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aaksuitac · 7 months ago

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[04:24 am] “what are we?”

wc: 2.3k

a/n: [fluff viktor brainrot thanks to @dilemmars. t dije q me vengaría baby, así q zas, un payback por tus podcasts jdjfjjsd. hope u like cause its ur fault]

he’s humming something you don’t quite understand, a distant tune that sounds familiar —probably you’ve heard him sing it before—, and even if you don’t recognize the melody aside from that, you can’t help but appreciate it.

his hands fidget with whatever he can reach as he sighs once more, as if he was stealing breaths from the world, heavy, almost as lidded as his eyelids. his hair falls on his eyes and in between his slender fingers while he curls the untamed strands, and you fall into an endless pit of staring at him as he scribbles, grunts, sighs, and finally pinches the bridge of his nose.

“statistically speaking, i’m starting to feel like the chances of me getting this right are adversatively proportional to the chances of you accidentally swallowing a fly.”

and you just blink, once, then twice.

he stares at you, gives you a pointed look. he can’t really say if you understood that you were just staring at him with your mouth parted, but you squint at him, snickering.

“what,” his low voice fails to ask, unbothered, knowing that you’ll answer regardless.

and you do, answering. “you haven’t even uttered a word in a while. i was just surprised that you could still talk, is all,” you grin cheekily, playing with a screw on the table as you turn left and right on the chair you’re sitting on.

viktor looks at you, and he can’t help but crack a smile. point for you.

“what you laughing for, mhh, mister science?”

“isn’t it enough to bother me from the moment i get inside the lab in the morning that you need to do it at night too?” he pretends seriousness, side-eyeing you teasingly.

“fair enough. i will consider your offer, man of fleeting memory, and take it upon myself to bother you longer.”

his mean stare wouldn’t even make a kitten mewl, but you take you hand to your heart, pretending to be wounded.

“don’t look at me like that! you’ll hurt my feewings,” you pouted, much to his amusement.

“fleeting memory?” he scoffs, accent rolling off his tongue. “when’s the last time you lost a hairtie, mmh?” he mocks.

“unfair!” you can’t help but giggle as you pretend to hide your hair from his view. point for him. “besides. i take better care of my hair than you do of yours.” you pouted smuggly. “mine looks prettier.”

“what?” he finally asks, letting out a chuckle this time as his eyes land on you for the first time in the good part of an hour.

you play with your hair to style it, and funnily pose, hands on your cheeks as you lay your elbows on the table.

“what, don’t I look pretty?” you smiled, letting out a cheeky giggle.

yes. he doesn’t say it, but his eyes haven’t dodged back to his papers just yet. it’s another point for you. so very pretty.

he doesn’t dare. he knows it. his mind, or at least the small portion of his mind that still ties him with the occasional reminder that he’s human, looks at you and wants you in a way that he’s never wanted before.

so viktor resolves in looking at you. maybe only for a moment, maybe only on those fragments of time when he’s tired enough that he looks at the stars and at the moon, yearning to reach them, only to think he’ll miss the moonlight, finally blinking to the realization that he had been staring into your eyes for too long.

his eyes are dull as he stares at you, and your expression of worry at the fact makes his heart skip a beat. “viktor?” you mumble, softly, sleepily, warily. he can’t stop staring at you, and while he supposes success and defeat can look the same in a mirror —therefore, he doesn’t really blame your confusion—, he finds no words to explain which one he’s feeling as you move your chair towards him by a push against the floor, solely accompanied by the sound of the little wheels rolling to him.

he grabs his walking stick and turns it around, pretending to poke at your chair, as if to teasingly shove it away. if you realize that he settles the walking stick just in the correct place so that your stool can’t move back, he doesn’t know. viktor just stares at the floor, to pretend that maybe the way your eyes turn tender when his reflection shines on them has nothing to do with what you’re about to say.

tsk, tsk. clueless viktor.

he’s expecting it, yes, but even with that on mind, he can’t phathom how your course of action chooses laughing as you fidget with the loose button on his vest, the second one from the top down. viktor purposely forces himself to stable his breathing, worry seeping into him, thinking that maybe you could feel his heartbeat grow faster beneath the layers of clothing.

and he feels like the remnants of a cheap ring that stain a finger blue, when comparing himself as he stands —sits— close and next to you. maybe its because you usually wear rings, and he can feel the ghost of them as your hand trails up and absentmindedly fixes his collar.

he can almost see it. your mind working, the pieces falling into place, the—

“either my eyes are deceiving me or yours have been on my lips for a rather long time.”

and he can just. blink. as if that could break how mesmerized he feels, how his heart swells up and covers his throat, how inexplicably he feels when you’re with him, near and alone. the need to know more. the need to use every trinket and screw to map out your body for him to explore, and to map out the wonders of your mind for the world to admire and maybe then find out the reason of his inability to look away.

he was so focused before. used to be.

he is. now, at you. of you. on you.

you.

another point for you. he isn’t keeping count, but something tells him he’s losing.

and as his gaze falls back to your lips in between a battle against your eyes, lost in which to stare and sink into their devotion, he hesitates again.

he thinks its funny. so funny, viktor holds back the dry chuckle that threatens to go past his lips. how to cherish you in a way that matters. how to love, the scientist wonders. is there a way that would allow him to unveil and unravel himself to you? could there be some kind of language, able to express the depth of his insides, that you, too, could understand?

what is love, anyways? is he in love with you because his coffee tastes better when it matches the dark of your pupils? because when he takes the mug from your hand and his fingers brush against yours, it seems warmer? because he notices how the dark shade in your eyes seems to mix with that of your irises, and the way the black eats the colour when you stare at him? because he claims to hate company while he studies alone, but one chair remains empty as he works, waiting for who it was meant for? because when he fails and surrenders himself to the fall, throws his walking stick against the wall, he yearns for your embrace and how your hair smells in the evenings?

is that love? and if it is, could you understand it?

if it is love, and he could say it, would such a short word convey its meaning, or was he speculating just a couple of paragraphs ago? was he assuming the meaning of what love entails?

even so. if he said it, would you repeat it? would you claim you love him because he loves you, claim to love him too? would you instead claim to love him despite everything, even the uncertainty of love itself?

…does he accept it himself?

he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount of voices in his head. there’s too much chatter. too many questions he can’t answer, too many commas, too many question marks. too much, too much, too many.

so he silences them. makes the voices dim to a deep silence. and when his lips find themselves suddenly against yours, he finds out the true, effervescent meaning of quietness.

his hand fails to pull you closer because of the damn walking stick that gets in the way. or maybe its the chairs you’re both on that clash against each other. maybe its matter itself. for a while, its the first time viktor doesn’t want to know.

in a bold statement, he couldn’t give a fuck.

he’s kissing you.

and it should be bad because of all the unanswered questions. he’s skipping procedure. he’s gone from the fuck around to finding out and he doesn’t know where he is at this point.

what he does know, is that your hand pulls him by his necktie, and he’s gone. science? yours only. the science that he’d study all of the nights he may have left. the science behind what makes you. the science behind how your hand craddles his face while stroking his cheekbones. the science behind how you’re the closest you’ve ever been to him and somehow still not close enough. the science behind the reason why when you pull away makes his heart beat so loudly, as if it had forgotten how to a second ago.

your forehead rests against his. he shouldn’t have done that. he just… did it. maybe that was bad. was it? could it be? he had been waiting for so long too. he never thought he would…

“viktor, what are we?”

and he’s dead. he knows what the question implies, but he doesn’t want to answer. he could follow you like a lost puppy through piltover and zaun and hell knows where else. if he wasn’t dead now he would die right there and now without a second thought, because the feeling that overcame him was that love was suddenly a sentence or two away.

he knows he doesn’t dare. it’s one of the only thing he knows, one of the things he’s sure of.

but somehow, he moves. he stands up, takes the walking stick, and attempts to walk out the feeling that bounces inside him.

the walking stick always makes a noise when he walks, one with dificulties to interpret in terms of onomatopeia. not quite a thud, not deep enough to reach that quality. not a clack, for it is not entirely made of metal. still, as if it was a mix of both, he keeps walking.

viktor is nervous. thud-clack. he’s not moving far from his chair, nor is he going somewhere else. thud-clack. he still keeps pacing. thud-clack. maybe the answer is somewhere in the room. thud-clack. maybe he can reply.

thud-clack, thud-clack, thud-clack.

only does he then realize that he hasn’t answered your question. and a non-answer statement might as well be a rejection.

no. no, no, no. fuck.

he’s sitting again, but you stand up. your hair follows, long. moving and brushing against the skin of your shoulders in a way that he can’t help but claim it to be endearing.

you’re walking. you don’t make any kind of extra sound when you walk. your heels reverberate against the floor like any other, yet also they mark the beat of his heart.

he can’t reach for you. you walk too fast.

you stop when you feel the walking stick on your side. the part made for him to lean on as he walks hooks you, and you stand, not facing him.

he doesn’t use the walking stick as he stands. no, he keeps it hooked to your core, scared that you might leave. you could, he wouldn’t blame you. but he can’t allow it.

he holds it in the air as he takes one step. another step. you’re turning, surprised to see him standing, and you gasp when he lets himself fall on you.

your touch surrounds him. yes. that’s the closeness he needed. he drops the walking stick, his hands slithering on your body, pressing you against him, for no reason at all yet because it is all needs.

“what can we be?” he whispers. he takes the science approach. the viktor approach.

he isn’t too clueless after all.

he raises enough to look at your darkened, sleepy eyes. he wants to drown in them.

“if i wanted to kiss you everytime you hand me coffee, wanted you to sit on the same chair as ne and hug me from behind as I work, wanted you.” he swallows dry. “then, what can we be?”

he doesn’t want to say the words, and its petty.

it’s the 31st when the clock strickes five am and your hands travel through his hair to kiss him again. to unbalance him enough that he falls back on his chair and you follow him, sitting on his lap.

and as he kisses you, his hands worshipping the skin he can touch, the warmth he can feel through layers of clothing, he feels like maybe there’s a life worth living, so he can’t ask.

he’s heard boys and girls when he was young talk about it. “he didn’t want to celebrate our month-versary,” a girl cried as he played with his little boat, watching from afar as she was comforted by her friend.

it’s the 31st. and he can’t really ask the question now, because if he says it, how could you celebrate each month?

he moves the chair and holds you in his arms as your back falls against the table before him. maybe he can kiss you until next month. until the clock strikes and it’s the 1st.

he smiles as he kisses you, feeling you pull his necktie off. he thinks it’s the best idea he’s had in a while. and a true scientist always tries out their hypothesis.

~k.k. (☆) have fun!

aaksuitac, november 2024 ©

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane season 2 #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #viktor #victor arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane fic #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x female reader #arcane show #arcane fluff #viktor machine herald

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luveline · 1 year ago

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hey jade! maybe this is a tad more angsty than you'd like but could I request prison!Spence getting a visit from bombshell!reader and Amy? or a phonecall with them? q

ty for your request <3 mom!reader, 1.4k

“Best behaviour,” you’re whispering, hand on Amy’s small back, her shoe digging into your hip. “I’m serious, baby. Big feelings are okay, but we can’t be loud. We can’t shout.”

She frowns. Amy’s been a little against you these last few weeks. “I’m not shouting.”

“I know.” You try and fail to divide your attention between her and the line you’re following. You almost miss the sound of the buzzer that ushers you forward. “Okay, I’m right here. I know everything has been super scary, and you’re my brave girl, but I’m right here. You can tell me anything. Okay?”

She rubs your chin with her nose. “Okay, mom.”

“Okay. Let’s go see daddy!” you cheer under your breath, enthusing your voice with some false joy.

Your nerves threaten to make you sick, but you have to be the put together one. This is the strife part of the marriage you’d signed up for. Though no one can blame you for handling it poorly —who could ever expect Spencer to be where he is right now?

You carry Amy into the penitentiary visitor’s room with apprehension, shoulders stiff, fingers aching against your little girl’s rough denim jacket. The room is laid out strangely, but there’s a clear division between the prisoners and the visitors, though there’s no overarching perspex. There are dividers, sure, but you can touch him. You can see him sitting near the middle of the room, his hair in violent disarray, his eyes locked onto you already.

You speed up your walking.

Desperate, your knee knocks into a chair as you try to touch his face.

Spencer lets you for a half a second, before he moves away. “You’re not allowed to touch me,” he says, voice laden with a raw apologeticness that threatens to trip you up immediately.

“Daddy!” Amy says, squirming in your arms, her foot on the desk as she tries to shove herself over the short partition.

Spencer, in a dads instinct, reaches for her without thinking. “Amy, Amy,” he says.

“No touching!” a guard shouts clearly.

Spencer pushes Amy gently back into your arms and holds his arms up in surrender. The guard veers his way, but walks off again when he sees Spencer’s compliance.

“Daddy,” she whines, holding out her hand.

“Sit down,” Spencer says to you.

You sit down. The gap between both you and Amy and Spencer widens, her little legs pumping restlessly into your thighs. You’ll be bruised as a soft pear when you go home, but you barely feel it now.

“Shh,” you say, wrapping your arms around her like a straight jacket. You don’t really have a choice. “Shh, baby, shh. Remember what mommy said, okay? We have to be quiet, or they won’t let us see your daddy anymore. We have to follow the rules.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer says. He clears his throat. “Hey, Amanda?”

She looks up in surprise at her full first name. “What?” she asks.

“God, it’s so good to see you.” His voice thickens with emotion, but he keeps a tight handle on it. “I miss you so much, sweetheart. So much.” He looks at you. “I miss you,” he says again.

“We miss you too.” You wipe your nose. “It’s weird just being mom and Amy at home.”

Weird isn’t the right word. Amy has cried herself sick five nights a week for the last month, because if her mom is home, why isn’t her dad? Why can’t she talk to him? Where did he go?

“When can you be home?” Amy asks, reaching toward the glass again.

Spencer looks around the room before he reaches over the half-partition to hold her hand. He gives you a look: watch my back.

“I don’t know yet,” he says, holding her hand tightly, and giving her fingers little squeezes, “I’m sorry, princess.”

You give him a look of your own: change the subject.

You miss Spencer more than you’ve ever missed another person. There’s never been a feeling as acute as this in your life, you don’t know what to do with yourself when you aren’t with him. The only thing you can do is be Amy’s mom, and you’ve always felt that Spencer made you better at it. Without him, you’re struggling.

He looks like he can tell.

He diverts his attention from you to Amy again, ducking his head, his face posed into his most loving smile. “You’re so pretty, just like your mommy. You’re getting prettier every day, aren’t you? Mommy told me you’ve been helping make your own dinner. That’s amazing. You’re my smart girl.”

“I make– made our favourite last night.” She struggles over ‘favourite’, but she’s as smart as her father. The words come easily. “We had, uh– butter chicken! And mommy made…”

You blink a small tear from the corner of your eye. “I made garlic naan. We toasted them under the grill, didn’t we?” you ask with a sniffle.

“Yes!” She looks back at you. “Dad’s plate.”

You wipe your cheek quickly. “We kept you some,” you say, fighting as hard as you can to stop yourself from crying at the table. You can’t break down here, and you won’t. “Amy was worried you’d come home and be hungry, so we saved you some.”

Spencer leans far over the table to squeeze your wrist. Behind him, the prison guard begins making their way to your table.

“Spencer.” You lean away before he can get caught.

Spencer snatches his hand back to grip the partition.

He smiles. “Angel,” he says clearly, looking you straight in the eye, “you’re doing so good. I can’t believe how amazing you are.”

“I’m gonna fix this,” you promise.

“No, no, angel, I just need you to look after yourself, and my princess.” He gives Amy a smile dripping with affection. “She needs lots of looking after. Don’t you, Amy? I know mommy’s doing such a great job looking after you.”

“I miss you,” she says.

“I miss you too.”

“Can I have a hug now?”

He looks back, right into the watchful gaze of the guard. He turns back with a smile that’s nearly convincing. “Not right now, I probably don’t smell very nice, and they don’t want me to get my gross smell on you.”

“Ew, daddy.”

“Ew,” he agrees, wrinkling his nose. “I wish I smelled like you and mommy. What smell is it today, baby?”

“Persimmon,” she says. She preens at the suggestion that she smells good, relaxing against your chest.

You kiss her temple.

“Persimmon,” Spencer says. He couldn’t sound more proud. “You know what? Persimmons have lots of meaning. They’re a symbol of perseverance.” He remembers to dumb it down. “People who eat lots of persimmons are strong, they can get through anything. Maybe when you and mommy go home, you can share a persimmon, and I can eat one here, and together we’ll be strong while we wait for me to come home.”

“You can come home now,” Amy says. “Come home with us!”

“I can’t,” he says gently. “It’s complicated.”

“I think daddy has the right idea,” you say, interrupting his explanation unapologetically, “I think we should go to the market when we leave and pick all the different fruits, and I’ll send some for dad here, and we can eat them at the same time.”

“Like a picnic?”

“I can make little sandwiches, and we’ll get your teddies,” you agree. “Whatever you want. But first, I think you need to tell daddy all about this week. What book have we been reading? Oh, and we got you some new shoes ‘cos your feet got bigger!”

He smiles lovingly. “Oh, they did?” he asks softly.

You know he’s gutted.

(Spencer gets out of prison almost two whole months later. He gives Amy a huge box of tangerines (with the white lie that they are persimmons, hard to find in DC, and your sweet girl doesn’t know the difference yet) with a new pair of converse wrapped in a red silk bow, promising that he will never miss another fitting. He doesn’t know where to start with you, that much is obvious, he’s so grateful to be home and he’s sick to his stomach with guilt, too. He doesn’t realise the only thing you needed was for him to come back.

The diamond necklace is a nice gesture, though not half as valuable as his face pressed to your neck as he sleeps, Amy on his stomach, their long fingers sticky with orange peels. It makes all your silent crying worth it.)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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callsign-fox · 29 days ago

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Comfy Cozy - Bob/Sentry

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

No warnings xo

Thanks for all the love! <3

Avengers Tower was unusually still—the kind of quiet that only came late at night, when the city’s hum faded into a distant murmur and most of the team had long since turned in.

She sat curled up in the corner of the couch in the common room, a thick knit blanket draped over her legs and a worn paperback resting in her hands. The book had been her escape for the evening—something calm and grounding, far removed from the chaos their world often brought.

Bob Reynolds wandered the room like a restless shadow. He didn’t know what had drawn him out of bed—well, that wasn’t true. He did know. The Void was stirring again. Whispering. Pressing against the corners of his mind like a storm trying to seep through cracks in a windowpane.

He stopped when he saw her.

She looked peaceful, completely absorbed in the pages of her book, brow faintly furrowed in thought. The soft light from a nearby lamp lit her face in gold. Bob felt the tension in his chest ease just a little.

He crossed the room slowly. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that broke the silence without shattering it.

She glanced up, surprised to find him there but not at all displeased. “I could ask you the same.”

Bob offered a small smile and nodded toward the spot beside her. “Mind if I sit?”

She shifted, making room. “Not at all.”

He sank onto the couch, his body still taut with unease, but less so now. Being near her always had a calming effect—like a tether to reality, to the light he kept fighting to hold onto.

“What are you reading?” he asked, leaning just a bit to catch the cover.

She tilted the book slightly so he could see. “One of my favorites—The Hobbit. I figured my brain needed a break from… everything.”

He chuckled softly. “I’ve never read it.”

She turned back to the first page and read aloud, “In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat. It was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

“Are you going to read the whole book to me? Because I could listen to you all night,” he said, adjusting himself and propping his legs on the ottoman.

“If you ask nicely,” she replied with a smile.

For a moment, silence settled again—this time, companionable. She stared down at the book, unmoving. Then, quietly, he turned toward her. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

She gave him a side glance. “Just thinking about what comes next.”

He frowned slightly, not out of worry, but recognition. “Big thoughts for a cozy night.”

She shrugged, slipping her thumb between the pages to mark her place. “I think the quiet makes room for them. When everything stops moving, it’s hard not to wonder what’s waiting around the corner.”

Bob nodded slowly. He knew that feeling all too well. “Yeah. Sometimes the quiet’s worse than the noise.”

A beat passed.

“You know, you think better when you’re comfortable,” he said after a moment, voice low. “My shoulder’s available, if you want it.”

“Bob,” she said softly, smiling. “You can just say you want to cuddle with me. I’ll say yes.”

“Fine.” His cheeks grew warm, but he said softly, “I want to cuddle with you.”

She laughed, the sound soft and warm, then gently reached for his arm, guiding it around her as she nestled closer. Her head found its place against his shoulder, and with a content sigh, she shifted again—stretching her legs out and draping them across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t move, just let it happen, as if he’d been waiting for her to do exactly that. His hand came to rest lightly on her knee, and for the first time that night, everything felt still in the best possible way.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

Her eyes drifted shut. “Yeah. It is.”

Bob wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, cocooned in quiet warmth and the soft flicker of lamplight, but for once he wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. Her fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of the blanket as her breathing evened out, calm and steady beside him.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmured after a while.

“At what?” he asked, voice low.

“This. Being here. Letting everything feel... safe.”

Bob let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Safe isn’t usually the word people associate with me.”

“Well,” she said, turning her head just slightly to look up at him, “maybe they just don’t know you like I do.”

Her words made something flutter behind his ribs—an unfamiliar softness, a warmth he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. He glanced down at her, eyes catching hers, and everything else—the weight of the Void, the world outside, the chaos always waiting in the wings—just faded.

“You make it easy,” he said quietly.

She smiled, shifting her legs slightly on his lap, toes brushing against the side of his thigh. “I don’t think that’s true,” she teased. “I’m very high maintenance. Just ask Sam.”

Bob smirked. “You’re a menace. But you're my favorite kind.”

A playful glint lit her eyes. “That sounds dangerously close to flirting, Mr. Reynolds.”

He tilted his head, the smile on his face turning lopsided. “Maybe it is.”

“Guess I should warn you,” she said, voice softening, “I tend to flirt back.”

She was so close now, and Bob didn’t need heightened senses to notice the shift in the air—the quiet magnetism of a shared affection finally acknowledged. He lifted a hand, brushing his fingers gently along her cheek before tilting her chin upward to meet his gaze

“Then I’m definitely not stopping,” he said.

And then—slowly, giving her time to pull away—he leaned in. Her breath caught just slightly, but she didn’t move, didn’t look away. Their lips met in a kiss that was gentle, unhurried, warm. A kiss that felt like the start of something real.

When they pulled apart, barely an inch between them, she smiled—soft and a little shy.

“I was hoping you would do that,” she said.

Bob looked at her for a moment, like he was memorizing everything—her eyes, her voice, the way she looked at him.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to do that,” he said quietly.

She reached up, her fingers brushing his. “Me too.”

And in the silence that followed, there was no doubt—whatever this was, it mattered.

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monicfever · 2 months ago

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Hmmm hello, could you maybe do - in headcanon style - how it was for the daredevil people fall in love with reader?

Btw I'm loving your blog <3

falling in love 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he falls in love through sound first. it’s your laugh. that’s what stays with him.

the way your laugh catches in your throat like you’re surprised by your own joy. sometimes soft and tired, sometimes wild and unexpected. he memorizes the rhythm of it before he even realizes he’s falling.

he tries not to get used to you. tells himself it’s dangerous. comfort is a trap. but then you show up with coffee just how he likes it, or rest your head on his shoulder without a word, and suddenly he wants to forget how to be alone. that scares him more than anything.

your voice becomes something like home. in the courtroom, on the street, through a half-open window — he hears you. even when you’re not talking to him, he listens. it calms the part of him that’s always spinning too fast. he hears the shift in your tone before you know you’re upset. he leans closer before you ask.

he notices the silence when you’re not around. it’s not just quiet — it’s peaceful. there’s a difference ever since he’d met you. the silence doesn’t press on his chest. it makes him feel like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. he doesn’t realize how loud his world is until you’re in it, softening the edges.

he feels selfish for wanting you. you’re light. steady. you remind him of everything good he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. he keeps his distance sometimes, disappears without warning. comes back with a quiet apology and a bruise he won’t talk about.

he listens more than he speaks. you talk about your day, about something you read, about nothing. he listens. not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he doesn’t want to break the spell. your voice makes things feel less heavy.

he notices how you move through the world. you make sounds other people don’t notice. the way your fingertips brush surfaces absentmindedly, how your keys jingle in your pocket, your breathing when you’re focused.

he starts turning toward you without thinking. even before you speak, even in a crowd. it’s instinct. you come into a room and his body just shifts. like a flower tilting toward the sun. he doesn't fight it anymore. he doesn't even notice he’s doing it until foggy calls him out with a smirk.

your presence is a texture. warm skin. soft fabrics. the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air hours after you leave. your touch is electric in the quietest way — never overwhelming, always grounding.

he never expected to fall in love like this. not with the city screaming. not with his past dragging behind him like a shadow. but you showed up, and you didn’t flinch at the broken pieces. you made space for him. slowly, without pressure.

he keeps finding traces of you on him. a stray thread from your scarf clinging to his coat. the faint scent of your perfume on his pillow. the echo of your laughter in his head when he’s perched on some rooftop, bleeding and tired and aching for the next time he gets to sit next to you in silence.

he doesn’t say it right away.

he’s scared of love. of needing someone. of you realizing what he really is. but one night, when your fingers graze his and he doesn’t pull away, you smile like you know. and maybe you do.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he feels like he’s stepping on dangerous ground. every time you smile at him, or when you simply sit next to him, he’s aware of the space between you, the space he always tries to keep. it’s an instinct to stay distant, to protect you from getting too close. he’s been through too much, seen too many people get hurt because they were too close to him. the last thing he wants is to drag you into his mess.

he keeps you at arm’s length, but he notices everything. frank doesn’t let you get too close, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see you. he notices the way you adjust your coat when it’s cold, the small sighs you let slip when you’re tired, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something that matters to you. it eats at him. he’s terrified of what it means.

keeps the tough guy act, but you’re starting to crack it. when you’re with him he doesn’t let his guard down easily. he keeps a distance, still in control. but then, there are moments — like when you ask him if he’s okay, even after he’s been gruff with you. he won’t admit it, of course, but he’s slowly realizing how much he wants to be something other than broken for you. he can’t be weak, not with you. but in the same breath, he doesn’t want to lose what you’ve given him.

frank’s instinct is always to shield you. it’s not just about protecting you from the world, he’s trying to protect you from him. every time danger crosses your path, he’s there, stepping in front of you, keeping you behind him, telling you to stay out of it. deep down, it’s not just about the danger. it’s about the fact that if you get hurt he won’t be able to live with himself.

he’s strict with you, but it comes from a place of care. won’t let you make reckless decisions, won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way, and he’s relentless about it. you can tell he’s trying to keep things together, keeping his rules in place like armour. he’s afraid to get too comfortable.

he’s never been good at letting people in, and with you, he doesn’t know how to act. there’s this undercurrent of fear that runs through him every time you seem to trust him, every time you get close. the fear that eventually, he’ll destroy whatever peace you’ve given him. he knows the darkness in him is dangerous. it’s only a matter of time before it pulls him away from you.

he’s strict with himself too. frank has learned how to control everything — his emotions, his impulses, his need for connection. with you, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. when you touch him, even accidentally, or when your eyes soften, it’s like a fuse is lit inside him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. he pulls back, hard, and tries to convince himself it’s just a moment. a brief thing. but it doesn’t feel brief.

he’s scared of what you could be to him. he’s used to being alone, to being the one who walks through the darkness without anyone beside him. you’ve brought light into his life without even knowing it, and that’s the part he can’t quite figure out. you make him feel things he hasn’t felt in years. it makes him feel like he could lose everything. he doesn’t know how to hold onto something so fragile, so pure. but god, he wants to.

he falls in love with your silence. it’s not the kind of silence that feels heavy, or suffocating. it’s the kind that comes after a long day, when you’re sitting beside him with nothing to say, and you’re perfectly content.

he doesn’t know when it happened, but you’re his calm. there’s something about you, something steady. when he’s with you, the world outside quiets. the chaos in his mind, the ghosts of everything he’s lost — somehow, with you, he can breathe. he doesn’t trust it at first. he’s not used to feeling safe.

he’s drawn to the way you move. there’s a grace to it, the way you carry yourself, like you’ve seen enough to know what’s worth paying attention to. he never misses when you come into a room.

your kindness is a weight he didn’t know he could bear. frank is used to people needing something from him. demanding things. but you? you don’t want anything but his time. it feels like too much at first. he pulls away, convinces himself it’s easier this way. but when you reach out, when your hand brushes against his, he starts realizing he doesn’t want to let go.

you are his soft spot, even if he doesn’t show it. he has layers of armor built up — physical, emotional, mental — but you slip past them without trying. you don’t force him to talk about the things that haunt him, but you’re always there when he needs to. it’s not that you fix anything, it’s that you stay.

he notices the little things. how you laugh when you’re nervous. the way you drink your coffee, always just a little too hot but never waiting for it to cool. the way you curl up with a book, lost in the world for hours, and he sits in the background, thinking he’ll never understand how something so small can make him feel so at peace.

he wants to be the one to keep you safe. it’s a selfish thought, but when he’s with you, he can’t help but feel like he wants to be the one to shield you from the world, from the violence he’s known, from the things he can’t erase.

he finally admits it, not with words, but in the way he holds you. one night, when the world’s still and you’re lying beside him, he doesn’t pull away. he lets you rest against him, his hand on your back, your breath steady against his chest. it’s a quiet thing, but it’s his way of telling you: you’re the one I need. somehow, in the silence, you understand.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

it happens quietly with foggy, so natural he doesn’t even notice it at first. he starts saving little inside jokes in his head to tell you later, ordering your food just the way you like it without thinking twice, feeling your name sit a little heavier on his tongue when he says it.

he realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his worst jokes — the kind even he knows is awful — and it makes his chest hurt in that sweet, aching way. it’s not fireworks, it’s a heartbeat skipping a step. it’s the way he looks at you and feels like he’s finally home.

he loves the way you listen. really listen. like his words matter. he’s used to being the sidekick, the comic relief - - with you, he feels seen, whole. he loves your messes, your sleepy voice, your texts that don’t always make sense. he saves photos of the sky when it reminds him of you. he notices the way you carry yourself, the way your hands move when you’re talking, the curl of your smile when you’re trying not to laugh.

he gets nervous around you sometimes, still —rambles more, tugs at his sleeves, rehearses what he wants to say and still forgets half of it. he wonders if you notice how often he looks at you when you’re not looking. he loves that you make him believe in good things. soft mornings. safe places. things that last.

he’s the kind of guy who buys two toothbrushes when he’s out just in case you forget yours, who always puts the fluffiest towel on top of the stack because he knows you like the soft ones best. he remembers the weirdest little things you’ve ever mentioned in passing, your childhood cereal, the movie you always watched when you were sick — and they just start showing up in your shared space like magic.

saturday mornings become your thing. he makes pancakes too thick and always burns the first one, but he gets this proud little look when he flips one perfectly, like it’s a win worth celebrating. you sit on the counter in his shirt, coffee in hand, and he bumps your knee with his hip like you’ve been doing this forever.

his place starts to feel like your place. there’s a mug you always use, your book left open on the couch, a hoodie that mysteriously became yours (he lets you steal it without saying anything, but he absolutely notices). foggy loves slow things with you. grocery store dates. late-night reruns of shows you’ve both seen a hundred times. trying new recipes and failing spectacularly, then ordering takeout and laughing until your cheeks hurt.

he talks about you like you’re already part of his future. “we should go there next fall,” or “you’d love this,” like there’s no version of his life where you’re not in it. he doesn’t say it to impress you — it just slips out easy, like breathing.

he loves you in the kind of way that feels like sunday light through old windows, like warmth that lingers, like home. falling for you, for him, feels like putting the final piece in a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been building. when it clicks into place all he can think is oh.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen falls in love like she’s afraid of it. like it’s a secret she’s not ready to tell herself. it starts in the small moments — your hand brushing hers, the way you say her name, how you always seem to know when she needs someone to just stay.

she realizes she’s in love late one night when you're both sitting on the floor, eating takeout straight from the containers. you say something kind without thinking, something that hits a little too deep, and she just stops. looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she can’t believe you exist in the same world as her.

loving you scares her because it feels too good, too safe, and safe hasn’t always been something she trusted. but you never rush her. never demand more than she can give. she loves how you talk about your passions, how your eyes light up when you care. she listens so carefully, so fully, like she’s collecting every version of you in her mind and holding them all close.

you make her laugh in a way that feels like sunlight after too many cloudy days. she catches herself smiling at texts from you, rereading them when the world feels too heavy. she starts leaving little things at your place. a book she thinks you’d like. her scarf draped over a chair. she never means to — it just happens, like her heart choosing to stay before she even realizes it.

she brings you coffee just the way you like it and always pretends it was “on the way” even if she went out of her way to get it. she’s not good at grand gestures but she’s incredible at the small things — remembering your schedule, checking in on hard days, knowing exactly what to say when the world feels like too much.

she always wants to share things with you. a bite of her food, a song she found, a line from a book that made her pause. she’s constantly turning to you with soft eyes like, can i give this piece of my world to you? will you hold it with me?

there’s always a softness to her when she’s around you, like she can finally exhale. she leans into you on the couch with her head on your shoulder, listens to you ramble about your day, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your arm.

when she finally tells you, it’s not dramatic. no music swelling in the background. just her, a little nervous, looking at you like she’s been waiting her whole life to find someone she could trust with her whole heart.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

it hits her like a knife to the gut. deeper. she doesn’t realize she’s in love until she catches herself watching you sleep, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, and she feels scared. not because she doesn’t want it, but because she does. because you make her feel soft in ways she swore she buried.

she falls in love the same way she fights — intense, precise. but she stays in love in quiet, careful ways. brushing your hair out of your eyes, leaving notes where only you’ll find them, guarding your safety with devotion.

she remembers the exact moment she knew. it wasn’t dramatic. it was a bad day. she came home bleeding, aching, angry — and you just held her. no questions, no judgment, just steady arms and a warm voice. and she realized she could collapse into you and still survive.

she loves how you look at her like you see her. not the weapon, not the chaos. just her. the girl who once dreamed of softer things, the woman still learning how to want them again. she’s not always good with words, but her actions scream i love you. she keeps your favourite snacks in her apartment, buys you things and pretends they’re “for fun” even though they’re always exactly what you needed. she’d burn the world for you, but she also sharpens her knives a little more carefully if she knows you’ll be waiting at home.

she brings you with her to the edge of her world. into the dark corners, the chaos, the shadows she never lets anyone else see. not because she wants to scare you, but because she trusts you to love her anyway. she tells you stories late at night, low, words carefully chosen. not all of them are beautiful. some are ugly, violent, sad. but she tells you because you’re the only one she thinks might understand. or at least try to.

she calls you darling when she’s teasing, but your name — your real name — always leaves her lips like something holy.

you ground her. not by caging her—never that. but by letting her fly and knowing she has somewhere to land. someone who won’t flinch when the world turns sharp.

loving you doesn’t make her weaker. it makes her braver. she finally has something worth surviving for, something worth coming back to.

you make her laugh in a way no one else can. real, unguarded laughter, head thrown back, hand gripping your thigh like she doesn’t want to fall. like you’re her gravity. she sleeps best with her hand wrapped around your wrist, your chest rising beneath her ear. no one touches her like you do, like she’s something worth holding, not just something sharp and dangerous.

when she kisses you it’s deliberate. she pulls you in like she’s starving, like you're a secret she’s been dying to keep. sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always real.

she’s still learning how to stay. but with you, it’s getting easier. loving you doesn’t feel like losing control, it feels like finding it. like maybe this, you, were the only thing she ever really wanted to protect.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he loves you like a loaded gun loves a steady hand. like you’re the only thing keeping him from spinning out. there’s worship in his gaze when he looks at you, like you hung the stars just for him, like you're the one true thing in a world that never made sense.

he knows he’s in love when you touch his face for the first time. gentle. unafraid. he holds so much violence in his bones, but your fingers? your fingers make him feel human, like maybe he’s more than what he’s done.

he doesn’t know how to be casual about you. everything is everything with dex. he memorizes the way you speak, the things you love, the clothes you wear. he keeps mementos without even realizing it — your receipts, your notes, the smallest scrap of your existence. not in a creepy way (mostly). his version of domestic love is quiet but obsessive. he notices what soap you use and buys it in bulk. he learns your schedule so he can cook your favourite dinner on the nights you always come home tired.

knows your schedule by heart. not because you told him but because he watched. memorized the way your day flows, where you go, the train you take, how long it takes you to get home. he needs to feel close, even when you're far.

he goes still when you’re not around. like the world presses pause until he hears your key in the door, your voice calling his name. he’s not himself without you. it’s like you carry the part of him that makes him human. when you're in the room, no one else exists. his eyes never leave you. even if you’re across the bar, even if he’s mid-conversation, his body always tilts toward you, like instinct, like a weapon waiting for your call.

gets needy when you’re distant. emotionally, physically, even just distracted. he’ll try to play it cool but ends up pressed against you like a shadow, murmuring things like you still like me, right? and i'm good for you, aren’t i? like he needs you to say it over and over just to keep breathing.

he remembers everything. the first thing you ever wore around him. the way you said his name that one time with your voice half-broken from laughing. the exact moment he realized he'd burn the world if it meant keeping you safe.

stalks your socials when you’re apart for too long, even if you’ve only been gone a few hours. he zooms in on blurry selfies like they hold clues to how you're feeling. he rereads old texts.

he has trouble saying i love you. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he feels it too much. like the words might break open something inside him. when he does say it, it’s always a whisper, like a secret — murmured into your hair, your collarbone, your heartbeat.

he doesn't like people getting too close to you. even friends, especially strangers. he doesn’t cause scenes, but the way he stands too close, stares too long, it’s a warning. he’s jealous in ways he tries to hide. you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, and his eyes flash before he looks away, jaw clenched. he never blames you. he just doesn’t know how to share. he’s never had anything worth keeping before.

he adores your voice. your laugh. the way you say his name like it means safety and not danger. he starts to crave it — like a lifeline, a tether. you ground him. you save him. over and over again. he’s terrified you’ll see the worst in him; the cracks, the blood, the past. the first time you tell him, i’m not afraid of you, he breaks. not loudly — just this soft, shaky exhale, like you just handed him forgiveness.

if you ever tried to leave him he’d break. and then he’d follow. quietly, obsessively. not to hurt you, because he can’t let go. not of you. not of the only person who’s ever made him feel like he’s not a monster.

ben doesn’t fall in love gently. he falls like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. it kind of is.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

billy falls for you in a way that feels wrong to him. he’s not used to needing anyone, not used to wanting someone in a way that makes him feel like he’s losing control. he tells himself you’re just another distraction, that this is a temporary thing, but every second with you proves him wrong.

he’s clingy in the most subtle way. not in the overt, obvious way. no, he keeps it under wraps at first. doesn’t want to seem too needy, but he texts you way more than you think he would, checks in at the weirdest hours, and always notices when you're upset. tries to act like it's no big deal but his heart races when you don’t reply immediately.

deep down he knows how much he wants your approval. your affection, your attention. but admitting that to himself would feel like weakness, and weakness is something billy russo has never allowed himself. so he hides it, but the truth slips out in small, desperate ways— like when he pulls you a little too close, hands gripping you a little too tight.

he gets so caught up in wanting to be perfect for you that he ignores the fact that his attachment to you is slowly consuming him. if you don’t love him back the way he needs, if you don’t give him what he craves, validation, it’s like his whole world starts to fall apart. he needs to be the one who matters to you, needs to know you see him. he craves the moment you make him feel like he’s worthy. but then, the other side of him: the side that’s broken, that knows attachments make you weak, that tries to distance himself because he doesn’t want you to see how much you’ve broken through his walls. when things get too close, too vulnerable, he pulls back. cold. distant.

he loves you with precision. he makes it look effortless, but it’s calculated. strategic. flowers when you’re stressed, your favourite wine waiting at home, gifts that are too perfect to be casual. he studies you, and you don’t even realize it until later — how much of you he’s already claimed.

he keeps tabs on you. not in a sweet checking in kind of way, more like he needs to know where you are at all times. your location's on, your building's watched. not in an invasion sort of way, just in the im making sure no one breaks in while i’m not there way.

there’s this constant struggle in his head. one part of him wants to be the perfect version of himself for you, the kind of man you can depend on, who can take care of you in ways he never thought possible. the other part of him knows that needing you like this, being dependent on you for his sense of self-worth, is his undoing.

his place starts looking like yours fast. your clothes in his closet, your skincare in the bathroom, your playlist on repeat. you don’t even remember when you started leaving things there, he just started keeping them.

he doesn't say i love you like it’s fragile. he says it like it’s a warning. like, you don’t get it. i’d kill for you. i’d ruin myself for you. i’d go back to every violent part of myself if it meant keeping you safe.

and god help anyone who tries to come between you. he’ll be smiling, charming, polite. and then he’ll be gone. and so will they.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

when she first realizes she’s in love with you, it’s all business at first. you were someone she could rely on, someone who made sense in the chaos of her life. at first, she thinks it’s just an attachment. something comfortable, someone to trust in a world of lies. but then, one night, she catches herself staring at you a little too long, her chest tightening for reasons she can’t explain. this is more than just trust. this is something else.

she doesn’t do relationships the traditional way. she never has. she’s used to keeping a distance, staying professional, protecting her heart from everyone who might use it against her. but with you, there’s something different. you slip through her walls without even trying. she hates how easily you do it. and she loves you more for it.

she’s tough on you, not because she doesn’t love you, but because she does. she believes in pushing you past your comfort zone, in making you face your weaknesses. it’s her way of showing you that she cares. by holding you accountable, by expecting you to rise to the occasion. when you slack off, when you let things slide, she’ll be the first one to call you out. her voice is firm, but it’s never cruel — just a no-nonsense tone that says, you’re better than this.

dinah’s version of love isn’t always soft. when you mess up, when you get lost in your own head, she doesn’t sugarcoat it. she doesn’t tiptoe around your feelings — she’ll challenge you. "what’s going on with you?" she’ll ask, not out of judgment, but because she knows you can do better. she doesn’t want to hear excuses, just results.

she’s not afraid to push your buttons. when you want to give up, when things get too hard, she won’t let you back down. she’ll make you face the tough stuff, sometimes in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. but it’s her way of making sure you don’t settle for less than you’re capable of. when you rise to the challenge, meet her expectations, she’ll be there, quietly proud, like she knew you could do it all along. she has high expectations, not just for herself, but for you too. if you ever doubt your own abilities, she’s the first to remind you what you’re capable of if you put in the work. she’ll test your limits, make you prove yourself, because she wants you to be the best version of yourself. sometimes you’ll resent it. sometimes it’ll feel like she’s being hard on you for no reason. but deep down you know she’s pushing you because she cares.

dinah’s love is protective, intense, and unyielding. she won’t show it in sweet, gentle ways. she’s not going to buy you flowers or write you poems, but when you need her, she’ll drop everything, no questions asked. she’ll shield you from harm with the same precision she takes down threats, and in those moments, you see how much you truly mean to her.

she’s not good at vulnerability — not with anyone, but especially not with you. it’s hard for her to let you see how much she needs you. she shows you she loves you through actions: a firm grip on your hand when she’s scared; a quiet, almost invisible smile when you’re together; pulling you close when things get rough, even if she doesn’t admit why. the words are harder for her.

when she’s in love, she’s all in, but with the weight of fear in her chest. she’s terrified of losing you. that would break her in a way she doesn’t think she could recover from. so she clings to you in ways you might not even notice, always checking on you, always making sure you’re safe, making sure nothing could hurt you.

she’s a fighter, and she loves the way you stand by her, not just through the victories, but through the losses. you’re the person who makes her feel like she’s doing something right, even when everything else is wrong. when she’s at her most vulnerable, when she’s exhausted, when the walls come down just enough for you to see the cracks, she’ll let you hold her. she’ll let you be the one who takes care of her.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

it’s more like a discovery than a realization. muse doesn’t exactly fall in love the way most people do; his emotions are tangled with his delusions and obsessions. he sees you and suddenly you’re the canvas for all his thoughts, his desires, and his fixations. it’s almost as though he becomes consumed with the idea of you, idealizing you in a way that is all-encompassing. for muse, love is about capturing someone, about making you the center of his world.

his love is possessive and suffocating. he doesn’t see you as a person with your own autonomy; he sees you as something to be owned. when you’re with him, he’ll be obsessively attentive, needing to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with.

you’ll start to notice that he manipulates every situation to keep you close to him. muse is intelligent, charming, and deeply persuasive when he wants to be. he knows how to make you feel special, how to convince you that you’re the only one who truly understands him; because, after all, you’re his masterpiece. he might start doing little things to charm you or draw you in, but as soon as you’re hooked, he’ll tighten the grip.

when he’s affectionate it’s intense. he doesn’t understand boundaries — he’ll be all over you, physically and mentally. he’ll touch you obsessively, but in ways that are still strange and uncomfortable, because he sees every part of you as something to be explored. his kisses are deep, hungry, as if he’s trying to possess you, and when he’s not physically with you, his thoughts will haunt you. expect him to watch you, follow you, and find ways to be where you are, no matter what it takes.

if you try to break free, if you even hint at being done with him, his obsession will turn dangerous. he doesn’t understand rejection in a healthy way. To him, it’s an affront to his creativity, his passion — you are his masterpiece, and no one walks away from a piece of art. he’ll find ways to draw you back in, perhaps through threats or manipulation. he’ll never let go willingly.

he won’t give up on you easily. if you ever try to move on or set boundaries he will find ways to blur the lines. can turn into a creeper — lurking in the shadows, watching your every move. his love feels suffocating, and he believes that the only way to truly love someone is by completely enveloping them, controlling every aspect of their life. he might not understand why you’d want space or independence, and to him, that only reinforces his belief that he’s the only one who can give you what you truly need.

he’s incredibly manipulative. if you ever show any resistance, muse will use guilt, charm, and emotional manipulation to make you feel like you’re the problem. he might try to gaslight you into believing that you’re the one who’s making things difficult, that he’s just trying to love you in his own way. he’s dangerous when he feels threatened. If someone else gets too close to you, or if he feels like he’s losing control over you, he’ll react with violence or threats. he’s not afraid to hurt people (or you) to maintain his control over you. this could mean anything from threatening your friends or family to going to extreme lengths to make sure no one takes you away from him.

he’ll be highly critical — almost like he’s sculpting you into something that fits his vision of what you should be. it’s not malicious in his mind; it’s about improving you, making you into someone who can be worthy of his love.

he loves your vulnerability, and he’ll try to uncover every layer of you to feel like he knows you, better than anyone else. this might manifest in seemingly innocent questions or constant probing of your past and emotions, but for him, it’s a way to build a deeper connection — an almost predatory sense of closeness that makes him feel like he has a claim on you. the more he knows, the more he can control, and that gives him a sense of artistic satisfaction.

his love might feel like being in a gilded cage; beautiful, but suffocating.

★ a / n : p.s. im glad you love it. <3

started 4.25.2025. finished 4.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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pixiexdusts-world · 4 months ago

Text

Min Ho’s unexpected plus-one

Min Ho Moon x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Min Ho surprises his friends with a girlfriend, and they can’t believe she’s real.

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If my heart beats any faster, I might actually pass out.

I smooth down my sweater for the hundredth time as Min Ho leads me toward the table where his friends—Dae, Q, and Kitty—are sitting. They’re deep in conversation, laughing at something I can’t hear, but the moment Min Ho clears his throat, all three heads turn in our direction.

“Guys,” Min Ho says, his voice casual but confident. “This is my girlfriend.”

Three pairs of eyes widen simultaneously.

“Girlfriend?!” Kitty is the first to react, nearly choking on her drink. She looks between us with the kind of shock I imagine she’d reserve for a major K-drama plot twist. “Did I miss something? Since when do you date?”

Min Ho sighs dramatically, placing a protective arm around my waist. “You all act like I was destined to be alone forever.”

Dae, who has been quiet up until now, finally blinks out of his stunned state. “I mean… kinda?” He looks at me with an apologetic smile. “Not because there’s anything wrong with you! Just, you know, because Min Ho’s… Min Ho.”

I laugh, and Min Ho groans. “Wow. Amazing. So much faith in me.”

Q leans forward, resting his chin on his hand as he studies me. “Okay, but seriously. We need details. How did this happen?”

“Yeah, and how are you putting up with him?” Kitty chimes in, narrowing her eyes at Min Ho like she’s waiting for me to expose all his flaws.

Min Ho scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest. “You know, a normal reaction would be ‘Congratulations, Min Ho! We’re happy for you, Min Ho!’”

Dae shrugs. “We’re still processing.”

I decide to take pity on him. “Honestly, he just kind of grew on me.” I glance up at him with a teasing smile. “Like an expensive, annoyingly charming fungus.”

Kitty gasps in delight. “Oh, I love her.”

Q grins. “Yeah, she’s definitely keeping him humble.”

Dae finally smiles. “Okay, okay, I approve.” He looks at Min Ho. “But if you mess this up, you know we’re all taking her side, right?”

Min Ho sighs. “Obviously.”

I can’t help but laugh as Kitty gestures excitedly for me to sit next to her, already launching into a million questions. Min Ho might have been nervous about this introduction, but honestly? I think I just found my new favorite people.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

As the night goes on, I settle into the group’s dynamic faster than I expected. Kitty is relentless with her questions, grilling me on everything from my favorite K-drama to my most embarrassing childhood story. Q is effortlessly charming, throwing in sarcastic quips that make Min Ho roll his eyes every five minutes. Dae, despite being the most reserved, gives me reassuring smiles that make it clear he’s warming up to me.

Min Ho stays close the whole time, his arm slung casually across the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally brushing against my shoulder. It’s subtle, but I can tell he’s still a little nervous, like he needs to make sure I’m okay. It’s sweet, really.

At one point, Kitty leans over and whispers, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this.”

“Like what?” I whisper back.

She glances at Min Ho, who’s currently bickering with Q over something ridiculous, then back at me with a knowing smile. “Soft.”

I feel my face warm, but before I can respond, Min Ho turns back to us. “What are you two conspiring about?”

Kitty just winks. “Nothing. Just girl talk.”

Min Ho narrows his eyes at her suspiciously, but before he can press further, Dae checks his phone and sighs. “I should probably head out. My dad’s expecting me home soon.”

Q stretches. “Yeah, me too. But this was fun. You’re officially part of the group now,” he says, giving me an approving nod.

Kitty grins. “Yeah, and don’t worry, we’ll make sure Min Ho treats you right.”

Min Ho scoffs. “She doesn’t need you guys for that. I’m an amazing boyfriend.”

I hum thoughtfully. “Debatable.”

Kitty bursts into laughter. “Oh yeah, I definitely like her.”

As we all say our goodbyes, Min Ho laces his fingers through mine and pulls me a little closer. “See? Told you they’d love you.”

I smile up at him. “Yeah, I think I love them too.”

He smirks. “Not more than you love me, though. Right?”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no denying the warmth spreading through my chest. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Min Ho grins. “I knew it.”

And just like that, I realize—being with him, being part of this? It feels exactly right.

#min ho moon #min ho x reader #min ho x kitty #min ho x you #min ho x y/n #min ho moon x reader #min ho moon x you #min ho moon x y/n #xo kitty #xo kitty x reader #xo kitty minho #minho x reader #minho x you #minho x y/n #minho moon #xo kitty season 2 #xo kitty season 1

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aegonstradwife · 11 months ago

Text

long nights | tom glynn-carney x reader

summary: you and tom are costars, who have to share an intimate scene together. afterward, you go out for drinks to unwind. and after that? it's anyone's guess.

warnings: drinking, friends to lovers, smut. (tipsy sex, oral, fingering, squirting.)

a. note: first thing i've written in a while. please be kind.

Nerves are already eating away at you as you approach Tom's trailer. Unsure what you're looking for, you rap on the door. Reassurance? Comfort? The director to jump out and shout, surprise!, the scene has been scrapped? Maybe all three?

Tom's smiling face appears as he opens the door for you, gesturing for you to join him inside. "Hey. You ready for this?"

You greet Tom with a smile as well, albeit one much more nervous than his, and step past him into his trailer. "Hey. I mean.... as ready I can be? You?"

You take a seat beside him; though you're finished for now, clad in a fluffy robe supplied to you by the crew, Tom still has a few more minutes of makeup left. Underneath your robe, you have only a skimpy nude-colored outfit on in preparation for the scene that has you so worked up.

Tom's gaze flickers to that robe, obviously wondering what's underneath. You're too busy plucking nervously at your own fingernails to notice, and when you finally glance up at him, he quickly composes himself and nods.

"Yeah, I think so. Well, as ready as I can be too, I guess." He picks up his script, fiddling with it as he watches the makeup artist put the finishing touches on his face. "This scene is going to be.... awkward, probably."

The way he says it causes a dead weight to settle in the pit of your stomach.

The artist currently dusting powder on Tom's cheeks pipes up, though, with, "Oh, don't worry too much about it, you two will be just fine!"

As she retreats, giving Tom the okay to leave, you roll your eyes and sigh, "Easy for her to say," as you hold the door open for him to follow you out.

He chuckles nervously, right behind you as you make your way to set.

The crew has done an excellent job of transforming a standard sound stage into a comfortable bedroom. Two chairs are set up beside a large bed and lights shine down on the room, already hot from the heat of the bulbs.

Tom swallows heavily as the two of you approach and the director motions for both of you to take your places on the bed.

Tom motions for you to climb on, muttering, "Ladies first," and you oblige with a stifled sort of laugh, disrobing and lying back. As he crawls over you, you try to make yourself as comfy as possible beneath him.

"You alright?" He queries softly.

Though you notice his gaze roaving over your mostly naked form, you try not to read too much into it - a half-nude woman could lie underneath any man and it probably wouldn't matter much what she looked like; he's probably going to stare no matter what.

You nod spastically, throat having suddenly closed up with embarrassment and nerves.

He nods back at you, trying to give you a reassuring smile. He props himself up on his elbows above you, trying to ignore the fact that he can feel your body heat through the very small gap between his body and yours.

The director calls for quiet on the set and it isn't long before a loud "Action!" follows.

All in all, the scene isn't painful - with someone like Tom, it can't be. He's so patient and sweet, putting you at ease and cracking jokes whenever the director yells cut.

It's becoming increasingly hard to ignore your own arousal, however, with Tom's bare, toned chest inches from your own and his soft lips searing against yours with every cry of 'action!'

Eventually, the intimacy coordinator calls an end to this particular scene for the day and as you move to roll off the bed, you can't help but notice that Tom is hard. He's wearing a flimsy little piece of flesh-colored cloth that barely covers his lower half, same as you, and it's making it very difficult to ignore what's going on down there.

Tom, however, rolls off of you quickly, trying to hide his erection and avoid drawing your attention to it. Despite his best efforts, it's still very obvious to you, and the way you blush as he looks at you isn't helping any.

You clear your throat anxiously, scampering off the bed after Tom and slipping gratefully back into your robe.

Tom is scrambling to his own feet, quickly grabbing for his robe and tying it around his waist as he watches you with a mixture of embarrassment and - desire?

The crew has begun to disperse, but Tom hesitates for a moment as he stares at you. He clearly wants to say something, but it seems he's not quite sure what. Instead, he stands there in uncomfortable silence, watching you as you fidget with the tie on your own robe.

You shoot him a small smile from across the room. "Not too bad, huh?"

He chuckles softly, returning your smile with a small, somewhat bashful, one of his own.

"Yeah, not too bad."

He sighs, raking a hand through his already-mussed hair and avoiding your gaze. He doesn't know how to bring up what just happened without feeling like an absolute creep.

"Hey.... listen. Erm, this...." He waves a hand down near his waist. "That was just.... I mean, I didn't make you uncomfortable, did I?"

God, how could he ever make you uncomfortable?

"No, no, not at all." You wave a hand, completely dismissing the idea while also trying to find a way to tell him you're actually flattered. "It was.... fun. You made it fun."

His shoulders relax slightly at your words, as though flooded with relief. But there's still obviously a part of him that's worried that he messed up.

"Good, that's.... that's good."

He rubs his jaw, avoiding your gaze and looking anywhere but directly at you.

"And.... you're not upset at me for...."

He gestures downward again.

You laugh lightly, tying your robe tight together. "Tom, everything's okay. It was a really intense scene, so it's only natural something like that would happen." Right? You're sure it must happen all the time with other actors. You're still relatively new to this, so you're not positive, but it sounds right. "Hey, why don't we get changed and go for a drink? Just the two of us?'

Tom deflates even further at the suggestion; he must have seriously been worried you'd be upset or worse.

He nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah, yeah, that sounds good. I could use a drink after that."

"Well, don't make it sound like I tortured you," you groan, a blush flooding your cheeks.

Tom runs a hand through his hair again as both of you share a bout of breathless laughter. "I'll meet you outside in five?"

"Mm, yeah."

Once out of your robe and back into your normal clothes, you feel much better and back to your usual self, waiting for Tom outside of his trailer.

He emerges a few minutes later, looking a bit more put together and much fresher than he did in costume. He spots you waiting for him and smiles.

"Hey. Sorry to keep you waiting." He starts for the lot exit, gesturing for you to follow. "I did a bit of exploring around set the other day; I know a great little place not far from here, if that's alright?"

You're always struck by how handsome Tom is out of costume - he certainly has a much better style than his character does.

"Sure, lead the way." You fall into step beside him, loving the heat radiating off of him with every step.

As you go, Tom stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. You glance at him and wonder if you imagine the peachy blush blossoming on his face. The air between the two of you feels charged somehow, the memory of the scene still fresh in both your minds.

He steals glances at you every so often as you walk, though you're unsure what exactly he's looking at or for. And instead of making you uncomfortable, you feel warm and safe under his constant gaze.

"So, what do you do to unwind after a long day on set?"

His voice takes you by surprise in the silence.

"Well, I do like a stiff drink from time to time." You gesture in front of you as if to say 'as you can see from where we're headed.' "But I also like to listen to music, play games, take a dip in a really hot bath.... how about you?"

He chuckles. "I'm not much for baths, to be honest. I'd rather shower, just take a quick rinse to feel clean."

He grins at you.

"But I do enjoy having a nice cold beer.... and occasionally I'm persuaded into a game of FIFA, if the right person is asking."

"You should seriously try a bath some time, they're so relaxing and they really help with soreness and tight muscles...."

Both of you are absolutely thinking about bathing together right now, but not one of you says this aloud.

"Oh God, you would be into FIFA, you're so incredibly British. I mostly play RPG's like Final Fantasy, Persona, that kind of thing."

He snorts a laugh at your remark.

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it. We can't all spend our free time saving the world from monsters and fighting evil overlords. Some of us just like a good bit of football."

He grins, coming up short when they reach a pub about halfway down the street.

"Right in here, my lady."

A few hours later, and the two of you are drunk off your asses, laughing at something Tom just said while sidled up at the bar.

You laugh so hard, you lean back and almost fall off your stool.

Luckily, Tom is quick enough to catch your arm and keep you from toppling backwards, but in the process, you end up pressed against his chest as he grips you in a tight yet gentle hold.

"Whoa, whao! Careful there, you're almost as accident prone as I am."

He chuckles, his breath warm against your ear as he steadies you on your feet once more. Even inebriated, you're still aware of the way you fit so perfectly against his body.

You shake your head, staring up at him. Both of you are quite drunk, but Tom at least can still keep his eyes open all the way.

You blink heavily, grasping for his hand, petting over his fingers. "Sorry, I just.... I still can't believe FIFA is your favorite game. It's a disgrace."

You devolve into a fit of giggles once more.

He rolls his eyes playfully, gently squeezing your fingers in reply.

"Oh, and you've got a better idea? Let me guess, something with swords and magic and.... y'know, dungeons and stuff."

He's a little too tipsy to notice the way you're playing with his hand, or how much it's affecting him.

The world spins as you rest your head on his shoulder, still gazing up at him. ".... oh, I'll put you in a dungeon. With a pair of nice fluffy handcuffs."

Another bout of giggles, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Nothing exists right now except you and Tom - not the bartender, not the other guests - just the two of you, drunk and hanging onto each other.

Tom goes absolutely still as you rest your head against his shoulder, his heart skipping a beat at your comment about handcuffs. He's suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe with you so close, the sound of your giggles making his stomach flutter with something other than alcohol-induced nausea.

He swallows hard, trying to gather his thoughts into something less perverted and more appropriate for public consumption.

"Is that a.... promise, or a threat?"

With your head on his shoulder, your nose is very close to his neck. He smells.... divine. A fair bit like stale alcohol, but still divine.

"Mm...." You wriggle, getting situated in his arms. "I don't typically make a habit of threatening people. So.... it must be a promise."

He takes another shuddering breath as you burrow your nose deeper into the crook of his neck, the feel of your breath hot across his skin making him shiver.

God, you feel so good against him, so warm and perfect. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, to pull you into his lap, to bury his face in your hair and just hold you.

"And.... if I said I hope you follow through on that promise?"

You take a deep breath and let it out on a sigh, fingers coming to tap against his jaw. The way his throat works every time he swallows is captivating you. "Then I would say.... Maybe we should head back, to my dungeon.... so I can make this fantasy a reality."

He shuts his eyes and lets out an involuntary, needy little groan at your words. His entire body is on fire, his thoughts hazy and scrambled with desire. The only thing he can focus on coherently is the feeling of your body against his, the sound of your voice in his ear, your fingers on his jaw.

He nods, his voice thick and raspy as he finally manages to speak.

"You have no idea how badly I would love for you to take me back to your dungeon." He hoists you up further, supporting you against him as he pets a hand over your waist. "But.... you're very drunk. We really shouldn't...."

Oh, that moan.... he must want you, otherwise why would he make that needy little sound? The implication of it is enough to make you press your thighs together in desperation.

You swallow thickly. "Then.... at least get me home and help me sober up? Would that be okay, Tom?"

Tom is drunk, but not so much that he can't still think straight. Seeing how needy you're becoming, how much you're obviously wanting him, makes his heart ache with desire, but he refuses to take advantage of you now. He'll do anything else for you, but not that. You need to be in full control of yourself when you take that step with him.

"Of course. Anything you want."

He nods, a hand gripping your hip as he helps you out the door and onto the street.

You're a stone's throw from the filming location, but much farther from the hotel they have you staying at.

You fish in your pocket for your phone. "Here, let me get us an Uber back."

Tom stays by your side as you tap at your phone, his hand still on your hip to steady you as you type. He hopes the driver will get there quickly, because having such easy access to you is proving to be more and more difficult as the alcohol continues to swirl through him.

As you wait, you list against him, arms wrapped around his solid torso. "Tom...."

He grunts softly as you practically meld yourself against his side, and he has to hold himself back from wrapping you in a tight, desperate embrace. He can feel the heat radiating off of you, the way your body fits against his like a puzzle piece.

He tries to force his mind to focus, but alcohol and the feel of you pressed all up against him makes it difficult.

"Yeah....?"

"Will you at least kiss me?" You can't stop yourself from asking. "When we get in the car."

He chokes on his own saliva when you ask him to kiss you, a jolt of need running through him at your words. He wants to kiss you, oh God, does he want to kiss you, but he's still worried about taking advantage.

You can sense he wants to say no, so you cling to the front of his jacket and whine, "Please?"

But then you're looking up at him with those big, pleading eyes and he can't say no. He won't.

He nods, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. "When we're in the car, I promise I'll kiss you."

A grin overtakes your entire face, lighting it up, and your car pulls up in no time. Tom lets you slide in first, making sure you don't just drunkenly fall in, and as soon as he's seated and the door is shut you slot yourself against him with a sigh. "Now, Tom? Please."

He barely has enough time to slam the door shut before you're on him, pushing your body against his with a needy whine. He groans as you press into him, his hands coming up to rest on the bare skin of your waist. The feel of you is almost too much and he has to fight against the urge to just grab you and kiss you senseless right now.

His voice is rough and low as he replies, his lips close enough to brush your jaw.

"God, yes, so impatient, aren't you?"

"Yes." You've always been impatient, always wanted everything now, as soon as you can, and Tom is certainly no exception. "Although.... if you wanted to keep kissing my jaw like that, I wouldn't say no."

He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling in his chest as he leans closer, lips tracing along the line of your jaw before moving up to your earlobe, where he gives you a playful little nibble.

"Just your jaw? I'm not that generous a man. I want to kiss every inch of you, mark you as mine."

"But you don't want to take advantage of me?" You ask softly, remembering his words from earlier as you pull back just enough to see him properly. Your whole body is heating up, the tension between your legs growing unbearable.

How long have you wanted this, wanted him, and now you have him and he refuses to go any further? Will he still want to in the morning, when you're stone cold sober?

You hate these thoughts, these doubts about yourself.

Tom groans, his fingers flexing on your hips as he forces himself to pull back from you. He knows he has to, but he hates it. He wants nothing more than to hold you tightly and kiss you until you're screaming into his mouth. But he can't. Not like this. Not when you're drunk, not when you're not fully in control.

"Damn these principles of mine," he chuckles dryly. "Because I really, really want to."

With a trembling hand carding itself through his pretty blond hair, you lick your lips in what you hope is a seductive way and not a 'shit I'm about to pass out' kind of way.

"Well. You did at least promise to give me a proper kiss. So. What're you waiting for?"

He stares at you through half-lidded eyes, his thoughts growing more and more incoherent the more you touch him and the more you speak. He swallows, his gaze flickering down to your lips, your jaw, the exposed skin of your collarbones over your shirt before dancing back up to meet your gaze. He looks completely wrecked already.

His grip tightens on your hip, fingers flexing against your skin as he considers his options. He clearly wants to do more than just kiss you.

"God, you're really not making this easy on me, are you?"

You whine, hating how much time he's taking, hating that he might change his mind and refuse to touch you at all.

"Tom, please.... you promised."

The sound of you whining, begging for his touch, is more than he can handle. His resistance falters, and he gives in with a heavy sigh.

"God damn it, you're going to be the death of me."

With another needy sound, he takes your face in his hands and finally, finally, he kisses you.

If the sound that came out of you before could be described as a whine, this one can only be described as a whimper. All your need and desire for him escaping you in one long, low sound.

The driver probably thinks Tom is hurting you with the sense of urgency imbued in that one sound.

"Oh, Tom...," As you part from him, you continue to peck his lips over and over, smaller, messier kisses than before. One at the corner of his lips, one to his chin, another as you nibble at his bottom lip. "It's not enough.... it's not going to be enough. Not until I have you."

The sounds that are coming out of your mouth make him shiver with want, and each little kiss on his face fuels the fire burning in the pit of his stomach. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging almost painfully into your skin as he fights the urge to grab you and pin you down against the seat.

"You.... God, you're so impatient. You're not always this easy to read, you know, making all these needy little sounds."

He nuzzles against your mouth, his breath coming in hot little pants against your skin.

You know. God, you know how unreadable you are from day to day. Can't ever let any true emotion show, can't let the boy you like know you like him, lest he use it against you.

"I'm afraid," you mutter, fingers splayed against his neck. "I'm afraid to let anyone know.... how I really feel. Silly, isn't it?"

His fingers move softly against your skin, his touch gentle as he strokes up and down your bare hip where your shirt has ridden up.

"No, not silly. Just.... careful. You're very careful about how you portray yourself to the world. It's not a bad thing, it's just...." He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. "It's just frustrating sometimes, because it makes it so damn hard to read you."

You laugh too, accompanied by a shiver at the feeling of his fingers on your hip. "So.... if you could normally tell what I'm thinking.... how much I want you.... What would you do?"

His eyes darken at your question, a smirk playing across his lips as his fingers tighten again on your waist.

"What would I do? If I knew how much you truly wanted me, how badly you need me...."

He leans closer, his mouth hovering over the pulse point of your throat. He can feel your heartbeat, quick and erratic, beneath his lips as he murmurs against your skin.

"I'd take you right here in the backseat of this damn car, for a start."

Your hold on him tightens, that tension between your legs finally breaking as your clit starts to actively throb with desire. "Oh, Tom...." You hook a leg over his, rubbing against his thigh. "I don't care where we are or who's watching.... take me now? Please?"

Tom grunts, a feral sound that comes from deep in his chest, as you rub against him. His grip on your waist is almost bruising, but he doesn't care about that right now. All he can think about now is burying himself in you. Claiming you as his.

He pulls back just enough to whisper in your ear, his voice thick with hunger. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Anyone could look in and see you falling apart under my touch, knowing how badly you wanted me...."

You nod, unable to help yourself. You would like that, would get so soaked to know someone - anyone - was watching you get fucked by the hottest guy you'd ever met.

Just then, however, the car pulls to an abrupt stop outside the hotel.

Lower lip caught hard between your teeth, you attempt to right yourself and your clothes as you exit the Uber with a muffled, "sorry," to the driver.

Tom climbs out after you, offering a similar apology before hurrying after you, walking so close that he's almost on top of you. His hand comes to hover near the small of your back, desperate to touch you but refraining from doing so until you get inside.

As soon as the elevator doors have closed behind you, Tom grabs you and pulls you flush against him, pinning you against the wall as he groans against your neck.

"God, you don't know what you do to me."

Another full blown smile graces your face as Tom pulls you close. "I didn't embarrass you too badly back there, then?"

He laughs, the sound low and rough. He brushes his nose against the line of your jaw, his mouth seeking the sensitive skin along the side of your neck where he can feel your pulse fluttering quickly beneath.

"Embarrass me? No. But you are going to kill me if you keep making those little noises. And you made a lot of those little noises in the car."

The elevator chimes to a stop on your floor, and you tug him out into the hallway with a hand in his. "I can make a lot more of those 'little noises' in my room."

At that, he lets out an almost inhuman sound, a low growl that comes from deep in his chest.

"Don't say things like that, or I might make you right in the middle of this hallway."

He pulls you down the hall towards your room, nearly breaking the lock on your door in his haste to get inside.

You hand him your card key, and the minute you stumble inside, Tom is pressing you back against the closed door and kissing your neck again. "Tom, seriously.... I need you. I've needed you for a while. Since I met you, honestly."

You wouldn't be admitting these things if you weren't drunk, but that doesn't make them any less true.

A desperate sound catches in the back of his throat at your words, at the admission that you've wanted him for a while. That you need him, as much as he needs you right now. He pulls back to look you in the eye, drinking in the sight of your flushed face, your disheveled hair, and he almost forgets how to breathe.

"God, you're going to be the death of me. I've wanted you so damn bad. Wanted to hear you saying my name, begging me to touch you."

You nod, lip caught plaintively between your teeth again. "Well.... now I am. And you.... you want me too. So.... what are we waiting for?"

To your dismay, however, Tom steps away and sighs. "Not like this, not while you're drunk."

You shake your head, and the room goes spinning again. Stumbling against him, you grabs onto the front of his shirt. "I'm not - not even really that drunk. I feel good, Tom, please...."

He's trying so damn hard to do the right thing here, to not take advantage of your current state, but the moment you stumble into him and grip his shirt he can't help but shiver with need. You look so small and needy right now, holding onto him like you can't stand up without him.

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and he grips your waist to keep you steady as he speaks.

"Let's get you a drink of water, alright? And maybe a snack." His fingers are gentle at your jaw, steadying you. "Then we can talk. How does that sound?"

You suppose you should be grateful for Tom's self control, how gentlemanly he is. Not many men could - or would even try to - stop themselves at this point, especially with a woman throwing herself at them like you are.

You take a moment to thank your stars, and nod. "Sure." You let Tom lead you into the room proper, and set you down on one of the beds. "There should be some water bottles in the mini fridge. And some crackers on the night stand."

Tom takes the time to rummage in the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to you before snatching a packet of crackers off the bedside table. He comes to sit beside you on the bed, watching to make sure you're stable before opening the packet and holding it out to you.

"Eat." He's gone into full-on 'protection mode' now that you're in a safe spot. "And drink your water. You'll thank me in the morning."

You lean against Tom as you do as he says, biting into your crackers and washing them down with a mouthful of cold water. "Thank you, Tom. Seriously. You're so sweet.... how did I get so lucky to grow so close with someone so amazing?"

He sighs quietly, his arm curling around you as he pulls you closer against him. He presses a soft kiss against the top of your head, his voice deep and soft.

"I'm the lucky one, darling. Being your friend is an absolute privilege. I don't deserve such a wonderful woman."

You take another little nibble of a cracker, turning into him. "What if.... what if I want to be more than friends?"

His breath hitches at that, and he has to resist the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you on top of him.

Instead, he runs his fingers through your hair, his gaze roaming over your face. "Are you sure you're sober enough to make these kinds of decisions, love? Because if so, then I'm all yours."

"Give me like, five minutes," you answer truthfully. "I'll finish these and drink my water and I'll be perfect. I promise."

He lets out a quiet chuckle, his thumb stroking gently against your cheek. "All right, love. Drink your water, eat your crackers, and I'll wait however long you need, okay? I want you to be sure about this. I'll be here, right beside you, until you're ready."

The two of you sit and have a casual chat as you eat and drink, and gradually the room stops spinning so much. It's more like 20 minutes than five, but eventually you toss the wrapper and the empty bottle in the trash and fix Tom with a measured look. "Well.... I'm ready."

All the while, Tom had continued to quietly hold you, his strong, steady presence beside you like a pillar. He had chatted along with you, his voice a low murmur at your ear, until you were done eating and drinking.

When he feels you turn to look at him, he gives you a small smile, his eyes dark with desire. He takes a moment to study your expression, making sure you really are as sure about this as you seem.

When he apparently decides you are, he moves in closer, one hand gripping your waist to pull you up against him.

One of your hands curls around his shoulder, the other going to his slim waist. "May I have another kiss?" You ask quietly.

He hums, his hand tightening on your waist, his thumb rubbing small circles on your hip again.

"Of course, dearest."

He doesn't hesitate to lean closer, his nose nuzzling against your jaw before pressing his mouth to your throat. He places soft, fluttering kisses along the sensitive skin there, his warm breath making your skin tingle.

Your breathing quickens, your hold on him tightening. "Tom.... don't take this the wrong way, but.... you could do whatever you want to me right now and I wouldn't say no."

A shudder rolls through him when he hears the breathless need in your voice, and his hand comes up to bury itself in your hair, gently tugging your head back as he nips lightly at your jaw.

"Darling, don't say that or I really won't be held responsible for my actions.”

You've already surrendered herself to him, leaning back against the pillows as his teeth work at your neck and jaw. "But I'm serious. What do you want to do to me?"

A harsh, almost feral, sound rumbles in the back of his throat at your words, and he gives your hair another gentle tug to expose more of your neck to his mouth. He traces a trail from your jaw to your collarbone, nipping and biting along the way.

"I want you to lock me up in your dungeon, of course," he says, and you both chuckle.

Then, "Baby, I want to touch you. Taste you. Make you moan my name until you're pleading and begging for more. I want to...." He hesitates, as though nervous. ".... I want to take one of those really hot baths you were talking about earlier with you...."

"Well, which do you want to do first? Touch me, taste me, or bathe with me?" Your heart is hammering against your ribcage, a frightened bird fighting its way out.

Having Tom, here, looking at you like this is making you feel so weak.

He considers his options for a moment, studying your face intently as he decides. He's practically shaking with need right now, and being given the choice is almost too much for him. He can't wait to get his hands on you.

"I think...." His voice sounds wrecked, his thumb tracing a path up the side of your ribcage. "I think I want to touch you first."

"Then what are you waiting for?" You ask, with a bite of impatience in your voice. You lean fully back against the pillows now, letting your shirt ride up over your abdomen. "I'm all yours, Tom."

His eyes darken as he notices your shirt riding up, revealing a strip of bare skin just below your navel. He runs his hand up your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, until he can tuck his fingers under the fabric. He pulls your shirt up further.

"God, you really are, aren't you? Such a beautiful, perfect little thing, all mine to explore."

His words cause you to inhale sharply, spreading your legs so he can get between them. "Tom.... keep talking like that. I can't get enough of it."

He lets out a gravelly groan at that, shifting to kneel between your legs. His hands come up to gently run along your sides, to your ribs, finally coming back down to rest on your hips and holding you still as he speaks.

"You want to hear more, love? I'll tell you anything you want. You just have to ask."

Your hands find his toned forearms, skimming up and down. You like feeling him, it sets you at ease to know he's here with you. "Keep telling me I'm yours, keep saying I'm perfect. Keep.... keep telling me how much you want me. Please."

He tightens his grip on your hips, his broad chest rising and falling with his rapid breathing. His eyes roam over your body, taking in every dip and curve.

"You're mine, darling. Absolutely mine."

He moves down, his nose running along your stomach, his hand pushing your shirt up farther to expose more of you.

"Perfect. So damn perfect. Can't even believe I get to have you like this. It's all I've thought about for weeks."

"Really?" For some reason, you're more embarrassed to learn that Tom has been pining for you than you are of the fact that his face is now level with your bare chest. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He laughs at that, the rumble in his chest making his muscles ripple against your skin. He ducks down, placing a kiss between your breasts before speaking.

"I don't know, darling. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable in any way, I suppose. You're just so damn hard to read. I could never tell if you wanted me to leave you alone, or if you just didn't want to let yourself show it."

"I'm sorry," you apologize, petting his hair back, letting your nails traipse down his neck. "I promise not to be so hard to read from now on, but only if you promise me something."

He lets out another low moan when your nails run along his neck. He moves his mouth down, peppering the soft skin above your hip bone with little kisses. When he speaks, his voice vibrates against your skin, sending shudders all through your body. "Anything...."

You worry your lower lip yet again, hands still busy in his perfectly soft hair. "Be mine? I mean.... I guess I'm asking you out. Wanna be my boyfriend?"

He stops. His mouth on your hip, his hands on your waist, his entire body frozen still as your words sink in. His brain seems to have short-circuited, and it takes a good ten seconds before he manages to get it working again.

"You.... you want me to be your boyfriend?"

In the time it takes him to form words, you've had a full blown panic attack. "I mean, only if you want to. We really don't have to. In fact.... It was a mistake of me to ask, seriously, let's just keep it at this."

He shakes himself out of his shock at your panicked rambling, and his hands grab for your wrists, holding you in place.

"Stop. Stop apologizing and stop rambling, darling. Of course I want to be your boyfriend. You really think I could say no?"

"Well.... you didn't say anything at first. I sort of thought you'd had an aneurysm, you weren't saying anything...." Your wrists shake in his grasp.

He tightens his grip on them, holding you still as he levers himself up so he can look you in the eye. His eyes roam your face intently, taking in your anxious look.

"You didn't wait long enough to get an answer before you started panicking, sweetheart. I was just.... surprised. I didn't expect you to ask me." He laughs quietly, and you notice the redness spreading across his cheeks. "I hadn't really thought I'd get that lucky."

"So you will?" You reiterate. ""Please say you will. You want to. Be mine. Please."

Tom huffs a chuckle at the needy sound in your voice, gently moving his hands from your wrists to grasp your face instead, his fingers sifting back into your hair as he holds you in place.

"Yes, darling. Of course I want to be yours. You have no idea how much I want that. I can't believe you even felt you had to ask."

You surge up to kiss him, your hands at his waist dragging him down on top of you.

And he kisses you just as desperately, his mouth moving against yours, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you. He lets out a low moan as he's tugged down on top of you, his body falling between your legs and pressing you harder into the bed. His arms slide around your body, holding you against his chest as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

With a desperate, searching hand, you cup him through his pants, squeezing gently.

That pulls an utterly guttural noise of surprise from his throat, and his hips lurch forward, pressing his hardness into the palm of your hand. His breath catches, and he gasps against your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist.

"Oh, sweetheart. That.... that's dangerous."

Not caring exactly how 'dangerous' it might be, you start to gently stroke his growing erection through the soft material. "Tom? What gets you harder? The thought of being locked in my dungeon or the thought of taking a hot, steamy bath with me?"

His eyes roll back, and he gasps harshly as you start touching him in earnest, his hips rocking forward against your hand. His body is like a coiled spring, on the verge of snapping at any moment.

"Both of those things are going to get me in trouble at some point, you know that? Those ideas drive me Goddamn crazy. But right now, all I want is to be yours, in any way I can please you, my love."

Your face is heated, feeling him growing in his pants. "Then please me. However you want."

He drops his head, burying his face in your neck. His lips trail along every inch of skin he can find, nibbling and sucking at your pulse point. "Are you sure about that, darling? Because I.... I have so many ideas. Things I want to do to you. How can I choose just one?"

Your shirt is still rucked up around your shoulders, and you take a moment to reach up and yank it off. "Just choose one. Just one, for tonight. For me?"

Tom leans back, just a bit, as you take your shirt off. His hands are on you again in a moment, running up and down your newly exposed skin, exploring every inch of you. He takes a moment to process your words, his eyes hungrily digesting your exposed body.

"Just one, for tonight. I can do that." He slides a hand up, gently gripping your jaw between his fingers. His touch is firm, dominant. "Close your eyes, love."

You trust him enough to obey, immediately, closing your eyes against the light and waiting for him.

You hear him hum, low, approvingly, as he watches your eyes flutter shut. He takes a moment, just to look at you like this. So pliant and perfect. All his to do with as he pleases. You then feel a shiver roll through him, and he has to take a steadying breath before he speaks again.

"Keep them closed. Now, no speaking. Not until I say so, okay, darling? You're going to be so good for me, aren't you?"

"Ye-" You make to answer before remembering his orders - no speaking. You merely nod instead, reaching out to ground yourself with your hands on his arms.

A smile spreads across his face - unseen by you - his hand on your jaw rubbing a thumb back and forth lightly over your skin. "That's my good girl. Just keep those eyes closed for me." He moves his hands to your hips, gently maneuvering you to roll onto your stomach.

Surprised at the change of position, you still gladly curl yourself around a pillow, getting comfortable on your front, your legs spread for him still.

Behind you, Tom lets out a low sound, somewhere between a growl and a moan. He runs his hands up the backs of your thighs, slowly, tracing little circles with his fingertips as he moves them up to grasp your hips. His fingers dig into the skin there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to hold you in place.

"Perfect. You know how to follow instructions so well, darling. Just like I knew you would."

He said no talking, but. As his hands skim over your shorts, you can't help but ask, "Would you like to take them off, Tom?"

His hands still on your hips as he takes in your words. He gives your hips a gentle squeeze, before sliding his fingers under the elastic of your shorts.

"Well, that sounds like a question, love. And I specifically said no talking, didn't I? But I'll let it slide just this once. Do you want me to take them off, sweetheart?"

You make a small sound, canting your hips up and nodding, making it easier for him.

He hums approvingly as he watches your hips lift, and his hands slide under the fabric, pushing the shorts down and off your legs. Once the cloth clears your feet, he lets it fall to the side before gently rubbing his hands up your legs, from your ankles up to the backs of your thighs again.

"God, darling, you're just a perfect vision, you know that? So beautiful. And all mine."

Your pussy is positively leaking as you bury your face nervously in the pillows and wonder what he's going to do next.

Apparently reading your mind, Tom leans down and whispers in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Don't be nervous, my love. I just want to make you feel good." He then begins to trail light kisses along the back of your neck and down your spine, pausing at each vertebrae to nibble gently at you.

With one hand, he begins to slowly stroke between your legs, brushing lightly, teasingly, over your sensitive clit as you moan softly. His other hand continues to wander over your back and shoulders, massaging your tense muscles and sending shivers rippling all over your body.

Even the barest brush of Tom's fingers over your clit have your hips bucking, pushing back, wanting more of him. It's all you can do not to speak, to beg him to fuck you already, especially since he's instructed you not to.

You want to tell him that you love how dominant he is, but how gentle at the same time. He wouldn't ever hurt you, you trust him more than anything.

Tom continues to tease you, his fingers moving in slow circles around your clit, never quite giving you the contact you crave. He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "Do you like it when I'm in control? Do you like when I make you wait and beg for release?" His voice is low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine.

He pauses for a moment, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck before continuing, "I want to hear you say it. Tell me how much you love when I take control."

You're making the most desperate little noises, grinding your aching cunt back against his hand. "I-I thought I wasn't allowed to talk…."

Tom chuckles softly as he continues to tease you, his fingers still working expertly between your legs. "That rule doesn't apply right now, my love," he murmurs, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin behind your ear. "I want to hear you beg for me."

He drags his fingers higher, teasing at your wet entrance before pulling back down to circle your clit once more. "So tell me. Do you love it when I'm in control?" He punctuates his words with a particularly firm stroke over your clit.

"Ah! Oh my god, yes, Tom, I love it. I love when you're in control, I love that you're so dominant, but so gentle with me. You don't know how badly I needed this."

You tilt your hips down, trying so hard to get Tom's thick fingers inside of you.

With a grin against the side of your neck and his hand continuing to work its magic between your legs, he sighs. "I knew you'd like it, my love," he murmurs, slipping just one finger inside of you and pumping it slowly in and out as he continues to circle your clit with his thumb.

He leans down and bites lightly at your shoulder, whispering again, "You're so wet for me, baby. You want me to fill you up, don't you?" He adds another finger, thrusting them faster, harder.

You swallow thickly, wanting him to give you everything. Everything he possibly can. "Please, Tom. Want your fingers, more of them. Want your cock too, and your tongue, and - and…."

Your fingers are tearing so hard at the pillowcase you're afraid you'll rip it open. Your hips are working furiously back against his fingers, it's embarrassing how much you need him.

Tom groans softly at your words. He adds a third finger, stretching you and curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside of you.

"You're so greedy for me, aren't you?" He murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "Don't worry, darling. I'll give you everything you want."

With that, he leans down and presses his lips to your neck, trailing soft kisses along your skin as his fingers continue to pump inside you.

When his fingers hit your g-spot your entire body spasms underneath of him. "Oh, f-fuck!" There's that undeniable tension, as though something inside of you is held taut like a bowstring. And he doesn't let up either, continuing to abuse that little spot inside of you with his insistent fingers. "Fuck, Tom, I…. be careful. I'm gonna squirt if you keep.... " You trail off on a whine.

He can feel your body responding to his touch, and he doesn't let up, increasing the speed and pressure of his fingers on that spot, knowing exactly how to push you over the edge.

He whispers huskily in your ear, "Well, it's a good thing there are two beds in this room.... Let go for me. I want to see you come apart under my touch."

His voice is a potent mix of command and desire, fueling your need further as he continues to pleasure you, driving you toward that edge where you can finally release all of your built-up tension.

Every breath you take is now accompanied by a desperate moan, your hips working so hard back against his fingers. That tightness is about to break, and you bury your face in the pillow you hold as you do finally squirt, releasing all that fluid over his hand and arm, and probably on his pants too as you shake apart around his lovely fingers.

Though you can't see him, Tom is reveling in the sight of you unraveling under his touch, your body shaking with the force of your release. He feels your wetness gush over his hand and arm, soaking him in your essence, a clear sign of how much you needed this release.

As you shake and tremble, he continues to caress you gently, soothing you through the aftershocks of your orgasm. His own desire burns brightly, knowing that he's brought you such intense pleasure. With a satisfied smile, he whispers softly, "You're so beautiful when you come undone for me, my love."

You can barely catch your breath, Tom's drenched fingers still inside of you, soothing your poor spasming walls. "T-Tom…. when I told you to choose one thing to do to me tonight…. I didn't think it would be that…."

Tom chuckles softly, withdrawing his fingers carefully from inside of you and sitting up on the edge of the bed. He looks down at you with a playful glint in his eyes as he sucks all of you from his fingers.

"What can I say?" he says with a grin. "I always like to exceed expectations."

He reaches over and tousles your hair affectionately with his dry hand, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "But if you want something else, just let me know," he murmurs. "After all, tonight is all about giving you exactly what you want."

"I want so much more," you mutter, turning finally to look at the damage. "Jesus Christ, it looks like a swimming pool in here…"

Tom chuckles at this observation, taking in the sight of the wet mess he helped you create.

"Well, I did promise to give you everything you wanted," he teases, pulling you into his arms and planting a soft kiss to your forehead. "And if you seriously want more, just say the word. I'm all yours tonight." He flashes you a mischievous grin, his eyes full of desire as he waits for your next request.

"Well, let's not get cleaned up just yet because…. I do want more. A lot more." You glance down; Tom's cock is now hard as a rock, straining against the zipper of his pants, which are very stained with your squirt.

Tom grins, his eyes also lingering on the dark stains.

"Anything you want, my love," he murmurs, standing up from the bed and pulling you with him. "Let's move over here."

He moves you gently over to the opposite bed, which is still pristine. For now.

"Can I ask you to take some of your clothes off?" You ask quietly. "Please? I can't be the only one naked here."

A sly smile playing on his lips, he nods and slowly starts to undress, revealing his toned body inch by inch. He makes a show of it, letting each piece of clothing drop to the floor with deliberate slowness, enjoying the anticipation building between you.

He stands before you, his gaze locked with yours, completely exposed and ready for whatever desires you have in mind.

You lean forward toward him, anticipatory, and once Tom is just as bare as you are, you can't help but ask, "Can I suck it?"

A primal growl rips from him as he moves closer to you, nodding eagerly.

Without another word, he takes hold of your hair gently, guiding you down towards his length. As you take him into your mouth, he lets out a low moan, his fingers tangling in your hair as he begins to thrust his hips forward gently.

You wrap your lips eagerly around him and start to suck earnestly, head bobbing as he eases the way with his hands in your hair.

His head falls back slightly, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he feels the heat of your mouth enveloping him. The sensation of your eager sucking sends shivers down his spine, his arousal building with each flick of your tongue.

He tightens his grip on your hair, guiding your movements as he rocks his hips gently, matching your rhythm. His breathing becomes shallow and rapid, consumed by the pleasure you're giving him.

One gentle hand comes to squeeze softly at his balls, the other steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh. You gaze up at him, wide eyed, as if to ask, 'am I doing alright?'

Tom's eyes flutter shut at the sensation of your hand on his balls, the pleasure mounting with each passing moment. When he opens his eyes to look down at you, he sees the pure desire reflected in your gaze and can't help but smile.

"You're doing amazing," he breathes, again almost as though he can read your mind, his voice heavy with arousal. "Just keep going like that."

He continues to guide your movements, hips thrusting forward with increasing urgency as the sensation builds inside him. He knows that he's getting close, but he wants to savor every moment of this incredible experience.

The movement of his hips is making you gag a bit now, not used to having something so big in your mouth. But you soldier on, wanting to pleasure him just as much as he did you, trying to relax your throat so Tom can slide in further.

It's evident that the effort you're putting into pushing past your limits is only adding to Tom's desire - he groans softly, feeling you relax your throat further, so he can slip even deeper.

The sensation is overwhelming, and he can't hold back any longer. With a whine, he reaches his peak, his body tensing as he releases himself into your mouth. The pleasure washes over him in waves, leaving him breathless and utterly spent.

You squeak delightedly, and in surprise, as Tom starts to cum. Letting yourself rest fully on your knees now, you brace herself with both hands on his hips. Trying to swallow everything, only a few dribbles of cum spilling out and down your chin, you pop off with one more lick to his dripping head.

He looks down at you, a satisfied smile on his lips, grateful for the intense pleasure you've given him.

"I really did okay?" You gasp, wiping at your chin. "I've only done that once or twice before, and to be honest…. never on an actual human, only ever with toys."

He nods eagerly, pulling you up to him and planting a kiss to your swollen lips. "You were incredible," he murmurs, his fingers tangling in your hair once again. "It was so fucking good, baby."

He pulls you in for another kiss, not caring that the taste of himself is still on you. "But we're just getting started," he says with a grin, his trembling hands roaming over your body.

You still the movements of his hands with your fingers around his wrists, taking the time to really see him in the dim light of the room. "Before we do anything else, Tom.... I really did want to thank you. For earlier. I probably wasn't.... okay. To consent to any of this. Thank you for waiting."

The heat in Tom's eyes blazes brighter, and he disentangles his wrists to card his fingers through your hair. "Of course, love. You don't even have to thank me. I couldn't let you make that decision while you were like that."

With one last peck to his lips, you push him playfully down onto the bed and crawl over him. "Time for round two?"

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