. It won't.

Any conspiracy theory about people going missing in National Parks is automatically silly to me. Like "Why are National Parks such a hotbed of disappearances???" because they're full of idiots. You've got thousands of people who've never pissed outdoors in their life wandering around the woods/desert/mountain with zero experience and zero gear and zero understanding that this place can kill them. You don't see as many disappearances in wild areas because people don't go to them unless they have some background knowledge. Whereas you get tour buses full of old folks and suburban families shuttling people into National Parks 365 days a year. If you took the same amount of buffoons and dropped them in the actual wilderness the disappearances would be significantly higher than at the parks. Use your brain.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

and that’s how it works; that’s how you get the girl

ft; haruka sakura, hayate suo, umemiya hajime

synopsis ; how did they get the girl?

cw ; violence (idek if this is needed since it's wbk but ykw screw it), fem!reader, swearing, use of (y/n), first time writing for wbk so tell me if this is shit

now playing ; how you get the girl - taylor swift

haruka sakura

haruka sakura got the girl by standing outside of your apartment in the rain for an entire hour because you got mad at him.

actually, he had gotten mad at you first. you doted on him and took care of him excessively while he was injured after a fight, and you refused to go home despite the fact that it was getting late and dark out. sakura knew that your apartment was only a few hours away, but he didn't see why you would be wasting your time on taking care of him when he could do it perfectly fine himself.

“you're pissing me off. i already said, i can just sleep this thing off. you're bothering me right now; go away. you're being annoying.” sakura cringed as the words replayed over and over again in his mind. when he first said it, he didn't think too much of it. but now? geez, if you had said those same things back to him, he would probably be having a way worse reaction than you.

you’ve been giving him the silent treatment for thirty-seven hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirteen seconds. not that he was counting. nope, he definitely wasn't counting. definitely not. he's probably checked his phone a thousand times today already, just waiting for a single text message from you; but none was found.

maybe he thought that this was a genuinely bright idea, because suo and nirei certainly didn't. maybe he really was just that desperate to see you again and for you to forgive him. maybe he's just plain stupid. yeah, probably the last one, but right after school ended, he stormed to your apartment complex as quickly as he could, ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door a multitude of times.

no response.

he knew you were in there; you always went straight back to your apartment right after school. “hey, i know you're in there. let me in.” he barely managed a slightly convincing calm voice, but he was panicking inside. he really didn't want you to ignore him forever. he really didn't want you to leave him. not when you meant so much to him.

it began to rain rather quickly. first, it was just a few droplets landing on his hair and gliding down his nose. but soon enough, his entire body was drenched in rain. he sneezed a few times, but his feet never once left it's location of standing in front of your apartment.

this was unlike him. he shouldn't be doing this. he would never do this for anyone else, so why you? his fists clenched as he heard the first clap of thunder; he should go back. but his legs refused to move, his heart refused to leave you. he glared down at his feet as if they were the reason for your anger at him.

“sakura?”

his eyes darted up, golden and gray-blue eyes meeting yours. “oh, hey,” he said dumbly, hands brushing the imaginary crumbs on his wet shirt. you both stood there awkwardly for a few moments, only the sound of rain hitting the concrete breaking the silence.

“how long have you been standing there?” you asked, a crease forming between your brows. sakura shrugged, as if he didn't spend the last hour contemplating his life and relationship with you.

“an hour.” i would've been willing to wait longer though, he thought. your eyes widened, mouth agape. you took his arm, attempting to take him inside, but sakura refused to budge.

“sorry, i was taking a nap! jeez, just come in already!” you exclaimed, trying to pull him inside with all of your body strength.

but sakura couldn't just come in. he knew himself well enough to he wouldn't feel the weight on his shoulders lift until he truly said what he needed to.

“i--i'm sorry.” his voice was slightly shaky. he probably didn't know how to properly apologize. “i didn't mean to make you upset or anything. i was just not used to it.” there. he should feel better now, right? but for some reason, the tension only weight down on him even harder. what more was there to say? he already apologized, he didn't need to--

“i love you.”

his tongue slipped before he could even control himself, and his entire face burned beet red as he practically jumped up. he didn't intend to say that, so why did his mind react faster than his body did? but you only laughed, hugging his rain-soaked torso with a blush yourself.

“i love you too.”

suo hayato

suo hayato got the girl by never judging you or being mean to you whenever you were being a clumsy idiot.

you were never particularly gifted when it came to reflexes; your hip always bumped into desk corners which left bruises, you almost stubbed your toes which had you crying out in pain, and you almost always trip or have some pretty damn close calls to tripping whenever there was some sort of object in front of you.

because of this, ever since childhood, your classmates quickly learned to avoid you. who knew if you would trip over them and break a bone and then claim that it was their fault? they didn't want to risk it.

and you did everything just to get better. you took classes, you learned online. you really were willing to do anything and everything just to stop being so damn clumsy. but it would never help; you continued to fall flat on your face multiple times.

people made fun of you. they mocked you. they made rumors about you. all because you were uncoordinated.

you've admired suo for a while. when he first came to furin and was out on patrol, you noticed how calm he was. how graceful he was even when it came to something as trivial as walking or talking. he never seemed to get too emotional, he never even got mad. not even when you slipped and fell on him.

he didn't fall down with you, but you practically slammed head first into his chest. you didn't think you could be any more embarrassed in your entire life; your face was on fire and crimson red. suo managed to grasp both of your shoulders so he wouldn't collapse with you, but you face was still in his chest. god, this was so fucking embarrassing.

“i'msosorryididn'tmeantoi'msososososososososorry--”

“it's fine. are you okay?”

did time just stop turning?

wait. he wasn't judging you, he wasn't brushing off his clothes in disgust, he wasn't looking at you with an awkward and embarrassed smile, he wasn't shoving you off, he wasn't doing anything nasty at all.

with two small sentences and one small action, your simple admiration of suo turned began to fall. you both literally and metaphorically fell for him; for this guy who you knew next to nothing about other than his personality, name, and age.

even after the incident, whenever he was out on patrol, suo always greeted you with a smile and wave. sometimes, he would even come over and talk to you for a bit. god, he was literally perfect. he moved on from the incident this quickly?

one day, one fateful day, one beautiful day, you asked suo for his number, and the best part? he gave it to you. he doesn't use his phone in front of other people, so he typed his number and name into your phone, and even gave himself a cute and funny contact photo.

he. touched. your. phone. what did you ever do to get so lucky? you must've been a saint in your past life to have so much happiness in your life.

“i literally love you,” you blabbered the moment he handed your phone back. you clasped a hand over your mouth right after, shocked at what you just say. “uh, platonically! platonically!” you exclaimed, waving your hand back and forth and front and back like a mantra.

but suo only laughed. “it's okay. the feeling's mutual. just not platonically.”

you were falling for him all over again.

hajime umemiya

hajime umemiya got the girl by being an absolute, yearning, pining, whipped, down bad, stupidly in love simp.

the funniest part to everyone was the fact that he didn't even try to hide it. everyone could tell that he was absolutely in love with you. you were an employee at cafe pothos with kotoha, and you were always helping kotoha out, especially when she was new there a few years ago.

teaching her all of the recipes--including your secret ones--, cleaning up messes that she was supposed to clean, cleaning her up and helping her with injuries whenever she got hurt…umemiya saw it all. he saw it so much that he didn't even have to interact with you or talk to you a single time to fall in love with you before even officially meeting you.

when he did officially meet you for the first time, he was so starry eyed and smiley that it seemed to the bypassers that umemiya was about to propose to you or ask you out on a date or something.

“hi! i'm umemiya, furin first year and kotoha's older brother!” he exclaimed, taking your hand and shaking it feverishly, grinning like a child on his first day of school. “it's so great to finally meet you!”

“yeah, you too.” you replied, smiling at him. “i've heard a lot about you from kotoha, umemiya. it's nice to meet you.”

it really spiraled from there. your apartment always had some sort of snack on your doorstep, along with a handwritten note to you from umemiya. whenever his vegetables bloomed, you were always the first person to receive them.

carrying things for you, calling you all night, talking to you whenever he sees you--no matter how inconvenient the time--, carrying you bridal style all the time; everyone was convinced that you were both secretly dating but were just refusing to tell them.

of course, you were aware of umemiya's feelings for you, and you returned his feelings. you really did adore him. you just didn't want to start dating in high school, so you held your feelings back and relished in his affection while trying to drop hints that you liked him back.

if you could make this last forever, you would. just you and him. no one else. no one asking when you were going to get married or how many kids you were going to have or what your plan for the future was going to be. you couldn't stop time or slow it down, of course. you would if you could though.

“umemiya! guess what, guess what?!” you exclaimed, practically bouncing to the rooftop of furin. you didn't even go to school there, but it was practically your second home because of how often you came here. your phone held high in your hand, you sat down in front of umemiya, who was planting tomatoes.

“what happened? is it good? are you happy?” umemiya asked, his gleaming like a puppy's. you held your phone in front of him, a beam paving into your face.

“i got into the university of tokyo! can you belive it? it's the most prestigious university in japan! i studied for so long for this, oh my gosh, i can't believe it, i really got in!” you were practically glowing with happiness, and your energy radiated to umemiya, who seemed just as elated as you were.

“i'm so proud of you! all of those late night study sessions really paid off!” umemiya obviously didn't do much other than emotional support during the late night calls. he was in furin for more reasons other than the fact that he was a great fighter and charismatic leader.

he suddenly froze, coming to a quick realization. “so then…you'll be leaving makochi then? you're going to go to tokyo soon, right?” he still smiled, although the glimmer in his eye was a bit dimmer now. umemiya wasn't going to college, but you were. so he won't see you for four years?

“yeah. but i'll always visit for holidays and breaks and all! and i'll make sure to text you and call you as much as i can.” you remarked, quickly sensing the slight change in atmosphere. “and i'll leave a bunch of my stuff here for you and kotoha to keep. plus, i'm leaving in a few months, so we still have time.”

umemiya nodded, though you could still sense his drop in mood. sighing and shaking your head with a smile, you cupped his face. “here,” you leaned in, and umemiya's eyes widened as his entire face flushed bright tomato red.

you just kissed him.

you pulled away just as quickly though, grinning. “that should be enough for you to hold onto, right?”

that was enough for umemiya to cling onto for an entire lifetime.

[nugwon]

daddy issues ── ( 심재윤 )

synopsis — jake works too much, but he loves harder. ── smut (m.), requested ( @riqomi ). dilf!jake x babysitter afab!reader. wc : 2.03k !

warnings — jake’s a few years older, (25). pet names: baby. unprotected sex (don’t be a fool, cover your tool) p.i.v. sex / pwp also. jake’s between the soft and rough dom area, y/n is down bad for her boss, jake’s a consent king, jake as a 3 year old toddler (s/n - son name), breeding (jake’s pull out game : weak.. pussy too good.)

two weeks ago… “s/n has already had a bath, a nice dinner, and his uniform for school tomorrow is out, hanging on his closet door. mr. shim.” you hummed, you’ve been babysitting for jake for a few months now. he was a few years older than you, a perfect mix of sweetness and tenderness. he was a tired hard working man, he had a minimum wage job—working in a corporate office, as an agent. “thank you, y/n seriously i don’t know what i would do without you.

and you? a college dropout who needed extra money until you found a job—but with the way jake pays you… you don’t need another one. “there are leftovers on the counter for you mr. shim, you’ve seemed to have had a long day. it’s my grandma's recipe, you’ll love it.” you assure him, he smiled. thanking you once again before placing your weeks worth of money in your hands.

you should have about five hundred dollars sitting in your palms right now. more than you’d usually give, but jake always threw a little extra on top. “do you think you’ll be available next week?” jake asked, hair messy and voice raspy from a long day of: “thank you for calling lee enterprises how can i help?” — “i was hoping so, we could do your monthly feedback and a dinner.. maybe? i still have to work but.. yeah.”

“are you asking me on a date mr. shim?” you were taken a bit aback, not rejecting it but not clearly understanding it either. did he want the dinner with just you and him or you him and friends.. “i thought we’d keep this a little professional.. yeah?” as he was still your boss you don’t think dinner is smart… not yet. “i’ll be available to work though… just text me dates. goodnight.” you smiled, walking away—now you just rejected a man on a date. and hopefully, his heart was bigger than his ego.

over the next few weeks, jake made it his mission to have at least a 10 minute long conversation with him every night. learning you, understanding your personality and your humor. what makes you sad, happy and what gives you the ick. he was feeling you, and he’s not sure how. or why.

“hear me out,” he walks into his kitchen. “we could take s/n to a baseball game? i’m inviting you because my friends are busy with their partners or working.. and s/n likes you y/n.” — “i’ll have to think about it mr. shim.” you chuckled while taking a drink of your water.

“jake is my name. you can call me jake. mr. shim is for when we’re working… and you’re not working.” hear made you laugh a bit—he was funny. flirty and you indeed felt something towards him. you’d finally started staying late, sometimes he’d bring takeout and you’d eat it together. brushing knees accidentally when sitting with each other. jake’s eyes always lingered. he could be staring at you, your lips. you nose… shamelessly your chest, thighs… ass. he was in love with your ass.

one night, he asks you to stay for dinner. real dinner. he cooks, a little clumsy but endearing, and you help, bumping shoulders and exchanging soft glances. also taking a few drinks… glasses of wine. a/n was upstairs sleeping, and your job was done. at first, you hesitated, drinking with your boss? but now. he made you feel comfortable like you were at home.

and now, today you’d decided to stay, longer than you ever had. it was around two in the morning and you and jake were up all night having conversations. he was so easy to talk to… you found yourself curled up on the couch, looking over and laughing at him as he talked about the most embarrassing thing to happen to him. “okay. it’s not that funny. i did think it was going to eat me..” he frowns playfully. “what about you? the most embarrassing thing you’ve done or had done to you.”

you were a bit tipsy, sipping on the wine jake poured for you an hour previous. “well.” you laughed nervously, not sure if you should spill it. “i have daddy issues, and every guy i’ve ever met has noticed that about me. it’s embarrassing because i always get left in the end… i kissed a guy once and he said i kissed like ive been hurt too many times… HUMBLED ME.” you covered your face, laughing now because it’s funny but back then—broke you .

jake only laughs a little, setting his own glass down. “i don’t see daddy issues, i see that you’re trying though.” he admits, “how about i kiss you, and let me see if i can taste it on your lips.” as much as you wanted to believe he was joking, he was not. you only looked at him, head tilting in disbelief. “do you think that’s appropriate, mr. shim?” 

“i thought you clocked out of babysitter duties, five hours ago? i’m not your boss right now, i’m a friend. a friend willing to help you learn the truth.” he nodded his head. you don’t know why that was so attractive, how he looked at you—how he protected you but was assertive with his attitude. he was honest… and we can all admit that he’s a handsome.. attractive man. who just so happens to be a father. an active father figure, it was so hot to you.

“okay. you have a point,” you say your drink down, moving closer to jake—practically crawling to him. you looked at his lips before looking into his eyes. jake placed his hands on your waist, pulling you to sit in his lap. right where he wanted you. it was unspoken—the attraction you both had to each other.

your lips finally touched. warm and synced almost instantly—like you were made to be right here. it was soft at first, then it got more intense. showing signs you both wanted each other. jake mutters against your lips. “you can tell me when to stop you know.” oh but you didn’t want to stop, and neither did he. 

jake’s hands slide down to your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, pulling you closer until you’re straddling him fully. he groans into your mouth when you roll your hips against him, slow and teasing, feeling how hard he already is through his sweats. “fuck, y/n.” he mutters, voice wrecked, dragging his mouth down your neck. “been thinking about this all year.. every time i see you… you’re driving me fucking crazy.” 

you whimper when he nips at your skin, grinding down harder, your hands fumbling to push his shirt up. you need to feel him — all of him — need to get as close as you possibly can. he picks up on that, taking his shirt off before taking yours and tossing it away. “beautiful.” he looked at your chest, kissing and sucking at your skin. leaving only a few marks. 

you couldn’t believe what you were doing, how this could affect the both of you in the long run. “look at me,” he whispered, kissing up your neck and then your lips again. you hadn’t told him to stop, even if you did tell him—you didn’t want to. looking at him, it’s like he put a spell on you. your whole body relaxing under his touch. you hadn’t even realized he’d laid you down. 

“can i take your clothes off?” he asked softly next to your ear, settling himself between your legs. once you agreed, he wasted no time stripping you down. kissing over your skin with lust. “fuck you look so good…” he murmured. stripping himself next, moving his hand down to rub your core—feeling how you were already dripping wet and the sweet sounds embedding itself into his brain. “excited?” 

you shut your eyes in minor embarrassment, biting your lips as his finger worked its way around your clit. slow and sensual feelings shooting through your clit up to your chest. jake slipped a finger inside, then another. “so wet, warm. you smell good… it’s like you're reeling me in.” he chuckled, leaning over your body and brushing his tip along your slit. “ready?” 

“ready,” you said against his lips. without wasting any more time, jake slid into you—his own eyes squeezing shut. he’d been working so much he forgot what pussy felt like. “holy shit—.” you were so tight, maybe too tight for him. he had to work his way through it. there was no way he was passing up another night alone with you. 

your soft moans helped him through it, grabbing ahold of his shoulders. it took him a minute but he thrusted—in and out of you. slowly at first, making sure he felt how deep your velvet walls were. how stretched he’d gotten you. he was huge, and you could feel him everywhere.. it was quickly becoming an addiction. “fuck.. right there.” you moaned. 

he kissed you, deeply. like he was done playing nice. hands sliding up your sides and holding you down to the couch. keeping you exactly where he wanted you. the shift in his energy… the tension rebuilding in the air. he was ready to break. “you made it so hard to keep my hands to myself.” he sits up, holding your legs in place while rutting deeper into you. 

“always sitting there looking so good.. no matter what you wore. i always had to rub one out after you left.” he admits, his moans slipping through his words. “your body screamed at me to touch it.. take it. and sitting here. so easy. that just let me know that you wanted it as bad as i did baby.” 

the way he was talking, the way your cunt squelched with each thrust. it was driving him insane—he was so focused on it. on the sound—making you feel good and praying for the best outcome of it all. “look at you, falling apart beneath me..” was it even possible for him to get even harder? you felt it.. all of it. “fuck i’m so close..” you moaned, his free hand coming up to your neck, squeezing it and applying pressure. 

your tummy did a thing, like butterflies. you wanted it, you needed it. “fuck.. fuck me harder.” you covered your mouth, holding back as you started to get louder. but jake uncovered it, “let it out. let me hear you fall apart, tell me how good it feels. nobody can fuck you the way i do.” jake’s words were ripping you apart. into pieces, “that’s it..” 

your moans slipped, uncontrollably. you wish you could put into words how good it felt but he was rocking your world. it was too much, too good and your whimpers from the contact. told him he was doing an amazing job. he pulled out, earning a whine from you before slamming back into you. “so fucking desperate to cum..” he was mesmerized by you. 

everything he was doing, words couldn’t form in your mouth. only sounds and squeaks. even your eyes were rolling back—he moved his hands. watching how you rolled your hips up, matching his pace. “don’t stop, please.. please don’t stop.” you ran your hands down his chest. loving every second of it. “even your beg is so pretty.” 

“you’re gonna cum like this baby?” you nod, ready to release it whenever he was ready for you too. it was his world, you were enamored in it. his breath got shaky, thrust getting sloppier—louder. harder. “then let’s cum together.” his voice was dark, low—almost dangerous. your legs were shaking, you couldn’t hold it, clenching around him—uncontrollably. 

and then he growls, deep and rough, lips brushing yours as he says, “then do it. come for me. now.” and you do—hard, trembling, a mess in his hands as the pleasure crashes over you like a wave too big to fight. he holds you through it, grounding you, watching you unravel with a smug, look. jake spilled himself into you, practically claiming you as his. he was possessive over you already, and he couldn’t let anyone else have you. ever again. 

taglist ; @yoursjaeyun

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Mohawk!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: It’s the first day of senior year and Mark thought getting his powers would be the biggest change in his daily routine, but your unexpected presence is giving him a run for his money.

a/n: wooo this turned out longer than intended – but what I can I say, mohawk mark does things for me. up next on my list is omni-mark x southern belle reader so stayed tuuuned y’all~

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

Mark slouched in the back row of his first period English class, hoodie pulled halfway over his head. Morning light filtered through the blinds, catching just enough of the buzzed side of his head to make the teacher frown as he walked past. Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t care. Not anymore.

Things had changed over the summer. He was stronger now. Faster. He could punch holes in the sky if he wanted to. And with those powers came a bone-deep frustration that never seemed to leave him.

The bell hadn’t even rung yet, and already, he was over it.

Then the door creaked open.

You stepped inside with a soft shuffle and a small, uncertain smile. The light from the hallway framed you in gold, dancing off your sundress — a soft blue thing with white eyelets at the hem. You clutched your binder to your chest, eyes sweeping the room nervously until they landed on the teacher.

“’Scuse me,” you said, voice sweet and thick with a southern drawl, “is this Mr. Whitaker’s class?”

Mark’s head snapped up before he realized what he was doing.

The sound of your voice cracked like sunlight through the fog that had settled over him for weeks. Slow. Warm. Disarming.

The teacher waved you in with a grunt, motioning to the only open seat — front row, far side. You thanked him softly, and when you turned to walk to your desk, Mark watched you the entire way.

He couldn’t stop.

God, you looked like everything he didn’t believe in anymore. Pretty. Kind. Soft around the edges. The kind of girl who baked cookies for neighbors and said things like “pardon me” and “well, aren’t you just a peach.” You were the kind of girl who’d never survive in his world.

So why the hell couldn’t he stop looking?

He forced himself to glance away, arms crossed tight, jaw set like stone. He could already hear Todd whispering something crude to James behind him. He swore under his breath.

He’d forgotten what it felt like — that lurch in his chest. That sense of something pulling him in.

And it pissed him off.

—

Second period passed in a blur. By third, the whispers had already started. New girl from Georgia. Sweet as pie. Way too pretty for this school. He caught a few of the guys eyeing you near the vending machines and felt something sharp twist in his gut.

By lunch, you still hadn’t noticed him. Not really. You were polite to everyone. Smiled that warm, sugar-sweet smile that made his stomach drop every damn time. But you hadn’t looked at him.

Not until the library.

He was tucked in a corner, pretending to read but mostly brooding. You drifted down the aisle like you belonged there, fingers brushing spines, pausing now and then like the books were talking back.

You noticed him as you reached the table near his. Just a glance at first. Then a second, more curious look.

“You always scowl when you read, or is it just this book?”

Mark blinked. Swallowed. “Guess it’s just my face.”

You smiled—warm, effortless. “Well, it’s workin’ for you.”

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the librarian’s glare silenced him. You gave a tiny shrug, like you’d expected that, and dropped your bag into the chair across from him.

“I like the quiet,” you whispered. “Mind if I sit?”

He shook his head. He didn’t trust his voice.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like punching a hole in the wall.

He just wanted to hear you say his name.

—

You didn’t see him again until the final bell rang.

The hallways had thinned out, lockers slamming shut, students trailing toward the exit. You stood at the edge of the courtyard, brows furrowed, turning your phone one way, then the other.

Mark clocked you the second he stepped outside.

He hadn’t planned to talk to you. Not really. But your mouth was turned in a soft little pout, and you kept looking around like you were lost. Which was ridiculous. You were like a beacon — standing there in that sundress with the sun slipping behind your shoulders, all golden and warm like a picture from some postcard that didn’t belong in his world.

Still, he hesitated.

You spotted him before he could turn away.

“Oh, sugar,” you called, raising a hand, “could you help me a sec? I think I’ve got myself turned around.”

Sugar.

His jaw tightened. Slowly, he made his way over, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket like that might keep them from shaking.

“...You okay?” he asked, stopping a few feet from you.

“I thought I was headin’ toward the student lot, but I must’ve taken the scenic route to nowhere. Lord, I’m more turned around than a chicken in a windstorm.”

Mark blinked.

What the hell did she just say?

He almost laughed—almost. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And for some reason, he kind of wanted to hear her say more dumb bullshit like that.

Mark exhaled through his nose, trying not to let his expression shift. “You’re close. Just one row over.”

“Well, ain’t that a relief. I was startin’ to think I’d end up sleepin’ under the bleachers.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. He looked down, then back up at you, brow raised.

“You mind walkin’ me there sweetheart? Somethin’ tells me I’m fixin’ to get lost again if I go it alone.”

Sweetheart.

He stared at you for a second too long.

He huffed, then nodded once, already turning. “C’mon.”

—

It didn’t stop after that first day.

In fact, it only got worse.

—

Tuesday.

You sat in front of him in English. Mark could see the ribbon tied in your hair, the way you tapped your pencil against your notebook in time with the country song you were humming under your breath. When the teacher paired everyone up for peer edits, you turned around in your seat, rested your elbow on his desk, and slid your paper over with a soft smile.

“Hope you’re good with red pens, sugar.”

He wasn’t. He was awful with red pens. Half your thesis went unread because he’d been too distracted watching the way you bit your lip while waiting, the faint smell of vanilla drifting off you like it was on purpose.

He wrote “good point” on your paper three times just so he didn’t have to look up.

—

Thursday.

You brought banana bread to school. “Just a little somethin’ from home,” you’d said, voice breezy, cheeks pink. He didn’t want any. He wasn’t hungry.

You handed him a piece anyway and walked off before he could protest.

He ate it. All of it. He might’ve moaned a little. Quietly.

You caught him looking at you later in the hallway and winked.

He walked into a locker.

—

The following week.

You wore a pale pink dress that brushed just past your knees — soft cotton with fluted sleeves and a delicate row of buttons down the front. Your hair was tied back with a matching ribbon, and you had this little gold locket resting right at the dip of your collarbone. The whole look was straight out of another era, and somehow, you made it seem effortless.

When Mark smirked at some dumb joke Todd made, you passed by and said, “Well, don’t you look like the cat that caught the canary,” with a wink so casual it nearly knocked him out of his seat.

He didn’t even know what that meant, but it haunted him the rest of the day.

Someone tried to ask you out during lunch — real bold, real loud. Mark didn’t even realize he was standing until his tray clattered into the trash, fists clenched.

You politely declined, said you “weren’t lookin’ for anything right now.”

Mark exhaled. Sat back down.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he really liked your answer.

—

Two weeks later.

You were in the library again, reading some battered paperback, a little crinkle in your brow. You didn’t even notice when he sat next to you. Just mumbled, “This plot’s messier than a possum in a henhouse,” and kept flipping pages.

Mark didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at the cover like it personally offended him.

“That’s what Cliff Notes are for,” he muttered, leaning back in the chair like he hadn’t just voluntarily walked into a room full of books.

You looked over at him then, smiling like he’d said something clever instead of lazy.

“Well, now,” you drawled, “I didn’t peg you for the shortcut type, but I s’pose even a blind hog finds an acorn every now and then.”

Mark stared at you, completely thrown. What did that even mean? And why the hell did it make his chest feel like it was too small for his ribs?

He looked away fast, ears burning.

You just laughed and went back to your book, like you hadn’t just wrecked him with a farm animal metaphor.

—

And then, it all came to a head.

—

It was raining hard after school. You were stuck under the overhang, hugging your bag tight and trying not to shiver as the wind whipped around the courtyard.

Mark saw you before you saw him.

Saw the way you were chewing your lip, muttering something under your breath. Your boots were soaked, your sundress stuck to your knees, and you looked about two seconds from crying.

He didn’t even hesitate.

He tugged off his hoodie and shoved it over your head as he approached.

You gasped, halfway turning. “What in the—?”

“Just take it.” His voice was low, rough. “You’re shivering.”

You blinked up at him, the hoodie swamping your frame. It smelled like him — clean and sharp and faintly like rain.

“Oh sug,” you said softly. “You’ll get soaked.”

“I’ll be fine.”

A beat passed.

Then your fingers curled around his sleeve, gentle and warm even in the cold, and you looked up at him through the rain.

“Is this how you treat all the girls, darlin’?” you asked, soft as sugar, but with just enough teasing to make his heart trip.

Mark looked at you — really looked — rain dripping from his hair, jaw tight.

“No,” he said, quiet and certain. “Just you.”

You tilted your head, lashes low, voice barely above the rain.

“Well, ain’t I the lucky one.”

Then, before he could say a word, you leaned up on your toes — easy, sure — and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It was warm. Gentle. Just the briefest brush of your lips, like a secret shared between only the two of you.

Mark stood completely still.

His heart stopped. His breath caught. Every nerve in his body sparked alive like someone had lit a fuse.

You pulled back slow, smiling again — that sweet, knowing curve of your mouth that had haunted him since the first day you walked into class.

“Thank you, darlin’. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, light as a lullaby, and turned to walk through the rain like it didn’t even touch you.

Mark didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there in the rain, cheek burning where your lips had been.

What the hell was that?

He reached up, touched the spot like it might still be there. Like he could press the warmth into his skin before it vanished.

A kiss on the cheek. Just a kiss. That’s all it was.

But his heart was hammering like he’d just won a fight, and his mouth curved into a crooked grin before he could stop it.

Well, damn.

You kissed him. You actually kissed him.

Didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the mouth. Didn’t matter that you were probably just being sweet.

In Mark’s head, that kiss might as well have come with a diamond ring and a courthouse date.

He turned, still grinning like a fool, and started toward the lot.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

—

The next morning, Mark strolled into school like he’d already won something no one else even knew was up for grabs.

He spotted you immediately — of course, he did — standing by your locker, halfway through a thermos of sweet tea as you hummed under your breath.

You looked up when you saw him coming, a warm smile spreading across your face as you grabbed his hoodie from your locker and held it out to him, fresh and folded. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” you teased, your voice as warm as sunshine. “Here’s your hoodie back, sugar. Washed it up for you.”

Before you could do more than blink, Mark was standing in front of you, one hand around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head. And then — without any warning — he kissed you.

It wasn’t a kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t sweet or soft. It was all heat, all hunger, a sharp burst of something that felt like the first thunder before a storm.

You gasped, hands immediately going up to push at his chest, and when he let himself be moved back just enough – you slapped him. Hard.

Your eyes flashed with frustration and disbelief. “What the devil’s gotten into you?!” you snapped, voice tight.

Mark raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. He didn’t even flinch at the slap — in fact, he looked better for it, like it gave him a boost of confidence.

“C’mon,” he said with that cocky grin, crossing his arms. “You kissed me. That’s basically a done deal, right?”

“Mark,” you said sharply, “That was a kiss on the cheek. You know, like the kind you give your mama when you’re bein’ polite?”

Mark blinked, looking completely unbothered. He shrugged one shoulder and replied with an air of casual indifference, “Nah, wouldn’t get that. My mom’s dead.”

The words were simple, but the way he said it — like it didn’t bother him, like it was just a fact — hit you harder than you expected. You paused, the heat in your eyes flickering.

For a second, you didn’t know how to respond. You felt the frustration drain out of you, replaced by a sudden softness.

“Well… shoot, sugar,” you said, your voice softer now, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Mark just shrugged again, his expression still casual, like it didn’t faze him one bit.

“It’s fine,” he muttered with that same offhand nonchalance. “Didn’t think much of it.”

You chewed on your lip, fighting back a wave of guilt.

“Still,” you said, stepping in just a little closer, “I’ll keep it sweeter next time. Promise.”

That’s when Mark’s grin flickered — not because he was sad, but because he realized he had the perfect opportunity to turn this around. His shoulders straightened a little, and that cocky glint sparked in his eyes again.

“Oh, you’re sweet on me now, huh?” His voice was low and playful as he leaned in closer. “Well, if you like a man with a little tragedy in his past... I’ve got everything you need.”

He let the words hang in the air, watching your reaction like it was the punchline of a joke only he knew.

You stared at him for a beat, feeling your patience wear thin, but something about the way he was looking at you — so sure of himself — made you chuckle despite yourself.

He smiled, cockiness shining through, but there was something softer underneath. “You kissed me, wore my hoodie... we’re practically a couple now. Might as well start picking out rings.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, shaking your head at the absurdity of it. God, this guy was ridiculous.

You patted his chest — twice, gentle. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and walked off, curls bouncing softly with each step.

He blinked after you, grinning with unshaken confidence.

Then he started after you, voice low and lazy as he fell into step behind.

“Wait—hold up. I thought we were gonna try that kiss again.”