#whimpering is a spectrum | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoshifighting · 11 months ago

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— Synopsis: After years of being Mr. Choi's personal secretary, you had become accustomed to the dynamics of working closely with him. However, fate had brought about a change – Mr. Choi's son, Seungcheol, would now be taking over the company. Unbeknownst to you, Seungcheol had harbored a secret crush on you for years. — WC: 8k — WARNINGS: Smut, mentions of collapsing, blacking out, burn-out, teasing, dirty talk, fingering, oral (f. receiving), cock riding (pro-riddah), 'jealousy', all types of moans and whimpering, crush confessions, creampie, reader is mentioned as 'noona' sometimes.

You started at the company fresh out of college, eager to make your mark in the corporate world. Landing an internship and apprenticeship seemed like the perfect opportunity to kickstart your career. But from the beginning, it was a whirlwind. The partners and directors barely acknowledged your presence, treating you as if you were invisible.

Their dismissive attitudes fueled your determination to prove yourself. You worked tirelessly, absorbing every bit of knowledge and skill you could. Despite the frustrations and challenges, you persevered, determined to make your mark.

Then, when chaos descended and problems arose, suddenly you were thrust into the spotlight. Issues that had been brewing for months seemed to land squarely on your shoulders. It was as if your colleagues had only just noticed your existence, expecting you to magically solve all their problems.

But you didn't falter. Instead, you faced each challenge head-on, drawing upon your education, experience, and sheer determination. With each obstacle overcome, your confidence grew, and your colleagues began to take notice.

You hit the big leagues when you stepped into the role of a top executive, becoming the right-hand person to Mr. Choi, the company's director. From picking out his ties to scrutinizing private contracts, your responsibilities spanned the spectrum.

Every single morning, like clockwork, you'd hop into your car with a casket of coffee and croissants for Mr. Choi. Strutting into the office in your killer heels and impeccable attire, you were ready to make an impression, especially during those crucial meetings where you stood by Mr. Choi's side.

Being Mr. Choi's right arm wasn't just about fetching coffee; it was about being his trusted confidante, advisor, and problem-solver, all rolled into one.

"Y/N, can you schedule a meeting with the board members for next week?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Choi."

"Y/N, can you prepare a presentation for the investors' conference?"

"I'll have it ready in no time, Mr. Choi."

"Y/N, can you liaise with our international partners regarding the new partnership agreement?"

"Of course, Mr. Choi."

"Y/N, could you buy a birthday gift for my son?"

"I'll take care of it, Mr. Choi. "

"Y/N, could you book a reservation at that new restaurant for my wife's birthday dinner?"

"Consider it done, Mr. Choi."

Your life was a whirlwind, with the constant ticking of the clock mirroring the click-clack of your heels wherever you went. Tension hung heavy in the air, creeping up your neck like a suffocating scarf. Dark circles under your eyes were a testament to the countless nights of poor sleep, hidden only by layers of concealer slapped onto your face.

Cups of coffee became your lifeline, keeping your eyes wide open until you finally collapsed onto your bed at night. It was a relentless cycle of hustle and grind, each day blending into the next in a blur of meetings, deadlines, and demands.

Despite the chaos of your professional life, there was a silver lining: the bills were paid, and then some. Your salary exceeded your wildest expectations, causing whispers among your coworkers about just how much you were making. But Mr. Choi never wavered in his support, always quick to defend your worth and affirm that you deserved every penny.

He'd extend invitations for you to spend time with his family, insisting that you join them at their summer house. You'd seen his family at various company events and dinners, and while you appreciated the gesture, you couldn't shake the feeling of intruding on their private time.

So, respectfully, you always declined, preferring to maintain a professional boundary despite Mr. Choi's insistence一Even though he wanted you to choose even the color of his ties.

On another typical day in the office, you meticulously scheduled a meeting for Mr. Choi, gathering his collaborators for an important discussion. As usual, you stood faithfully by his side, your sharp heels elevating you to eye level with the top brass.

The room was set, and you watched as the group filed in, taking their seats around the sleek glass table.

But something caught your eye—a figure among the usual faces. It was Seungcheol, Mr. Choi's son, entering the room. It was a rare sight to see him at these meetings, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity.

What struck you even more was the watch adorning Seungcheol's wrist. It was the Audemars Piguet timepiece that Mr. Choi had asked you to purchase for his birthday last year.

You remembered selecting it based on your own taste, so seeing Seungcheol wearing it filled you with a sense of pride. It was a small validation that your choices were appreciated, even by the boss's son.

As Mr. Choi began the meeting, you were right there by his side, ready to assist with whatever he needed.

"Good morning, everyone. Thank you for joining us today," Mr. Choi began, his voice commanding the attention of the room.

You quickly handed him a folder containing the agenda for the meeting, making sure everything was in order.

"First, let's review the progress on our latest project," Mr. Choi continued, flipping through the documents in the folder.

"Of course, Mr. Choi," you interjected, pulling up the relevant slides on the screen for everyone to see.

As the meeting progressed, you anticipated Mr. Choi's needs, fetching him water when his throat grew dry and passing him important documents without skipping a beat.

"As some of you may know, over the past few months, I've been dealing with some health issues," Mr. Choi continued, his gaze sweeping across the room. "And after much consideration and consultation with my doctors, I've come to the difficult decision that I need to take some time away from the company to focus on my health."

Silence fell over the room, the weight of his words sinking in. This was unexpected, and you could feel the tension in the air.

Then, as Mr. Choi's eyes met yours, you saw an understanding dawn in Seungcheol expression. Everything suddenly clicked into place—the presence of Mr. Choi's son at the meeting.

Then, Mr. Choi continued, "During my absence, I've decided that my son, Seungcheol, will be stepping into my role temporarily."

All eyes turned to Seungcheol as he rose from his seat and bowed respectfully. You couldn't help but feel a sense of uncertainty, but Mr. Choi's next words put you at ease.

"And I have full confidence in both Seungcheol and Y/N," Mr. Choi declared, gesturing towards you. "Y/N will be assisting the whole team, and Seungcheol in any way necessary during this transition period."

You lifted your head, meeting Seungcheol's gaze as he nodded at you. Despite any doubts you may have had, you knew that Seungcheol was capable. You had seen glimpses of his dedication during family dinners, noticing how he would often excuse himself to study, for example.

After the meeting, you found yourself alone with Mr. Choi in the conference room. He looked at you with a gentle expression and asked, "Y/N, why do you seem so worried?"

You offered a small smile, trying to mask your concerns. "I didn't know your health had gotten this bad," you admitted softly.

Mr. Choi returned your smile, his eyes filled with understanding. "I kept it under wraps as best as I could," he said reassuringly. "But I'm confident that everything will be fine, especially with you and Seungcheol at the helm."

Just then, Seungcheol entered the room, and Mr. Choi's attention shifted to his son. "Seungcheol, Y/N will be here to keep you in line," Mr. Choi teased with a grin. "If you step out of line, she has my permission to pull your ear."

Seungcheol chuckled shyly, his eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded in acknowledgment.

Mr. Choi raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. "Well, she's the best secretary anyone could have," he remarked, his tone teasing. "If she ever decides to leave because of you, consider yourself dead."

You couldn't help but laugh at the exchange, appreciating the camaraderie between father and son. "I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Choi," you reassured him with a smile. "You're stuck with me for the long haul."

The days following Mr. Choi's announcement were a fuss as you attempted to navigate the new dynamic with Seungcheol in charge. You found yourself juggling multiple tasks, trying to prioritize and triage everything so that Seungcheol could acclimate to the heightened demands of his new role.

Despite the added pressure, you remained steadfast in your routine. Each morning, you meticulously dressed, ensuring every detail of your attire was perfect. You prepared Mr. Choi's favorite coffee and croissants, just as you had done for his father every day.

One morning, as you placed the casket on Seungcheol's desk, you noticed him peering up from his papers with a furrowed brow. "Why do you bring me coffee every day?" he asked, his tone curious yet slightly perplexed.

You paused, taken aback by the question. Tilting your head slightly, you replied, "I did this every day for your dad."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Did my dad ask for this every day?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

You nodded in affirmation, but before you could say anything else, Seungcheol interjected. "You don't need to do that," he stated firmly, shaking his head.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off. "Seriously, you don't have to go out of your way for me like that," he insisted, his expression earnest.

You paused, considering his words for a moment before nodding in understanding. "Alright," you acquiesced with a small smile, realizing that perhaps Seungcheol's management style was different from his father's.

As the days passed and the workload continued to pile up, you found yourself working late into the night, long after your scheduled shift had ended. Massaging your temples, you stared at the glowing computer screen, the soft hum of the office, the only sound in the empty building.

Glancing up at the clock, you realized with a start that it was already 10 p.m. The realization made your shoulders sag with exhaustion, but you knew there were still tasks that needed your attention.

Looking around your office, which was nestled within the boss's office and separated only by glass walls, you noticed that the rest of the building was deserted. The departments were dark, their lights extinguished for the night.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered into the office, you blinked in surprise, realizing with a jolt that you had slept at your desk. Glancing at the clock, which now read 6:00 a.m., you felt a surge of panic course through you. You couldn't believe you had let yourself fall asleep at work.

Quickly, you sprang into action, rushing to the bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth and try to salvage your appearance. Splashing cold water on your face, you hoped it would help wake you up and banish the grogginess that clung to you.

With shaky hands, you reapplied your makeup, doing your best to hide the signs of exhaustion that lingered beneath your eyes. You knew that going home to freshen up wasn't an option—there was simply too much to do and not enough time.

"You're early, Ms. Y/N," Seungcheol's voice cut through the early morning haze, causing you to startle slightly. You managed a small smile in response, trying to mask the fatigue that weighed heavily on you.

As Seungcheol looked you up and down, you couldn't help but feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. Quickly, you averted your gaze, feeling the tension in your shoulders from the uncomfortable position you had slept in.

Without a word, Seungcheol settled behind his desk, and you seized the opportunity to slip out of the office. The ache in your back served as a constant reminder of your less-than-ideal sleeping arrangements.

Heading to the nearest coffee shop, you hoped that a strong cup of coffee would help invigorate you and shake off the lingering exhaustion.

With the reports prepared the night before, you and Seungcheol led another meeting, this time with the financial team. You entered the conference room together, your demeanor professional despite the weariness that still clung to you from your sleepless night.

Seungcheol took his seat at the head of the table, and you sat beside him, ready to support him in any way you could. As the meeting progressed, you found yourself immersed in the discussion, your mind racing to keep up with the financial jargon being tossed around.

However, amidst the exchange of numbers and projections, you couldn't help but notice Seungcheol's occasional glances in your direction. Each time his eyes met yours, you detected a hint of scrutiny, causing you to wonder if he had noticed your exhaustion.

Desperately trying to maintain your focus, you clenched a pen in your hand, using it as a reminder to stay alert and engaged. But despite your efforts, you could feel your energy waning with each passing minute.

As the meeting dragged on, you found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Your eyelids feels heavy, and you struggle to keep your thoughts coherent. All you wanted was for the meeting to finish so you could finally rest and recharge.

As the meeting drew to a close and the team members began to file out of the conference room, Seungcheol rose from his seat, gathering some papers from the table. You followed suit, clutching onto the edge of the desk for support as you struggled to maintain your balance.

Seungcheol noticed your unsteady demeanor and furrowed his brow in concern. "Y/N, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you managed to reply, your voice barely above a whisper. But even to your own ears, the words sounded hollow and unconvincing, the effort only served to make your head spin even more.

But as Seungcheol's voice grew louder and more alarmed, it felt as though his words were merely echoing around your head, distant and muffled, you realized just how drained you truly were. The room seemed to spin around you, struggling to keep your balance, you fought to stay on your feet.

The last thing you saw before darkness enveloped you was Seungcheol's panicked expression as he rushed forward, his arms outstretched to catch you before you hit the ground.

He shaked you as his figure blurred and distorted as your vision faded, and then everything went black, the sound of rushing blood pounding in your ears.

Slowly, consciousness began to seep back into your mind, accompanied by the soft murmur of voices and the gentle beeping of medical equipment. Blinking groggily, you struggled to make sense of your surroundings.

As your vision cleared, you realized you were in the nursery, surrounded by the sterile white walls and the comforting hum of medical machinery. And by your side, sitting in a chair with his head bowed, was Seungcheol.

His presence brought a sense of calm to the room, and you couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude toward him. Despite the strain of his new responsibilities, he had stayed by your side, ensuring that you were taken care of.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry and scratchy. Seungcheol must have sensed your movement, because he looked up, his eyes widening in relief as he saw you awake.

You tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washed over you, forcing you back against the pillows. Seungcheol placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, urging you to rest.

"You collapsed during the meeting," he explained, his voice filled with worry. "They brought you here to rest. The doctors said it was exhaustion."

"Exhaustion? I-" you began, but before you could finish your sentence, Seungcheol cut in, his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

"I saw on the cameras that you slept at your desk," he stated matter-of-factly, his tone tinged with concern. "I noticed becqause you're still wearing the same clothes," Seungcheol added, his tone gentle but firm.

You felt your cheeks burn even hotter at his observation, wishing you could disappear into the floor. The thought of him noticing you using the same clothes from the previous day filled you with mortification, and you struggled to find the right words to respond.

"I... I didn't have time to change," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of exhaustion and embarrassment settled heavily on your shoulders, and you couldn't bring yourself to meet Seungcheol's eyes.

"You need to take better care of yourself, Y/N," he said softly, his concern evident in his eyes. "I saw you working for my dad for years, and I know how demanding he could be."

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat at the mention of Mr. Choi. Memories of late nights and early mornings spent tirelessly working flooded your mind, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for letting Seungcheol down.

"But I also know that you can't keep pushing yourself like this," Seungcheol continued, his voice filled with empathy. "You're human, Y/N, and you have limits."

Seungcheol's gaze softened as he looked at you, concern etched into his features. "Y/N, do you remember the last time you took time off?" he asked gently, his voice filled with genuine worry.

You hesitated, feeling a pang of guilt as you realized that you couldn't recall the last time you had taken a break. "Um... I'm not sure," you admitted quietly, your gaze dropping to the floor.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch, his expression thoughtful. "Well, you don't need to work for the rest of the week," he declared, his tone firm yet compassionate.

Your eyes widened in surprise at the sudden announcement, your mind racing to comprehend what he had just said. "But there are still conferences," you protested weakly, rising from the bed with shaky legs.

Seungcheol shook his head, his eyes meeting yours with determination. "I'll handle the conferences," he insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You need to rest, Y/N. That's an order."

You opened your mouth to protest further, but the exhaustion that weighed heavily on your shoulders silenced you. With a sigh, you nodded in reluctant acceptance, realizing that perhaps Seungcheol was right—you did need to take care of yourself.

Despite having time off, your body remained accustomed to waking up at the same early hour as your workdays, thanks to the relentless consistency of your alarm. Each morning, you would groggily switch off the alarm, only to fall back into the comforting embrace of sleep for a few more precious hours.

But something changed during these days off.

Just as you used to bring coffee for your boss, you found yourself receiving a basket of breakfast at your door every morning, each one bearing Seungcheol's unmistakable calligraphy. Instead of the usual croissants and coffee, the baskets were filled with a colorful array of fruits, a healthier alternative that he seemed to insist upon, instead of his dad.

"Fruits are way more healthy than croissants… - Seungcheol."

[...]

Your phone rang unexpectedly in the early morning hours of your last day off, jolting you awake from a peaceful slumber. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you answered the call, greeted by the voice of Joshua from the Human Resources Department.

"Hello?" you murmured, still groggy from sleep.

"Hi, Y/N," Joshua replied, his voice hushed as though sharing a secret. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

You shook your head, sitting up in bed and giving your full attention to the call. "No, it's fine. What's up, Joshua?"

"I just wanted to let you know," Joshua continued, his tone serious yet tinged with amusement, "Seungcheol asked all the departments to give you some space and let you rest during your time off."

You felt a surge of gratitude towards Seungcheol for his thoughtfulness, but your gratitude was short-lived as Joshua's next words caught you off guard.

"However," Joshua added, a hint of mischief evident in his voice, "he's struggling a bit with managing everything himself. I caught him pacing back and forth in his office for the past few minutes."

You couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image of Seungcheol pacing anxiously in his office. "I'll take care of it," you assured Joshua, determination seeping into your voice.

"Great," Joshua replied with a laugh. "I'll leave you to it then. Enjoy the rest of your day off, Y/N."

As you confidently strode into the building, the weight of the archives in your hand felt oddly reassuring. Despite the lingering fatigue from your days off, you felt a renewed sense of determination as you navigated the familiar halls in your high heels.

The glances from your coworkers didn't go unnoticed, their surprise at seeing you back at work evident in their expressions. You could almost hear the unspoken question hanging in the air—shouldn't you be at home resting?

Lost in his thoughts, Seungcheol snapped out of his trance as he caught sight of you through the glass walls that separated his office. His eyes widened at the unexpected sight of you, and you offered him a small bow as you approached.

Pushing open the door, you entered his office, the determined set of your shoulders belying any trace of uncertainty. Seungcheol watched you with concern, his normally impeccable hair tousled and his lips worryingly bitten.

"You shouldn't be here," he stated, his voice tinged with worry as he took in your appearance.

You simply smiled in response, pressing the archives into his chest with a sense of purpose. "We have work to do," you replied firmly, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. "Do you want my help or not?"

Seungcheol's lips parted slightly, his cheeks flushing with a hint of embarrassment as he processed your words. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded shyly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yes," he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude and relief.

[...]

As Seungcheol sat alone in the dimly lit office, surrounded by the quiet emptiness of the building, a sense of clarity washed over him. He had been so determined to prove himself capable, to show his dad—and you—that he could handle the responsibilities of running the company on his own. But as the days passed and the chaos of the company threatened to overwhelm him, he found himself feeling lost and unsure.

Now, as he looked around at the neatly organized piles of contracts, the meticulously scheduled meetings, and the completed spreadsheets on the computer screen, he finally understood why his dad had always relied on you so heavily. Despite your youth, you possessed a rare combination of competence, efficiency, and dedication that made you indispensable to the smooth operation of the company.

Seungcheol couldn't tear his eyes away from you as he watched from the other side of the table. The soft glow of the computer screen illuminated your face, casting shadows that danced across your features as you worked diligently.

Your unbuttoned white shirt and raised sleeves hinted at the long hours you had put in, while your hair, now gathered in a messy bun, spoke about the intensity of your focus. Despite the exhaustion that lingered in the lines of your face, there was a determined set to your jaw, a resilience that shone through even in the late hours of the night.

Seungcheol marveled at the sight of your manicured nails flying across the keyboard with practiced precision, effortlessly organizing the digital archives with a speed that left him in awe.

Seungcheol let out an exasperated sigh, his frustration evident as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you with guilt. "I feel terrible," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "You shouldn't have had to resolve all of these problems. I took you away from your day off, and now you're stuck here dealing with all of this mess."

You couldn't help but smile at the poor boy, his sulky expression only serving to make him appear more endearing. "Hey, it's okay," you reassured him, your tone gentle as you reached across the table to place a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm already feeling better, thanks to you."

Seungcheol's expression softened at your words, a flicker of relief crossing his features. "I just wish I could have handled things better," he confessed, his voice tinged with self-doubt.

You shook your head, dismissing his concerns with a playful grin. "Well, you did leave fruits at my door," you teased, unable to resist poking fun at his earlier gesture of kindness. "So I'd say you're doing just fine."

Seungcheol couldn't help but let out a chuckle, his usual professional demeanor momentarily slipping as he made a lighthearted comment about your near fall earlier in the day. "Man, you were this close to eating floor," he quipped, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You gasped in mock indignation, caught off guard by his informal tone. "Seungcheol!" you exclaimed, your hand flying to your chest in exaggerated shock. "I can't believe you just said that!"

But despite your feigned outrage, you couldn't suppress the laughter bubbling up inside you.

Seungcheol's laughter filled the air as he apologized, his voice laced with amusement. "Sorry, sorry," he repeated, his grin widening as he realized the playful banter between you.

You couldn't help but mock offense at his apology, feigning exaggerated indignation. "I'm deeply wounded," you joked, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you placed a hand dramatically over your heart. "How will I ever recover from such a grievous insult?"

Seungcheol laughed at your theatrics, the sound warm and genuine. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "How about dinner? My treat."

You raised an eyebrow in mock skepticism, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Hmm, I don't know," you teased, pretending to consider his offer. "I might need a more sincere apology than that."

But as you glanced at Seungcheol's earnest expression, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the prospect of spending more time together outside of work. With a grin, you relented, accepting his invitation with a playful wink. "Alright, dinner it is."

"Let's go," Seungcheol declared with a grin, his eyes alight with excitement.

You widened your eyes in surprise, a hint of disbelief creeping into your voice. "Tonight?" you echoed, unable to hide your astonishment.

Seungcheol nodded eagerly, his stomach rumbling audibly. "Yes, tonight," he confirmed, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I'm starving."

With a smile, you rose from your seat, placing the neatly organized archives on the side of his desk. "Alright then, let's go," you agreed, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

As you made your way towards the exit of the empty, darkened building, you heard a surprised whistle from Seungcheol. You couldn't help but giggle at his reaction, turning to tease him playfully. "Afraid of ghosts, Seungcheol?" you teased, a mischievous twinkle in your eye.

Seungcheol scoffed, his expression mockingly indignant. "Please, the building is sinister at night," he retorted, his tone tinged with exaggeration. "How could you possibly spend nights here?"

As you walked side by side with Seungcheol towards the parking lot, the darkness of the night enveloping the empty streets, you couldn't resist teasing him about his earlier comment about the building being sinister.

"It's scarier during the day with that bunch of people around," you quipped with a playful grin, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

Seungcheol chuckled at your remark, his laughter filling the quiet night air. "Was I one of those people that scared you?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

You couldn't help but play along, feigning exaggerated fear as you imitated his walk with a comically exaggerated pout and furrowed eyebrows. "Oh, definitely," you replied with mock seriousness, your lips puckered into a pout. "You walk like this."

Seungcheol gasped dramatically, a hand flying to his chest in mock offense. "I'm hurt," he protested, his voice dripping with faux indignation. "I'm a friendly guy, you know."

As Seungcheol held the door of the car open for you, a small smile played at the corners of your lips as you settled into the seat. "You know, in the past, you were friendly with everyone but me," you remarked casually, fastening your seatbelt as he made his way around to the driver's seat. "It's surprising to see how gentle you're being right now."

Seungcheol chuckled at your observation, his laughter warm and genuine. "It wasn't always like this," he admitted as he started the car, the engine humming to life.

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head in mock disbelief. "Oh, please," you retorted, a playful glint in your eye. "I distinctly remember you going out of your way to avoid me at dinners in your house. You'd even skip dinner altogether because of me."

A smile tugged at the corners of Seungcheol's lips at your words, a hint of nostalgia coloring his expression as he navigated the quiet streets.

Seungcheol's voice was tinged with a hint of reluctance as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "I had my reasons," he murmured, a note of hesitation in his tone.

You raised an eyebrow in curiosity, turning to look at him expectantly. "And what might those reasons be?" you inquired, your tone playful yet genuinely curious.

But Seungcheol merely glanced at you briefly before returning his attention to the streets, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. "I'm not going to answer that," he replied firmly, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

You couldn't help but sulk at his refusal, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why not?" you pouted, unable to resist teasing him.

Seungcheol let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "Because it's embarrassing," he admitted sheepishly, his cheeks flushing slightly at the admission.

You couldn't resist pressing further, a playful glint in your eye as you leaned in closer. "Come on, Seungcheol, you can't leave me hanging like this," you teased, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. "I promise I won't laugh."

Seungcheol let out a soft sigh, his expression full of embarrassment and reluctance. "Fine," he relented, his cheeks still tinged with a faint blush. "But you have to promise not to make fun of me."

You nodded eagerly, your curiosity piqued. "I promise," you replied earnestly, your eyes wide with anticipation.

"The truth is..." Seungcheol began, he glanced at you briefly before returning his focus to the road ahead. "I was secretly in love with your impeccable taste in office supplies."

You blinked in surprise, caught off guard by his unexpected confession. For a moment, you were speechless, the weight of his words sinking in. But then you noticed the playful glint in his eyes, the mischievous curve of his lips, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.

"Come on, Seungcheol," you scoffed, "Tell me the real reason."

But Seungcheol merely chuckled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he feigned pain at your weak slaps on his shoulder. "Ouch, that hurts," he teased, his laughter filling the car.

Seungcheol's voice was hesitant as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "My dad would kill me if he heard me saying this, but..." he trailed off, his words hanging in the air.

"But what?" you prompted.

Seungcheol took a deep breath, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "At the time, I had a crush on you," he confessed, his admission hanging in the air between you.

You felt your breath catch in your throat, your mind racing as you processed his words. You stayed silent, unable to form a coherent response as a rush of emotions washed over you.

After a moment of tense silence, Seungcheol continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "And... I was jealous of you with my dad," he admitted.

A wheeze of laughter escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you clapped a hand over your mouth, trying to suppress the sudden burst of amusement. But it was too late—once the laughter started, it was impossible to hold back.

Seungcheol looked at you, a mixture of confusion and embarrassment crossing his features as he watched you dissolve into laughter. He bit his lip, trying to suppress a laugh of his own, but soon he couldn't hold it in any longer.

Seungcheol's voice carried a hint of mock indignation as he spoke. "You're laughing at my feelings?" he teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

You tried to stifle your laughter, shaking your head as tears of mirth streamed down your cheeks. "No, no," you managed to gasp out between giggles, "but... me? Your dad?" The absurdity of the situation struck you, and you dissolved into laughter once again, your body shaking with the force of it.

Seungcheol couldn't help but join in, his own laughter mingling with yours as he glanced at you with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. "Okay, okay," he said, his voice tinged with laughter, "maybe it does sound a little ridiculous when you say it like that."

As the laughter subsided, you wiped away tears of mirth and leaned against the window, still chuckling softly to yourself.

You asked with a playful smile, your curiosity piqued. "Why me, Seungcheol?"

Seungcheol let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he glanced at you. "Well, think about it," he began, his tone lighthearted. "My dad spent every day with you, but I only saw you on special occasions. And every time I tried to catch your attention, you were busy with something with my dad." He chuckled again.

You couldn't help but laugh along with him, playfully shaking his shoulder. "Oh, so I didn't catch your charms at that time?" you teased, a mischievous twinkle in your eye.

Seungcheol grinned, his gaze meeting yours. "I guess not," he replied with a shrug, his tone teasing yet fond.

You couldn't resist teasing Seungcheol a little more. "And your charm was ignoring me when you saw me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Seungcheol let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Okay, maybe I was a little nervous," he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly.

You laughed at his confession, enjoying the playful banter between you. "Was I really that intimidating?" you asked, feigning surprise.

Seungcheol nodded emphatically, his eyebrows raised in seriousness. "Definitely," he replied.

He continued, "I mean, we're almost the same age, but every time I saw you at dinner, you came looking like a lawyer ready to win a case."

You couldn't help but be curious. "And why didn't you tell me?" you asked, your tone gentle.

Seungcheol paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Honestly, before, I didn't really know how to tell you," he confessed, "I wasn't exactly experienced in... well, talking to girls, let alone asking them out on dates."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his admission. "And now?" you pressed.

Seungcheol turned to you, a warm smile gracing his features, as the car pulled up to the restaurant, Seungcheol got out and hurried around to open the door for you, gesturing for you to step out. "Well, I'd like to think I've gotten a little better at it," he replied, his tone light.

You chuckled softly, stepping out of the car and allowing him to guide you towards the entrance of the restaurant. "I'd say you've definitely improved," you remarked, a teasing glint in your eye.

Seungcheol chuckled, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "The old Seungcheol would be freaking out right now if he knew he is now taking you to dinner," he admitted, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

As you settled into your seats at the restaurant, the ambiance around you buzzing with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Seungcheol sat across from you, a playful smile dancing on his lips as he perused the menu.

"So, Seungcheol," you began, your voice laced with mischief, "tell me about your crush on me when you were just a boy."

Seungcheol's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his gaze meeting yours. "Well," he began, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "let's just say, my crush on you hasn't exactly faded over the years."

You couldn't help but laugh at his bold confession, the unexpectedness of his words catching you off guard. "Oh, really?" you replied, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "And here I thought you were just taking me out to dinner as a friendly gesture."

You drink a sip of wine, "Imagine if your dad finds out about this little dinner date, Mr. Choi Seungcheol…"

Seungcheol's smirk widened at your response, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "And if he finds out?" he teased, his tone light yet filled with confidence.

You raised your chin slightly, meeting his gaze with a knowing look. "Well, Seungcheol," you replied, your voice steady, "it's not exactly ethical for a boss to take his employees on dates."

Seungcheol's smirk only grew, his confidence unwavering as he leaned forward slightly. "I think I can decide what's ethical while I'm in charge," he countered, his tone playful yet determined. "And besides, what harm could it do after your shift?"

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in playful skepticism at Seungcheol's suggestion. "Is it normal to take female employees on dates?" you asked, your tone teasing yet curious. "I'm sure the other girls would be interested to know."

Seungcheol's gaze softened as he met your eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I can't speak for anyone else," he replied, his voice low and sincere, "but I only have eyes for one woman in this company."

You couldn't deny the flutter of excitement mixed with apprehension as Seungcheol's gaze locked with yours, his smile causing your heart to race. "Seungcheol..." you began, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words.

Seungcheol's smile widened, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned forward slightly. "Yes?" he prompted, his voice low.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you meet his gaze. "I have to admit," you started, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart, "it's not exactly the most conventional situation, considering you're the son of my boss."

Seungcheol's smile remained, his eyes twinkling. "Well, technically, I am your boss," he teased.

You raised an eyebrow, "Is that supposed to sound better?" you retorted, a hint of amusement in your voice.

Seungcheol chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair as he met your gaze with a knowing look. "With that title," he replied, his voice laced with playful arrogance, "I can bend the rules a little."

You held your breath for a moment, nodding in acknowledgment of Seungcheol's words. But as you met his gaze once more, a determined look in your eyes, you couldn't help but shake your head slightly.

"You won't win me over that easily," you declared, your voice firm yet tinged with a hint of playfulness.

Seungcheol's smile faltered slightly, a spark of challenge igniting in his eyes as he leaned forward once more. "Challenge accepted," he replied, his voice filled with determination.

You couldn't help but smirk as you leaned back in your chair, your gaze locked with Seungcheol's.

Seungcheol's breath caught in his throat, his expression shifting from playful to slightly flustered. "Damn, don't look at me like that," he muttered under his breath, his cheeks flushing slightly.

You couldn't suppress a laugh at his reaction, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the way you were able to tease him. "Like what?" you teased.

Seungcheol shook his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Like you know exactly what you're doing,"

You couldn't resist the urge to playfully tease Seungcheol, so you tilted your head and fixed him with an intense gaze. "Like this?" you asked, your voice soft but tinged with amusement.

Seungcheol's breath hitched slightly, his feet shifting nervously under the table as he looked away from you, unable to meet your gaze. You couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the effect you were having on him, a mischievous smile playing on your lips as you watched his reaction.

Seungcheol let out a slow exhale, his eyes flickering back to meet yours briefly before darting away again. "Yeah, like that," he mumbled, his voice slightly strained.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his response, enjoying the playful banter between the two of you. "Good to know I still have that effect on you," you teased, a playful glint in your eye.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes playfully, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, yeah, don't get too cocky now," he replied, his tone light but filled with warmth.

As the dinner drew to a close and both of you felt the weariness of the day settling in, Seungcheol pulled up in front of your apartment building. You exchanged a few final words, the playful banter still lingering between you as you prepared to part ways.

With a smirk, you couldn't resist teasing Seungcheol one last time before you left. "Well, thanks for the dinner, boss," you said, your voice laced with a hint of mischief.

Seungcheol chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. "Anytime, secretary," he replied, his tone teasing yet filled with warmth.

Before you stepped out of the car, you leaned in to plant a quick kiss on Seungcheol's cheek, a gesture of gratitude. "Goodnight, Seungcheol," you said with a smile, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you.

"Goodnight, Y/N," Seungcheol replied, his voice soft as he returned your smile.

With one final wave, you stepped out of the car and watched as Seungcheol drove off into the night一giggling like a little girl.

You lay in your bed, the soft sheets providing a feeling of comfort after a long day. Your mind starts to wonder as you take in the moment of silence. That is, until your cellphone interrupts your thoughts with notifications from Seungcheol.

You glanced down at your phone and couldn't suppress a smile when you saw Seungcheol's message. It read, "Since you're such a busy woman, I thought I'd save you the trouble and make plans for Saturday. I'll pick you up in the morning and we'll spend the day at the summer house."

With a playful glint in your eye, you quickly replied, "Just like your dad to invite me to the summer house, huh?"

A moment later, Seungcheol's response came through. "Yes, but this time, you'll go," he wrote, his tone confident yet filled with warmth.

You couldn't resist teasing him a bit more. "Who guarantees that?" you typed quickly, a smirk playing on your lips as you sent the message.

A moment later, your phone buzzed with Seungcheol's response. "I do" he replied confidently. "And if that's not enough, I can promise you good food, great company, and a beautiful view. What more could you want?"

You chuckled softly, appreciating his playful persistence. "Alright, you win. I'll be ready," you responded, feeling a flutter of excitement for the upcoming weekend.

"Great! Looking forward to it," Seungcheol replied with a smiley face emoji.

Just as he promised, Seungcheol stopped in front of your apartment in the morning. You stepped out of the building, the bright sun shining down, and made your way to his car. You were wearing sunglasses and a sundress, a look quite different from the usual office attire Seungcheol was accustomed to seeing you in.

As you slid into the passenger seat, Seungcheol gave you an appreciative once-over and grinned. "Well, look at you," he teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I almost didn't recognize you without the high heels and power suit."

You laughed, adjusting your sunglasses. "Surprised, huh? I do have a life outside the office, you know."

He chuckled as he started the car. "I must say, I like this version of you." Seungcheol glanced over at you, a playful smirk on his lips. "Finally, I thought you would never get to see our summer house," he teased.

You chuckled, adjusting your sunglasses. "Well, your dad always invited me on weekends to spend the day with you and your brother. I guess I just never took him up on the offer."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Really? My dad wanted you to spend time with us?"

"Yeah," you nodded, smiling at the memory. "He would always insist, but I didn't want to intrude on your family time."

Seungcheol shook his head, laughing softly. "You wouldn't have been intruding. My dad probably wanted you there to keep me and my brother in line."

You chuckled at Seungcheol's playful response, shaking your head in amusement. "Of course, you were terrible. I needed to choose my peace," you teased, a playful glint in your eye.

Seungcheol laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "No way, my dad told you about all the things we've done?" he exclaimed, sounding genuinely surprised.

You nodded with a smirk. "Yeah, I saved you two from a lot of mess already. I needed to remind your dad to take you two off punishment more than once."

Seungcheol's lips curled into a mischievous smile as he glanced at you. "Let me reward you then?" he suggested, his tone laced with teasing.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Bold move, Seungcheol," you teased, a playful smirk on your lips.

"I grew up, Noona," he proclaimed with the new nickname, his voice dripping with a flirtatious undertone. "I'm not that little boy anymore."

You smirked at his comment, intrigued to see where he was going with this. "Ooh, do go on, Seungcheol," you responded, your tone laced with playful curiosity. "What, pray tell, has changed since I last saw you?"

Seungcheol chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. His smile widened, revealing a glimpse of the boyish charm that still clung to him. "Well, I've grown a little taller, for starters," he admitted, a hint of bravado in his voice. "And I've gained some muscle too."

You couldn't help but playfully tease him further, a challenge in your eyes as your lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Grown taller, you say?" you retorted, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. "And gained some muscle? Aren't you just the pinnacle of maturity now?"

Seungcheol's eyes twinkled as he met your gaze, clearly enjoying the banter. "Oh, don't worry, Noona, I still have my charming ways," he teased, a flirtatious grin settling on his face.

As the conversation continued, Seungcheol's cheeks flushed slightly as he confessed, "The old me couldn't even bring himself to ask out his crush, much less invite her to the summer house to spend time together alone."

Your surprise was evident as you echoed, "Alone? Just the two of us?" A newfound realization dawned on you, and you couldn't help but wonder, "Is that why you invited me, Seungcheol?"

He flashed you a sheepish smile and nodded, his embarrassment adding a touch of charm to his confession.

Seungcheol's flushed cheeks and bashful demeanor confirmed the truth of his revelation. He chuckled nervously. "Yeah, I guess it is," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "I wanted some alone time with you, Noona."

"Alone in a romantic summer house?" you echoed, your voice tinged with a touch of tease. "Well, I suppose we could enjoy the scenic views, relax by the pool, and indulge in some good food and wine. But I have a feeling you had something specific in mind, Seungcheol. Care to enlighten me?"

Seungcheol's gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he caught your suggestive question. A subtle blush crept onto his cheeks, and he bit his lip shyly, clearly embarrassed by the direction the conversation was taking.

He chuckled nervously. "Oh, no, Noona, not that." He quickly added, "I just wanted to spend some quality time with you, you know? Talk, laugh, just have fun together."

"Well, if I wasn't worried about distracting the driver, I might say something even more suggestive," you teased, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

Seungcheol flushed deeper, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly as he tried to focus on the road. "Noona, please," he pleaded, his voice tinged with embarrassment and something you couldn't read well. "It's hard enough to concentrate as it is. Don't make it harder."

"You're not getting nervous, are you? Is the thought of being alone with me in a romantic summer house too much for you?"

"Hush, Noona," he said with a light-hearted scold, giving you a quick glance. "Can you not talk like that while I'm driving?" his voice slightly strained.

"Relax, Seungcheol," you teased leaning on your seat again. "It's just a little harmless fun. But if it's making you this flustered, I suppose I'll keep the dirty talk for later."

"Please do," he replied, his tone flustered and entertained. "Let's save the risqué topics for when we're not on the road, okay?"

You chuckled, finding his bashfulness endearing. "Alright, alright, I'll behave," you said, lifting your hands in mock surrender. "For now."

"I think the boldest one here is you, from what I see."

You grinned at his observation, "Oh, you're just noticing that now, Seungcheol?" you teased. "I've always been the bolder one between the two of us. But don't worry, I'll try not to overwhelm you with my boldness."

"I have no doubts about that, Noona," he replied, "Bring on the surprises later. I can handle it."

As you continued your playful banter with Seungcheol, you noticed a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. Years of harboring a secret crush on you, struggling to hide his true feelings, had taken a toll on him.

Deep down, he was tired of waiting, desperate to express the admiration he held for you. You wondered how much longer he could keep his feelings restrained, how much more pent-up emotion he could bear before they would inevitably burst forth.

As you stepped into the summer house, the pure air filling your lungs, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. Turning to glance at Seungcheol, the reality of the situation finally hitting you一just the two of you. A soft smile curved your lips as you took in the peaceful atmosphere.

Seungcheol, too, seemed affected by the realization.

As you glanced around, your eyes fell upon the family portraits hanging on the wall. There was a charming photo of Seungcheol and his brother hugging their mother, another one capturing Mr. Choi tenderly kissing Mrs. Choi. Your gaze then moved to a playful shot of them both splashing water, and finally, a picture of Seungcheol himself. As you stood there admiring the memories, you felt a warm presence behind you.

With his arms crossed and a wide grin on his face, Seungcheol stood by your side, clearly amused by your initial reaction.

You couldn't help but let out a quiet chuckle, finding Seungcheol's amused expression endearing. Turning to face him, you commented, "Looks like Mr. and Mrs. Choi couldn't keep their hands off each other."

Seungcheol laughed lightly, his eyes twinkling. "Yeah, they've always been like that," he replied. "They're not exactly shy about their affection for each other."

"Are you really this egotistical, displaying your own picture on the wall like this?"

Seungcheol chuckled, his smile widening as he playfully rolled his eyes at your teasing. "Oh please, Noona," he replied, "It's not my fault you're just now realizing how irresistibly handsome I am."

You chuckled, shaking your head in amusement. "Alright, alright," you conceded, "You win this round, ego extraordinaire. But I must admit, you've always been quite handsome, even if it's a bit exaggerated." You smirked playfully.

Seungcheol grinned, basking in the compliment. "Aww, so you finally admit it, do you?" he teased, a cocky smile on his face.

As you playfully warned him not to get cocky, Seungcheol couldn't resist the temptation. He stepped closer, his hands gently settling on your waist. You could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, his eyes intense and captivating.

However, you playfully resisted, pushing him away and throwing him a challenging glance. As you walked away, you gave him one last sultry look over your shoulder before disappearing into the next room.

Seungcheol stood there for a moment, dumbfounded by the unexpected turn of events. A combination of surprise and desire coursed through him as he tried to compose himself, his heart racing.

His eyes gleamed with a combination of desire and disappointment, but a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It was clear that the game had only just begun.

The night had crept upon you, enveloping the summer house in a gentle embrace. As you sat on the balcony, sipping on a bottle of wine, you savored the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with Seungcheol.

The soft glow of the moonlight cast a warm, enchanting ambiance, and the distant sound of the television from within the house provided a pleasant background melody. You found yourself lost in the moment, feeling completely… content in his company.

As you let the flavors of the wine wash over your palate, you paused for a moment, your thoughts wandering to your recent travels. A hint of nostalgia tinged your voice as you spoke. "You know," you began, "I can't recall the last time I took a trip that wasn't connected to work."

You chuckled, swirling the wine in your glass, your eyes fixed on the liquid's dance. "Ah, yes," you responded with a wry smile. "Even if it is my... boss's house." you echoed his words, a hint of dry humor in your tone.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "Feeling a bit cheeky, are we?" he taunted, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Watch your words, or I might have to dock your pay later."

You laughed, playfully sticking out your tongue at his jest. "Oh, you wouldn't dare," you retorted, a smirk on your lips. "What would the company do without my fabulous work?"

Seungcheol's grin widened, his eyes gleaming. "Ah, you've got me there," he conceded, raising a hand in mock surrender. "I guess I'll just have to find some other way to punish you for that sharp tongue of yours."

You smirked, taking another sip of your wine, and teasingly asked, "Oh, what are we talking about, indeed?" The question hung in the air, laced with a hint of provocation. You knew perfectly well what you were discussing, but you couldn't resist the urge to tease him further.

Seungcheol chuckled, shaking his head at your playfulness. He leaned back in his chair, a suggestive glint in his eyes. "You know exactly what we're talking about," he replied.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Do I now?" you said, a mischievous smile on your lips. "And what might that be, pray tell?"

Seungcheol saw through your act, his gaze locking onto yours. He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a sultry tone. "Oh, don't act all coy with me, Noona," he murmured, his eyes fixed on yours. "You know exactly what we've been dancing around."

You stared into Seungcheol's eyes, the intensity of his gaze setting your heart racing.

Seungcheol's voice dropped to a whisper, his words laced with seductive undertones. "We've been dancing around it all night, skirting around the subject..." he murmured, grazing his fingers lightly against yours.

"But enough games, Noona... You know exactly where this is heading."

As Seungcheol got up from his seat and moved behind you, his hands gently massaging your shoulders and neck, you closed your eyes, enjoying the soothing touch of his hands.

A soft moan escaped your lips, and you couldn't help but teasingly ask, "So sure of yourself, aren't you, Seungcheol? But what makes you so sure I want this, too?"

"Ah, Noona, you're a difficult woman to read sometimes," he teased. "But the way you respond to my touch... I can feel the desire building in your body, just like mine."

Seungcheol chuckled, his fingers skillfully working the tension out of your shoulders. He apparently knew exactly how to make you melt under his touch. "Oh, Noona," he drawled, his voice laced with certainty and amusement. "Your body betrays you. Your sighs, your reactions... I can feel the way you lean into my touch. You can try to hide it all you want, but deep down, you want this just as much as I do."

You felt your breath catch in your throat at his words, your breath hitched in agreement to his perception, your body's response betraying your own longing.

Seungcheol's hands continued their ministrations, his touch growing bolder. "You can deny it if you want," he murmured, trailing gentle kisses along your neck, "But your body tells the truth, Noona."

As Seungcheol's lips gently traced along your neck, you found yourself melting even more under his touch, your defenses crumbling. But just as abruptly, you snapped out of the blissful haze, realizing the need to regain control over your emotions. You quickly stood up, breaking the intimate contact.

Seungcheol looked momentarily taken aback, you could see the flicker of confusion in his face, as he tried to understand the sudden change in your demeanor.

You caught a glimpse of his parted lips, still moist from their previous closeness against your skin.

"Noona..." he whispered, his voice laced with concern. "Is everything alright? Did I... did I go too far?"

Your breath shuddered nervously, emotions swirling within you like a raging tempest. You held onto his hands. You look into his eyes, seeing the desperation and longing there. He seems ready to ask for all of you, but the sheer intensity of his gaze makes you hesitate.

"Seungcheol," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's not that I don't want this but... your family, our work, the company... it's just–"

Before you can finish your sentence, Seungcheol silences you with a gentle finger on your lips. His smile widens, and with a reassuring expression, he shakes his head slightly. "Sshh," he whispers, his eyes filled with understanding. "I know what you're thinking, Noona. You're worried about everything that could happen. But right now, in this moment, all I want is to be close to you. Nothing else matters."

"Cheol–"

"You worry too much, Noona," he whispers gently, "Just let yourself feel what's between us."

"C'mere." As Seungcheol guides your steps towards the main bedroom, his warm presence enveloping you, he stands before you, gently lifting your chin.

His gaze captures yours, his voice filled with desire and intent. "For once in your life, Noona," he whispers, his touch on your chin light. "Do exactly what you really want."

With a confident smile, Seungcheol leans closer, his breath brushing against your skin. "Or," he continues, his words carrying a hint of playfulness, "I will."

His proximity ignited a spark within you, evoking a sense of youthful freedom.

Memories of missed opportunities and fleeting moments flood your mind. You bite your smile as you find yourself drawn to his infectious energy and the intoxicating vibe he exudes.

"I dare you," you murmur softly, your voice infused with anticipation. "Show me what you've got, Seungcheol."

As Seungcheol leaned in closer and claimed your lips in a passionate kiss. 一a long awaited kiss一His fingers tenderly brushed against the nape of your neck, while his other hand gripped your waist, scrunching the dress between his fingers.

Your bodies pressed close together, you could feel the fervent thudding of Seungcheol's heart against your chest, mirroring the desperate beats of your own heart. His tongue danced with yours, igniting sparks of desire with every caress. As you allowed your fingers to bury into the softness of his hair, you heard a low, needy moan escape his lips.

As Seungcheol laid you on the expansive bed, his fingers gently encircling your waist, while he held one of your thighs, you felt a rush of heat as he settled between your legs.

The bed felt plush and inviting, while the soft silk of the sheets caressed your skin. With a suggestive motion, he simulated a thrust, and a gasp of pleasure escaped your lips, mingling with the intoxicating friction between your bodies.

Seungcheol gently lifted your dress over your head, revealing your naked form. His breath hitched in his throat as his eyes roamed over your exposed skin, and a whine escaped from deep within his chest. He buried his face into your neck, his voice ragged as he whispered.

"Have you been walking around like this all night, Noona? Wearing nothing underneath that dress this whole time?"

You chuckled, biting your bottom lip.

"Can it be possible, Noona..." "You cooked with me," Seungcheol whispered, his voice growing heated with each word, "went shopping at the vineyard, wore that enticing dress, and were completely naked under it the whol– fuck." He couldn't help but let out a playful moan against your neck. "You're driving me crazy, Noona."

As Seungcheol's hand continued its languid path across your body, tracing a languid trail along the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, and finally finding its destination between your thighs, he let out an appreciative hum of satisfaction. "Mmmm," he murmured, his voice dripping with approval.

He parts your thighs, his fingers slipping between your folds, teasing you with gentle, deliberate strokes. "You're already so wet," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "All this for me?" He slides a finger inside you, curling it just right, and then, adds another, making you arch your back and moan.

"Cheol," you gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as your body trembles under his touch.

He smirks, looking down at where his fingers are disappearing inside you. The wet sounds are so loud that they almost drown out your whimpers. "Look at how you take my fingers," he murmurs, his voice dripping with lust.

Your eyes follow his gaze, watching his fingers move in and out of you, slick with your arousal. The sight and the sound of it drive you wild, making you squirm and whimper even more. Seungcheol's thumb finds your clit, pressing and circling it in a way that makes you see stars.

"You're so tight Noona," he groans, his own arousal evident in his voice. "I can't wait to feel you around my cock."

You moan, feeling the pleasure build to an almost unbearable level. His fingers press deeper, and you clench around them, so tight that his fingers almost slide out of you with each pulse of your walls. Seungcheol bites his lip, trying to maintain his composure, but it's not working.

Without warning, he slides down the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He devours your pussy with a hunger that makes you scream, your body flinching on the bed from the overwhelming sensation. His hot tongue flicks and swirls around your clit, and he drinks you in, savoring every drop of your arousal.

"Cheol, oh my god!" you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, fingers gripping tightly.

He holds you still, his strong hands pressing down on your hips as you writhe beneath him. The combination of his tongue and fingers is driving you wild, and you can feel the orgasm building rapidly. He slides one hand up your body, finding your nipple and rolling the bud between his fingers, making you burn in pleasure.

"You're so perfect," he murmurs against your folds, his voice vibrating through you. "So fucking sweet."

Your moans grow louder, the sensations overwhelming your senses. Seungcheol's tongue moves with expert precision, and when he adds another finger inside you, curling them too, you can't hold back any longer. Your orgasm crashes over you, and you scream his name, your body convulsing with pleasure.

Seungcheol doesn't stop, his mouth and fingers working you through your orgasm, extending it until you're a quivering, whimpering mess beneath him. Only when you're completely spent does he finally pull back, looking up at you with a satisfied smile. His lips glisten with your cum, and his eyes are dark with desire.

"That's my good girl," he praises, sliding back up your body to kiss you deeply. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only makes you want him more. "Now, let's see how tight you are around my cock."

Seungcheol starts to strip, his eyes never leaving yours as he reveals his toned, muscular body. You wait, watching him with the 'fuck me' eyes. As he finally removes the last piece of clothing, you seize the moment.

With a swift, confident movement, you grab him and push him back onto the bed. He falls back, his eyes widening in surprise. You straddle his naked body, your own arousal evident as you press your pussy against him. His hands slide to your hips, gripping you tightly.

He looks up at you, a devilish smile playing on his lips. "Fuck, I'm in trouble," he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration. "You're going to be the death of me."

You smirk, leaning down to capture his lips in a searing kiss, your bodies aligning perfectly. "Then let's make it worth it," you whisper against his mouth, feeling his cock harden beneath you.

You grab Seungcheol's cock, aligning it with your wet, eager pussy. As you slide down onto him, you feel the delicious stretch, and your head falls back, mouth slack with pleasure. Seungcheol bites his lip, almost tasting blood, his mind racing with random thoughts to avoid cumming too soon.

"Fuck," he moans, his voice strained as his eyebrows furrow in concentration.

You bottom out, and the sensation is overwhelming. Seungcheol's hands grip your hips tightly, his eyes dark with desire as he tries to keep his composure. The feeling of your tightness around him is almost too much to bear, but he holds on, savoring every moment.

"Too much already?" you purred. "We've barely begun, Seungcheol," you whispered, your breath catching as your core quivered against his tantalizing touch.

As you raised your hips slightly, allowing yourself to sink back down onto Seungcheol, he let out a trembling breath, his eyes closing as his jaw went slack with pleasure. Despite his valiant attempt at forming a response, all that escaped his lips was a strained "Noona" as his body trembled beneath you.

You start to ride him, bouncing up and down, your juices splashing at the base of his cock. Each time you sink down, Seungcheol's body shudders, moving in rhythm with you. His hands grip your hips, trying to guide your movements一but mostly just holding on for dear life.

"Fuck, Y/N" Seungcheol groans again, his voice filled with raw need. His eyes are glued to where your bodies join, watching as you take him in over and over. "You're so fucking perfect," he mutters, barely able to keep his composure as your tightness drives him wild. The sensation is almost too much, but he holds on, wanting to prolong this intense pleasure for as long as he can.

To give your legs a rest, you start to circle your hips, grinding on him, feeling the tip of his cock hitting your g'spot perfectly. Seungcheol's hands slide up your body, one settling on your breast, squeezing gently, while the other grips your waist, guiding your movements.

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, his eyes rolling back at the sensation. "You feel so fucking good." His voice is husky, filled with desperation as he tries to hold on. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in circles to match the rhythm of your hips.

You moan loudly, your head falling back as the pleasure builds even more intensely. "Cheol," you gasp, "I can't hold it much longer." Your body trembles, every nerve ending on fire.

"Don't hold back, baby, don't hold it" he urges, his voice strained but filled with encouragement. "Let go for me. Cum all over my cock."

You hold a little longer to ask him, "How does it feel, Seungcheol," you whisper, "to finally have the woman you've had a longstanding crush on, sitting on you like this?"

Seungcheol stutters, his breath hitching as he feels your walls clenching and unclenching purposely around him. "F-fuck, Noona," he groans, his voice shaky and full of raw need. "It's... it's everything I ever dreamed of and more."

You smirk, enjoying the power you have over him. "Is that so?" you tease, grinding your hips in slow, deliberate circles. "I never knew you had such dirty fantasies about me."

He bites his lip, his hands gripping your hips tighter. "You have no idea," he admits, his voice low and strained. "I’ve wanted you for so long. Seeing you like this... feeling you like this... it’s driving me insane."

You lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. "Good," you whisper, clenching around him again. "I want you to remember this feeling, Seungcheol. Every time you look at me, I want you to remember how it feels to be inside me."

He shudders, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips. "I won't forget," he promises, his hands moving up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. "I'll never forget this, Noona."

You lean down further, your breath hot against his ear. "Seungcheol," you whisper, your voice sultry and teasing, "I can feel how close you are. Do you want to cum inside me? Do you want to fill me up with everything you've got?"

His eyes widen, and he lets out a strangled moan, his hips bucking up involuntarily. "Fuck, Noona, you're gonna make me—"

You cut him off with a sharp thrust, feeling his cock throb inside you. "Tell me how good it feels," you demand, your own voice trembling with need. "Tell me how much you love fucking me."

"It feels so fucking good," he gasps, his fingers digging into your hips. "I love it, Noona. I love fucking you so much. You're so tight, so wet, I can't hold on—"

You can feel your own orgasm building, spurred on by his desperate words and the intensity of his gaze. "That's it, baby," you purr, riding him harder. "Cum for me, Seungcheol. Fill me up. I want to feel you cumming inside me."

His eyes roll back, and he grips you even tighter. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm cumming—"

"Fu一... ahh,"

As Seungcheol's release fills you to the brim, you feel a warm, liquid sensation spreading inside you, overflowing with his essence. He holds you close, pressing your bodies together as if to recompose the bond between you.

Just as you're catching your breath and basking in the afterglow, Seungcheol suddenly flips you over onto the bed with a determined look in his eyes. His hands roam over your body, trailing fire wherever they touch, and you can feel the familiar ache building within you once again.

"I need to make you cum again Noona." "Now, let me take care of you."

With a sudden burst of energy, Seungcheol flips you over onto your stomach, his hands roaming eagerly over your body as he prepares to make you cum all over again.

Seungcheol's cock enters you deep and sloppy, the abundance of lubrication spilling out around him. You scream into the sheets as he presses your head down onto the bed, his movements becoming more assertive as he thrusts into you with purpose.

Your breath grew sharper with every thrust, each one pushing you closer to the precipice.

"I've imagined this moment... countless times," he whispered, his voice low and husky. "Having you like this... under me, writhing and gasping."

"So… Ah! Nasty, Seungcheol!"

Seungcheol couldn't help but chuckle at your teasing remark, his eyes filled with both affection and desire. As he continued to drive into you, he replied with a playful smack on the ample flesh of your ass.

"You have no idea," he murmured.

As you felt the wave of pleasure wash over you, your vision temporarily white in the overwhelming sensations, his name left your throat all whiny and strained. Seungcheol couldn't help but whine in response to his own heightened sensitivity.

He wanted to please you, to bring you to climax, but the overwhelming experience only made him more reactive to your every move and sound.

The intensity of your climax began to subside, your body finally melting into the sheets, Seungcheol stumbled off the bed, his legs trembling from the intense sex.

He made his way to the bathroom, seeking out some wipes to gently clean you up, his own breaths still ragged and unsteady.

As Seungcheol returned with the wipes, he found you lying there, chest heaving and breath labored. He crawled back into bed next to you, gently beginning to clean you up, his touch tender and caring.

"You alright there, Noona?" he asked, a hint of concern mingling with his breathless voice. "I didn't... hurt you, did I?"

You reached out, gently running your fingers through Seungcheol's messed hair, a weary yet satisfied smile playing on your lips.

"I'm okay, baby…" you whispered, your voice filled with contentment.

He couldn't help but bite back a smile at your choice of words.

As Seungcheol continued his gentle ministrations, cleaning you up with the wipes, taking care to not overwhelm you when he brushes the wipes against your clit.

"Baby?" he echoed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Is that what you're calling me now?" Despite the teasing tone, there was a warmth in his eyes that betrayed his affection

"You're such a big baby Seungcheol…"

In response to your lighthearted comment, Seungcheol couldn't help but chuckle. He leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on your shoulder before responding.

"Well, I am big, you're not wrong about that," he replied, a mischievous grin on his face. "But I guess 'big baby' suits me just fine, especially if it's coming from you."

As Seungcheol finished cleaning you up, he tossed the wipes aside and draped an arm around your middle, pulling you closer. He leaned in, peppering soft kisses along your neck and shoulder, his touch gentle.

"And your image," he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "riding me like that... it's something I'll never forget. It's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen."

"Did you like it?" You ask him, giving a glance over your shoulder.

Seungcheol furrowed his brows, giving you a slightly exasperated look, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Noona, that was a rhetorical question, right?" he teased, a hint of affectionate amusement in his voice. "Of course I liked it."

[...]

In the soft morning light, sunlight trickled into the room, and you woke to the gentle sensation of Seungcheol's fingers running through your hair. As your eyes slowly opened, you found him already dressed, looking striking in the warm glow.

"Noona," he whispered, his gaze tender and filled with affection. "My parents... they're here."

Hearing this, you instantly sat upright in bed, your eyes widening in shock.

The realization that Seungcheol's parents had arrived hit you like a bolt of lightning. You hastily stumbled out of bed, making a beeline for the bathroom, leaving him chuckling at your flustered state.

You quickly emerged from the bathroom, your hair still damp and clinging to your skin, a bath towel wrapped tightly around your body. You found Seungcheol lounging on the bed, casually scrolling through his phone.

"Cheol," you began with a slight scowl, "why didn't you tell me your parents arrived earlier? I could've prepared myself better!"

Seungcheol shrugged apologetically, a hint of sheepishness in his expression. "Honestly, Noona, I had no idea they were coming either," he admitted, offering a sincere smile. "They didn't give a heads up, and I couldn't warn you beforehand."

You let out a sigh, the lingering worry evident on your face. "It's not just about that," you murmured, "What will they think of me... sleeping with you… their son, my boss?"

"Noona, my parents aren't like that," he assured you, gently squeezing your hand. "They won't judge you based on your relationship to me or your job. They see the person you are, and that's all that matters."

He chuckled softly, attempting to lighten the mood. "Besides, I'm pretty sure they already love you just because you're so good at bossing me around."

You playfully gave Seungcheol's shoulder a gentle slap, your worries momentarily replaced by a smile. As you both left the bedroom, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, guiding you towards the living room.

You had worked closely with Seungcheol's father for years, and the thought of them knowing about your intimate relationship was nerve-wracking. Yet, Seungcheol's calming presence beside you helped ease your nerves.

Mr. Choi regarded you with a warm and teasing smile as you bowed in greeting. "Ah, there she is!" he exclaimed with feigned, feigned, disappointment. "The famous Y/N who refuses my invitations to the summerhouse. But with my son, suddenly she finds the time."

Mrs. Choi chuckled softly at her husband's jest, her eyes filled with warmth.

You felt a warmth spread across your cheeks, totally embarrassed. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Choi," you apologized, your voice soft. "It's just... Seungcheol has a way of convincing me."

Mr. Choi's eyes gleamed with an affectionate pride as he spoke. "When Seungcheol was younger," he began, gesturing with his hands, "he used to come to me, curious about you. He would ask, 'Father, do you think Noona could be interested in someone like me?'"

His voice was tinged with amusement as he continued, "I always told him, 'Son, Y/N is quite the catch. You just need to be patient, and show her your true self.' And look where we are now."

"'How is Noona today?' 'What's Noona doing?' 'When is Noona coming to visit?'" His mom continues.

Seungcheol's face flushed a deeper shade of red, and he hurriedly covered his face with his hands, visibly embarrassed by his father's words. You seized the opportunity to add to the teasing, a playful grin on your face.

"Oh, Cheollie," you teased, "So it's true, you were quite smitten with me even back then. How utterly endearing."

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year ago

Note

so! you mentioned in the 'p0rn preferences' post that Gaz is not the one who jerks off the most in the 141, and I humbly ask you, who would that be?

I don't mean this as a request, just a little discussion, cause I feel like Soap would just be going at it at any chance possible, like a bunny. he probably doesn't care much if someone hears it, but that's just me thinking too much into it.

Who Jerks off the Most in the 141 + König

Warnings: 18+, Heavy Mentions of Masturbation, Male Masturbation, Implied Reader in Individual Headcanons, Accidental and Implied Voyeurism, Edging, Brief Mention of Injury, Men Who Moan <3, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except 'You'.

A/N: As per Anon's question (which I just had to turn into a post of its own) I present to you the list of the 141 members (and König) who jerk off from the most to least <3

Soap

I have to agree with you here, Anon - Johnny is most definitely the king of self love when it comes to the 141.

He doesn't much care where he is or who he's with; when he has to satisfy his needs, he'll do so.

Though, he'll spare whoever's with him the sight of watching him throwing his head back, trying to stifle his moans behind gritted teeth whilst the wet sound of his hand slipping up and down the length of his shaft fill the room.

Unless they want to.

For one reason or another, he's nigh-insatiable when it comes to his libido, and the fact that his stamina affords him the luxury of beating himself off until his cum is practically translucent doesn't help.

The slightest thing can set him off.

Someone brushing past him ? Hard.

Someone stroking his ego a little too enthusiastically ? Bricked up.

He sees something that's shaped to be a little too curvy or phallic ? Stiff as a pole.

He remembers something mildly suggestive you did three years ago in that restaurant ? He's going to the Horny Realm.

Yes, his teammates have complained about his incessant moaning-come-grunting-come-whimpering through all hours of the night, his voice contorting through a spectrum of desperation and Johnny always ending up spent and overstimulated by the time the sun comes up.

And then he's ready to do it all again the second night touches the horizon line, giving his teammates a knowing smile when he walks into the room sporting nothing else save for a pair of boxers and a monster that looks to be trying to tear itself free from them.

Gaz

Dude's young. Of course he's throttling that rooster on a nigh-daily basis.

The only reason he's not at it as much as Soap is because he likes to believe he still has a few threads of his self-restraint intact.

He doesn't.

Especially when it comes to you (regardless of whether you're dating yet or not).

But he doesn't need to know that.

Honestly, the only thing that separates him from Johnny's unmatched libido is the fact that it takes a little more than the slightest provocation to get Gaz going.

Albeit, that line is a thin one.

If he so much as accidentally sees something explicit for upwards of three seconds, he's hard.

The only advantage of his need for satisfaction is the speed with which he can achieve it.

He and Johnny actually timed each other once to see who could get off the fastest.

Gaz won. Though, only by a slim margin.

Needless to say, that made for a rather interesting conversation with the Captain when he walked in on two of his best soldiers sat panting on the edge of their cots, an almost-translucent spray spattered across their stomachs, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

Ghost

The third-in-line for the Throttle Throne is none other than our beloved Ghost.

Unlike Johnny and Gaz, Ghost is more likely to leave himself alone at the first sign of trouble, toughing it out until he can will his mind to less lustful pastimes.

He won't make his jacking off known to anyone, either, often doing it in the shower where the water beats down so harshly that no sound can be heard for the water's fall.

That, and he's a master at keeping his voice low, no matter the circumstances.

More often than not, Simon makes quick work of jerking off purely because it’s a means to an end. However, if it’s you he’s thinking of, he’s much more likely to take his time — to immerse himself in the fantasy of your body around his, taking him so well in one capacity or another. Fucking yourself dumb on his cock.

During these times, he’s thorough — much more likely to edge himself, to throw his head back and growl between gritted teeth, to savour the sensation coiling in his stomach, his balls growing tight.

Otherwise, he’ll stroke one out as quickly as he can, getting back to business as usual.

And to look at him, on the surface, you'd never know that he just spent the last three minutes rubbing one out in the bathroom (yes, he is also a contender for first place in the 'Who Can Jack Off The Quickest Competition', but he'll never allow Johnny or Gaz the luxury of witnessing his unprecedented skill; that's for your eyes only).

Until he corners you, breathing down your neck, scolding you for tempting him - a man whose restraint lies only in his ability to hold off from reducing you to an exponential reflection of his prior state, breathless and covered in fluids.

König

Have you seen the size of that thing ? Man should be in the olympics for being able to throw that weight around.

Similarly to Ghost, König only gets himself off when it's absolutely necessary.

Only if he doesn't have you lying around to help him, of course.

Though, he lets himself have a bit of fun with it. Especially if it's been a tough day.

He's vocal, too. Though he tries not to be.

He just can't help it. Days' - maybe even weeks' - worth of unspent adrenaline and semen is hardly any way for a soldier like König to go about his life. So, he expels it in the privacy of quite literally any isolated space he can find.

König is not an adventurous spirit by any means when it comes to self pleasure, but when needs must, he's willing to shoulder the weight of the prospect that someone on his team could walk in at any second and catch him spraying his stomach or the wall white with, let's face it, thick ropes of cum.

Hong-Jin's actually caught him doing that before now.

That's actually how the two became friends: Horangi heard König grunting in the store cupboard and, knowing how stubborn his Colonel was with letting others know when he was injured, sought him out. Wanted to offer his help.

Catching Colonel König in the act of throwing his head back whilst growling the name '(Y/N)' into the darkest corner of the room was, suffice it to say, not what Horangi had been expecting.

Price

You just know he's cool with it. And by 'cool', I mean incredibly intentional, controlled, and not ravenous in the ways our other favourite military princesses are.

Sure, Price has gotten hard on the job a few times.

Who hasn't ?

But thanks to his level head, unwavering devotion to his work, and absolute refusal to acknowledge that he did, in fact, get a little bit of a chub during a shoot-out, he's managed to gain control over every facet of his body.

Until he comes home to you, of course.

Until he's able to loom over you like an omen and run his hands down your sides, stopping at your hips and pressing kisses that become more open-mouthed the further down the side of your neck he dips.

Pressing his hips into yours. Something demands your attention.

There have been very few occasions where a cold shower wasn't a quick enough fix for him.

When the days of having you milk him are too far out of sight, he's had to suffice with his own hands before now. Had to imagine - remember - what yours felt like in his place, your lips curled up as he gripped the chair arms, breathless as he moaned into the warm tones of your shared apartment.

But don't worry ! He'll be sure to catch you up on everything you've missed while he's been away once he returns.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad Tumblr Backup Account

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kodamaghost00 · 10 months ago

Text

30 L lawliet Headcanons

———————————————————

[Disclaimer!!]

This post will contain: NSFW,Sfw, Fluff, Smut It's also Genderless for the girls,gays and theys!

You’re a task force member in this scenario.

———————————————————

He wouldn’t call you any nicknames, so that the other task force members won’t notices you two liking each other.

But the few times you two are alone together he calls you “Dear” or “Love”. He sticks with the romantic names.

He shares all his sweets with you, but you have to ask him nicely.

He enjoys gentle affection way more than rough love. Gentle hugs or forehead kisses are always welcome.

He doesn’t fall in love easily. In fact I would put him into the Aromatic spectrum. Only for the fact that he’s too focused on being the greatest detective of all time.

It took him some time as well to notice he loves you. Around 2-3 years to be exact.

He had some people seeking his love, but he never responded to any of them.

He’s probably the smartest man alive so sometimes you feel dumb next to him. (Sometimes he reassures you that you’re doing great)

His love language is Acts Of Service. He appreciates it the most when you buy him cake. He loves it even more when you backe one yourself!

He rarely cries. Like at all. You saw him cry like 1-2 times since you got to know him years ago.

He’s very paranoid of Kira killing you. Most of the time he tries to exclude you from the investigation.

Once you made him strawberry shortcake and he loved it! Loved it so much he wanted to show you how grateful he was…

He loves to give and receive neck kisses. He’d leave hickeys on you too but only where people can’t see them.

After all he wants to enjoy you alone. He’s very gentle so he rarely bites you. Not even when you ask him.

“I just don’t want to hurt you, that’s all. You’re so stubborn…”

He has great reflexes and is super flexible as well. He’s willing to try everything for your sake.

He also has a lot stamina. So you have to be prepared for nights that will last long. He cums throughout a lot.

He canonically can tie a cherry stem with his tongue only. Do whatever you want with this information.

He whimpers. But groans when he’s close.

He’s always awkward when it comes to aftercare. He doesn’t know what you want/need so he just decides to ask “What do you want to do now…?”

His cluelessness makes you chuckle most times but he does whatever you ask from him.

He’s not a fan of “sour” fruits like kiwi,pineapple or cranberry. He enjoys the sweeter stuff like banana,strawberry and cherry!

He’s the type of person that’s go non-verbal and let you ramble about your special interests. Not interfering once. Just absorbing all the information you provide.

If you guys fight he will apologize. Even if he knows he is right. He doesn’t like fighting with his loved ones.

He likes to buy you gifts at many times… he likes seeing your surprised smile!

He likes to hear your breathing while you sleep in one bed. It’s a nice ambiance.

He hates nuts. Walnuts, peanuts or even almonds. Everything nut related is a no go.

Every time you do something to make him laugh like embarrassing yourself for his sake, he laughs out of pity for you…

His full genuine laugh is so contagious… it’s really rare, so rare that no one besides you and Watari heard it before.

He takes his time with marriage or any commitment. He wants to make sure that you’re REALLY ready to marry a man like him.

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MASTERLIST

Hey guys! I’m really sorry that these took so long… and I’m also sorry if some Headcanons should come up twice, I’ve written this over a month now and just now finished it… don’t be too harsh on me!!!

- Your Ghost ༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ

#l lawliet #l lawliet headcanons #death note #death note l #death note l lawliet #l lawliet x reader #l lawliet x y/n #l lawliet x you #l lawilet #l death note #death note anime #death note fandom #death note headcanons #death note smut #death note x reader #death note x you #death note x y/n

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1800titz · 6 days ago

Text

TWO

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI. This is the second part of the early access spanko fic!! Definitely read part one first if you already haven’t (otherwise this has like 0 context LOL). Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ) <3

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (293.7K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: Y/N being a researcher™ (Harry makes porn and she can’t stop herself— but personally I can’t blame miss girl), spanking, impact play, dom/sub dynamics, sexual undertones/smutty insinuations

WC: 7.5K

There is no correct way to process the fact that your next-door neighbor has a cult following dedicated to the way he punishes women.

Frankly, Y/N believes this is a societal oversight.

No self-help book, no forum of anonymous witnesses crowdsourcing coping advice (there are, however, online symposiums dedicated to the opposite end of the spectrum, Y/N quickly discovers, feverish warmth blistering across her cheeks). But there are literally zero guidelines delineating the proper protocol to navigate the realization that the man that lives next door (one she’d falsely accused of utilizing the patriarchy’s favorite party trick— nice one) is, in fact, just a beloved authority on consensual suffering. A guy who rearranges a bad attitude with his hands, or whatever is folded up between his fingers. The face— or lack thereof (the wide cut of his shoulders, the broad line of his splayed thighs, the practiced, capable ease of his hands, immortalized in 1080p)— of recreational corporal punishment.

And there are things about a next-door neighbor that one should not, under any circumstances, ever discover— how long, exactly, his refractory period lasts; what kind of guttural, wrecked sound crawls from the pit of his chest mid-orgasm; the way his inky, toned forearm looks, flexing, right before he plants a bruising smack to someone’s ass, punctuating the reciprocal whimper with a low, devious hum.

Unfortunately, Y/N is now acquainted with all three— two by forcible default and one by self-destructive curiosity.

These are the kinds of revelations that seep into the marrow and rearrange something fundamental— settling things back into place in a way that will never quite be the same. Epiphanies like finally learning the family lore, only to discover an unaired true crime documentary tangled into the roots of the tree. Or manually coming to the conclusion that the crush someone had to a talking animated animal during childhood actually translates to their adulthood taste in men. The way the young woman handles the situation involves seeing things she will never unsee— things which will shape her perception on the rest of everything forever.

It’s all Harry’s fault, really.

It starts like this: true to his word, he keeps the volume of his nightlife antics to a minimum. It’s a new standard born from the figurative ashes of that night— and perhaps the ashes of a charred kitchenette in an apartment on the eleventh floor, as far as the rumors she’s heard detail. The walls no longer rock under the grind of his headboard. The obscene, lazy drawl of his voice, curled at the edges with sex, tapers into nothingness.

It’s serene.

So blissfully silent that Y/N no longer spends her nights with her pillow tucked over her chest, contemplating voluntary asphyxiation.

And the quiet tastes metallic. Heavy, wrong. It’s not the peace that makes her uneasy so much as the means behind it, and the weight of her regret sits like an anvil across her chest when she lays flat on her back and stares up at the popcorn ceiling. This is a pyrrhic victory.

Nobody ever told her how to recover from falsely accusing an innocent man of violent crime either, by the way, and definitely not if she were to do it in a packed parking lot, like she was vocally denouncing androcentrism and domestic abuse through a megaphone. She’s publicly shamed a man of integrity (and obscenely active dick game), and she’s become the unwitting villain of an erotic tragedy in the process.

Y/N drums her fingers over her knuckles, forearms pasted to her tummy, as she lays flat on her back across the mattress. The fan whirs. The rich culture of willing sadomasochism and honey-drenched moans has been bulldozed. In its place resides an unnatural, guilt-soaked silence.

She’s gentrified his sex life.

There’s this eerie, monk-like devotion to abstinence now. The walls used to be alive with sound: the breathless little whimpers, the unfiltered, incomprehensible praise spilling from his mouth in a voice dipped in something warm and ruined. Now? Nothing. The auditory depravity she once resented is now a phantom limb. She didn’t realize how accustomed she’d become to the rhythm of his vices until they were gone; like a street that used to be full of neon-lit sin, now sanitized into a vegan brunch spot with really shitty, overpriced sandwiches.

Anyways, in theory, there are worse things Y/N could be doing at midnight.

Cutting her own bangs, for example. Cyberstalking an ex that ghosted her in 2017 (kicking off the trail of breadcrumbs with a google search and then LinkedIn, maybe, because she suspects she might still be blocked on Instagram). She spent one night falling down a forum rabbit hole cataloging a conspiracy on how birds aren’t real. There is a vast variety of terrible decisions the young woman could be making. Nothing, however, quite contends using her designated sleeping hours to surf through an archive of her soft-eyed, tragically beautiful neighbor using his hands to fold women into a state of obedience as if practicing origami.

She tells herself it’s a form of research. A yearning to be more… open-minded (given that the whole celibacy streak has her feeling like one of those PTA moms lobbying for romance book bans). Besides, the curly-haired brunette had practically invited her to take a look into his hobbies— opened up the page and showed her, casually said words like “you can look into domestic discipline… if you wanted to understand a bit better.” And really— what better way to take accountability, foster crucial character growth within herself, and accept her neighbor for what he is, with open arms, than to take a deep dive into his self-published porno collection?

Maybe part of it is guilt. The knowledge that she’s not only humiliated a man and basically twisted his arm into outing his NSFW extracurriculars in front of a crowd, but somehow managed to kneecap his entire operation in the process. At the very least, if his dick isn’t just out of commission altogether, he’s certainly not entertaining… the other thing. It’s too quiet. Maybe part of it is the shame bubbling up as she chews into the slick inside of her cheek, sprawled on her back. But the other part?

That’s pure, unadulterated fascination. The morbid kind of curiosity that gnaws in, the kind that should probably be dispelled and left unentertained— the depraved kind that ripples at Harry’s cherubic locks, wide-set shoulders, toned arms, hulking palms. Curiosity killed the cat— that’s how the expression goes. It’s a good thing then, Y/N thinks wryly, the tip of her pointer dragging along the trackpad, that she’s not a feline.

There are a few thoughts that smack Y/N as soon as she opens the webpage, one of the first being: the catalog of thumbnails feels like a violent act against her very sense of propriety. It’s an extensive panoply, to say the least. The filthy, rectangular display images, stacked in rows upon one another, all showcase women and an oddly familiar torso, a set of legs, usually coated by another body. Some are shot from the same angle, and others from another; women strewn over a knee with underwear bunched to the crooks at the backs of their knees, a handful of different shades. Different contours to their shapes, different hair that drapes over their downturned faces—

The breath Y/N sucks in chills her teeth.

One thing remains consistent across the visual library— Harry exists in almost all of them. The pictures are cropped right across the tops of his shoulders, all of them, the young woman supposes for the sake of protecting his identity. But the rings are the same. The tar-shaded medley of tattoos branded across his arms is the same. In one photo, his palm rests across a faceless woman’s hip, as if to keep her slotted in place, fingers digging divots into soft flesh, and Y/N makes out one eagle wing peering out along his forearm; on the opposite side, a trio of nails that peek out from beneath the sleeve of his tee, the anatomical heart.

Amongst the sordid array of half-naked silhouettes in vulnerable positions, the shape of her groggy-eyed reflection ghosting over the glowing screen of her laptop sits like an omen. It feels like an intrusion. Something so public, not meant for her eyes to see, and yet…

She clicks on one of the videos; a random selection made from the middle of the page, however far down she’s managed to scroll.

Very quickly, Y/N discovers that Harry— her neighbor, Harry, the same man who occasionally knocks on her door to swap a misdelivered set of envelopes, who Y/N ogles from the end of the hallway like a longingly-observed-from-a-distance, unattainable rom-com love interest— has made an entire pastime out of turning women into docile, whining things with nothing but a palm full of deliberate, measured strength and a voice like a warm brand. Harry, as it turns out, does not just… spank— he undoes. He peels women apart at the seams, bends them over his lap into willing angles, like they are little more than deserving vessels for discipline, and leaves them so thoroughly wrecked they wear their surrender in a film like a second skin.

The video starts off simple enough, with an empty screen— lens of the camera twisted to face the foot of an empty bed. Teak frame, hardly raised off the floor on its legs, with a crisp, white comforter tucked up under the corners of the mattress. If not for the content matter— the awareness that this angle is purposeful, that the bed serves as some ominous cog in a raunchy, disciplinary mechanism— Y/N would spend an interesting amount of time admiring his bedroom decor.

The aesthetics absorption is short-lived. A woman with burnt umber hair enters the frame from the periphery, her back facing the camera and a bleary splotch coating her side profile for the brief increment that she turns enough for the lens to catch her face— a manually added edit for identity-protection. She’s manhandled by the scruff of her neck from whatever corner the offscreen debauchery was occurring prior, and her steps are sloppy, like her feet are working on overtime to keep up with the pressure of the man pressing nearly flush to her back, his own feet nearly kicking practiced, languid steps between her clumsy soles. Harry.

He twists, sitting back onto the foot of the mattress (the angle changes, zooms, crops, as he moves, until he’s only an impersonal figure— wide shoulders, big hands, a set of legs), and his meaty thighs, draped in cozy gray sweats, splay wide apart. The posture takes up space in this all-too-casual, easy way, like a confidently relaxed implementation of innate power. Y/N blinks, chewing into her index nail. The girl on the screen lingers in the spot where his touch abandoned her nape, not quite tucking into the place between his knees (so obviously reserved for her), like she’s hesitating, until he lifts his forearm and wriggles four fingers on one palm into a universal motion meaning come hither.

Y/N is still coping with the injustice of his posture by the time the girl on the screen snakes between his open legs. First of all, there is no reason— none, whatsoever— for him to be sitting like that. Chiseled thighs— but soft enough to feel a bit of give, she’s stared long enough at him in shorts to assess (to notch her teeth into, feel the soft layer of tissue before unyielding muscle, she imagines)— split obscenely wide. One massive, ring-hugged hand coming to rest easy across her hip, over her denim shorts, the other draped nonchalantly over his own thigh, palm down. Fingers decorated in gold bands, loose. Patient. The image is so artless— effortless— and inherently such an indisputable display of dominance; of authority. An absolute certainty that if he says to bend, something (or someone) will fold.

It makes the young woman’s head feel fuzzy. Something warm bubbles deep in the pit of tummy, that soft spot of her underbelly, and a dirty thrill clambers up along the knobs of her spine. The visual of her neighbor, a man she doesn’t know well enough— who exists like a misplaced cherub, or a picturesque romantic heartthrob with nice forearms— manspreading and petting over another woman’s hip like a gentle prelude before full demolition mode—

It’s a lot. It’s freaky, in all senses of the word, and her thoughts on the matter feel tangled like a set of wired earbuds crammed into the bottom of a tote bag. Y/N is not a prude, and she’s not naïve, either— most people, usually the ones you anticipate the least, have far filthier penchants behind closed doors than imagined. Fetishes— it’s all just part of the human experience. But seeing Harry, elbows flaring as he undoes the buttons on the girl’s shorts, not gently (all deliberate), and hearing what curls into his voice when he says “Tell me why we’re doing this.” makes Y/N’s stomach feel funny.

His voice is a low purr that rattles the cheap, built-in speaker on her laptop, and the sheer volume alone has Y/N’s shoulders flinching and her fingers stretching forward to lower it. There’s that blip of shame coiling up in her chest, making her lungs feel a little tight. Squeezing thin between her teeth as she tightens her jaw. This is something Y/N probably shouldn’t be watching, but the thought gets suffocated by a heat that licks at the edges of her consciousness, spreads through the soft tissue of her, dense and seeping.

Curiosity, after all, is a mighty incentive, and morality, at this moment in time, is a weak deterrent.

The faceless silhouette between his knees— all silky drapes of dark hair, soft, unfamiliar lines— rolls forward on the balls of her feet, and then back, like she can’t stand still.

Something curls into the edges of her voice when she answers, “Because… I had an attitude,” too.

“Because you had an attitude—“

The picture across the screen is dirty in this soft-toned, nuanced way, like a fuck-me set of lace against skin or a hand that lingers too close. A kiss with just a little tongue; it’s not outright, but it’s lewd in a thick undertone.

“That’s right.”

His thumbs tuck under the sides of the (now) unbuttoned shorts, and the way his voice bleeds into Y/N’s ears has her mouth feeling dry. He slips the denim down the girl’s thighs, unceremoniously letting them slide the last bit down her calves until the article pools around her ankles. It’s almost like a dance— a second-nature choreography; his palms settle on her hips, and her hands over his shoulders when she steps out. Then, he nudges the article out of the way, coasting it across the floor with a socked foot.

With only the thickening heaviness of the empty silence and the imminence puddling in the space between them, zappling like a charge, Y/N chews into her lower lip. His hand lifts, then lands along the side of the girl’s hip— one benign pat. The faceless woman bends over one of his legs; first bracing her weight onto her palms, planting them onto the mattress, then lowering herself into a comfortable position, diagonally stretched out with her chest flat against the sheets and her hips slung out over one of his thighs, her legs stretched out in that empty space, toes curling—

His other leg cages those, rising and then pinning over the backs of her knees in a way that’ll surely prevent motion.

Y/N feels lightheaded. He presses her down like she’s something breakable; something his.

“We’ve had this problem before, haven’t we?”

Besides the curly-headed brunette’s (camera currently angled to sever this aspect of his appearance out) posture, there’s his tone. His voice is hard, but it’s not harsh; shaded in tinges of firmness, but not scathing. It’s a display of unyielding dominance, of control— a secondhand confirmation, as if the placement of leg and the way he coasts his fingertips up the back of the young woman’s bare thigh don’t embody that power enough. His words are soaked in condescension, too. A subtle, delicate note that manifests hand-in-hand with the pose, the hint of raw humiliation there, the way he digs his fingertips lightly into the dimpled flesh under his grip like he expects a verbal answer to such a patronizing question.

The woman points her toes, balls of her feet dug into the carpet, and rolls forward on her feet, hiking her hips with what little range of motion she can, folded over his leg and barred by the placement of his other. A soft grunt seeps from her mouth when he lets up and grazes his fingertips from just above the back of her knee. The sensitive spot makes her wriggle, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“…Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Then, of course, there are his hands. They’re capable, massive things; long, lithe fingers coated in the same assortment of chunky rings he dons as he hands off their mismatched mail. The same fingers that brush her own cruise up the back of a naked thigh, plucking at the edges of the woman’s panties. They’re not racy; nothing special— just a practical pair of yellow cotton blotted in blue flowers, like the kind someone wears to be comfortable around the house, or the kind worn to exercise, and the subtle detail adds to the domesticity of the ambiance; reaffirms the thought that this is something almost too personal, too private, to watch. His fingers fix the placement, tucking the fabric up just a little higher.

“…Yes, we’ve had this problem before.”

It’s the devastating way they brush over skin, the new light Y/N sees them in at the grounding press in the beat of silence— a kind of imminent calm before a storm— that makes her stomach ache. Y/N anticipates the punishing smack when it comes, on one hand, but the sudden swat in the recording still makes her jolt. It has her pulse stuttering, then kicking hard against her ribs at the sharp sound of skin-on-skin breaking apart the silence.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry corrects, a measured edge of stern authority creeping into his tone as he lets his hand rest loosely right below the area he struck. “You know better than that. Are you going to give me a hard time today? Do you need a reminder of what happened the last time you did that?”

There’s no window for the opportunity to respond, because he plants another blow to the spot where his hand had settled as he talked, palm snapping harshly against the sensitive skin along the back of her thigh. A pink splotch blooms in the shape of his hand over one of her asscheeks— one ruddy handprint from the initial admonishing smack, and the second slap, aimed lower along the same side, has the woman’s legs tensing as her torso twists a smidge and a muffled “ouch” spilling from her.

“Tha’s right. Ouch. This is what happens when you’re a brat—“

Slowly, Y/N’s fingertips scroll over the trackpad, and she clicks forward, further into the video. The cursor lands somewhere three-quarters into the video. What paints her laptop screen is a new image; the camera angle is still set in the same way, only now, the two have repositioned. Her neighbor, no longer sitting at the foot of the bed, lingers up against the wall now, bracing his weight in a relaxed posture with one shoulder pressed to the plaster. With the angle, the lens captures a bit of his side— his back, his legs in those devastating, low slung sweats— and the way his attention is directed to the woman, who’s twisted to face the same drywall.

It’s not their stances or the change of scenery so much that make Y/N’s cheeks burn, as it is the circumstances. That yellow fabric Harry had tucked up over her curves sits low now, cuffed around her knees, and her backside has been smeared in swatches of a less-saturated cerise; the kind that looks like it packs heat like a furnace over the surface of the skin. The young woman can practically feel it through the screen, glowy and warm in this feverish way, and her face heats like it’s imitating the observation through pure osmosis.

The set-up feels like a raunchy scene from one of those school-girl punishment roleplay pornos— the panties bunched over her knees, the way she stands there, facing the wall, fingers interlocked ahead of her, dangling in the empty space.

The faceless woman is in a half-slouch. Shoulder pressed to the wall, camera bifurcating the shot right below her throat (clipping three-quarters of the way across Harry’s shoulder blades in the process), one ankle crossed behind the other. It’s only then, with the new framing, that Y/N recognizes the size difference— the height difference. The way he nearly looms over the other woman (almost too similar to the way he towers over her). Given that the majority of the last vantage point involved sitting and being folded over, the detail wasn’t as obvious, but with a different perspective, it’s so much more blatant. In a way, it makes something squirm in her stomach— the clear discrepancy between their sizes, the thick coat of dominance across his shoulders, the way his hands seem to dwarf everything in sheer width, planting punishingly onto soft, raw areas, squeezing, touching. Her posture mirrors his, only it radiates less of the relaxed, self-assured air that glaze’s the man’s— instead, it’s broody and sulking.

The screencap takes a moment to load into motion, but the sound of Harry’s low, patient cadence oozes through the speaker, along with the subsequent, nonchalant sniff from the girl in the silence. Y/N’s not sure how far into the lecture the video has skipped— what more preluded the clip, how the video had unraveled from point A to point B. But when the video keeps going, all Y/N knows is that it soaks up her attention like a deviant sponge.

“What did I tell you to do?” Harry muses, calm and soft, arms crossed over his chest. The phrase is molded like a question, but sounds too close to a command to be misconstrued.

“To…” the woman rolls her shoulder, shifting on her feet, “stand in the corner.”

“To stand in the corner,” Harry echoes. The sound of skin fabric brushing plaster— a hard sound, like a weight shifting— permeates the quiet gap as he moves a touch, “Did I tell you to slouch and pout in the corner?”

Y/N blinks. Whatever the woman says is incoherent and low, unable to be picked up by the speaker, but it doesn’t matter, because Harry doesn’t seem to quite catch it either. He steps a smidge closer, the tone of his voice shifting.

“What was that?”

The girl sighs; it’s this loud, theatrically excessive noise, steeped in the aggravation that she’s obviously been muscling down, and her shoulders sag forward as she teeters on one foot to face him more.

“No, Sir.”

“So stand up straight,” Harry advises, ignoring the obvious bite in the response, and then tacks on like an afterthought, upper body swelling with the breath he takes, “And fix the attitude while you’re at it— no, don’t give me those eyes.”

The woman huffs, her motions emphatic and sluggish, before she straightens out, only to slouch back down and murmur something that the camera doesn’t pick up, once again.

“Pardon?”

Y/N’s hand stretches forward on its own accord, fingertips toggling over the keys to slightly raise the volume. Her speech is still significantly quieter than Harry’s clear tone, like a mutter under her breath, but it’s much easier to pick up on with the altered settings when she expresses, “I just don’t understand why I have to stand here.”

There’s this beat of silence then, oddly reminiscent of that calm before the storm when the gears in his head had rotated as she was pressed over his lap. One of his arms slinks from the muscly cage they’d built over his chest, and his palm settles over his hip instead— still leisurely given the context, but the words come out a little sharper, hinted with exasperation.

“You— Because I told you to do it,” her neighbor states, the quiet range of his voice failing to lessen the careful intensity the phrase teems with. It’s a kind of juxtaposition that warps Y/N’s mind— seeing Harry, typically so soft-natured, now, so matter-of-fact and chock-full of inflexible authority. An irate note wheedles into the otherwise molasses-smooth, hard tone, his accent thick with scolding, “You know very well how this goes, you know very well why you’re standing here. So don’t get smart with me, yeah?”

“I’m not getting smart with you.”

“No? What’s happening right now?”

To an outsider, the terse way he talks might come off uncomfortable. Demeaning, even, to the naked eye. And it does, a little bit, to Y/N— but those degrees of domesticity she’d noted earlier, the subtle shadings that vignette their back and forth, push the impression into another territory. He’s stern, yes— doesn’t raise his voice for the dominance there to crowd his inflection and highlight his point— and the way he talks to her intentionally seems to ride along that degrading ledge of condescension. But just as comfortable as he seems to be, one shoulder planted to the plaster he’d steered her toward, she also seems to be, volleying back quiet quips. Annoyance-laced complaints, disagreeing— and it’s just as intentional on her behalf when she argues back, high-pitched and higher in volume (borderline whining), “I’m standing here, like you told me to, and I asked a valid question—“

For whatever it’s worth, although Y/N is a stranger to practically both people onscreen; although this type of dynamic is unfamiliar to her in its entirety; although most of her comprehension on the video thus far has been based on blind context clues (given the sharp fast-forward over the material)… she can tell that what’s going on is entirely consensual. The foundation between them is riddled with intention, cemented in a kind of trust that you wouldn’t interpret upon first glance.

So really, it’s less daunting and more of an anticipatory surprise (as the detail-oriented viewer, at the very least), when Harry’s palm strays from his hip and cups over one of her asscheeks, the way he pets and squeezes deceivingly gentle, before he cuffs loosely over her upper arm and takes a long, languid step back. “Well, let me give you a more valid answer, then. I’ve decided we’re not quite done.”

Walking her back by the grip— not tight, just controlled— over her limb and twisting her to face the bed, Harry leaves her huffing as he steps offscreen. Instead of folding over the bed, her shoulder turns, as if she’s looking back over it, and then she stretches forward and reaches down to the panties tucked around her knees, shimmying them up over her thighs. As she slides them back into place, she pulls her shirt down over them (as much as it will reach, at the very least; pink still blooms out below it, daubing her asscheeks, a bit of skin along the backs of her thighs), and then she pivots on her feet to face whatever direction Harry went into. Whatever the sight is, obscured from the lens, it peels a girlish groan out of her and a resultant, dry huff of half-laughter from him as he ambles back into view. With his palm wrapped over the stem of the object and the other end making soft taps against the other palm, the devious, half-amused hum, and the easy gait, he almost looks like a villainous correctionist.

Whatever… tool resides in his grasp stays a cryptic inside joke between the pair as the woman on the screen steps toward him, her arms stretching out and her hands snaking against his sides.

“You know this one, don’t you?” Harry muses, a note of exaggerated glee shaping his tone as she curls her fingers over his ribs loosely, pressing close. A nervous peal of laughter bubbles up from her, and Harry hums, swaying on his feet a little as she teeters closer. Then, he makes this mirthy sound, like a gust of air expelled from his nose, before he murmurs, “What’s funny?”

There’s another beat of silence, but this one is less charged, like the tension has been fractured a little (if only for a short while) as the edges chisel into something softer and the veil slips.

“Why…” another bout of giggles garbles her tone as she clings onto him, “do you have that in there?”

“Just for you,” the man responds matter-of-factly, breathily, “I know, y’don’t have to tell me, I’m so thoughtful.”

When his hand (the one not currently wrapped over the handle of whatever interestingly-stored implement he’s procured) slinks to cup over her heated hip, however, the discovery drains a bit of the playfulness from his drawl. “Who told you to put your panties back on?”

Instead of answering the question, she rocks forward onto her toes, hands slinking from his sides to rest up on his shoulders.

“Pull them back down.”

The tone he uses is glazed with no-nonsense, but simultaneously manages to land like a dare to be challenged. Once more, in place of abiding by his order, the woman groans quietly.

“Pull them down,” Harry repeats, deceptively soft-toned, “I didn’t tell you to do that.”

She hums, and her voice sounds small and coy when she prods, “Why don’t you pull them down?”

“You don’t want me to have to pull them down.”

From the way her hair dangles, Y/N can tell she’s thrown her head back. She sighs, punctuating the subsequent silence to her quip with a giggle. “Why don’t you pull yours down?”

Despite the way she clings onto him, by the sound of his voice, it’s evident that any teasing lightheartedness has dwindled off. The hand that had cupped over her hip reaches to lock over her forearm, stretched up to his shoulder, and he physically removes the touch, “M’serious. Stop it. We’re not done yet… put that lip away.”

A long sigh seeps out of her as he coaxes her off of him, and with the same sluggish motions that she’d straightened her shoulders with earlier, she takes a step back and tucks her thumbs into the sides of her underwear. She hesitates. Harry sighs and crosses his arms.

“Go on.”

Slipping them down only a tad doesn’t seem to please him in the way she’d hoped.

“All the way.”

They sit at an awkward half-ride, slung low on her hips (only slightly more indecorous than his own sweats), and she makes another begrudged sound of protest before giving in and shimmying them back down to settle mid-thigh.

“Thank you,” Harry tells her, sarky and dry, and then he waves out to her— between them— with whatever’s in his hand, “It’s your very favorite.”

The uncertainty in response to his statement manifests as reluctance to her body language as she slinks closer again, palms pressing up against his tummy. “Hmm, no…”

“No?”

One side of her dark hair hangs lower over her chest as she cocks her head. “Naaah…”

Unwinding from her embrace, the man makes his way back to the bed. He grasps a pillow that’d been propped up against the headboard, only to set it onto the foot of the bed. Then, he hikes one knee onto the mattress over the comforter and unceremoniously unveils what he’s been holding in his hand all along by tapping it over the spot onto the pillow beside him.

It’s a wooden spoon. A staple in kitchens; the kind that lives innocently in a drawer, crammed between metal spatulas, and whisks, and tangled salad tongs. The kind that’s meant for cooking. And now? The tool’s been repurposed— made into something ideal for sauces, soups, and (evidently) scaring incorrigible brats into obedience.

“Come on,” Harry drawls, holding his arm out and pulling her in when she slowly takes his hand, “Over here.” He knocks the same area with the shallow bowl on the end, snorting when she stalls, “…All fucking— lovey-dovey, now.”

In spite of the way the man’s words themselves are almost mean, they’re said in this soft, teasing way that suggests they wear a smile, and the emphasis lies in the way his fingertips trace up from the back of her hand, across her forearm. Up to her elbow. It’s an oddly fond touch. She mirrors the action, her own fingers climbing smoothly across the sensitive, soft skin along his own forearm, only it’s along the other side, palm up. Then, she squeezes her fingers into his thick bicep, over his sleeve.

“Yes,” her voice comes out stained with a whine, and sounds small and petulant, from the unanticipated shift in plans, “because we were done.”

He tuts, and lets go, patting at her hip with the wider end of the rebranded kitchen utensil when she doesn’t immediately fold over, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows like the lack of physical engagement has left her cold.

“C’mere. Don’t make it worse.”

It’s when she’s stretched forward over the foot of the bed, flat on her tummy with her ass propped up and her legs angled out, ankles crossed, that Y/N gnaws into her bottom lip until the skin nearly turns white under her teeth.

Because Harry smooths his massive palm over the bruised skin, and then picks the spoon up and drags it in a little circle over one side, voice low and drenched in something that scrapes too close to sex to ignore, “Yeah, you know this one, but I don’t think you remember. So let’s jog that memory. See what this one feels like again, hm?”

The first smack makes this deafening crack sound that eclipses the reverberating thud his palm had made, and a galvanized spark ripples up Y/N’s spinal column, just hearing it. The response is instantaneous— the woman makes this wounded noise into the sheets, like an unintelligible swear someone would make stubbing their toe, or slamming their knee into the corner of a coffee table, and her whole lower half coils and contorts as she twists her hips away, and then sinks back into place.

Instead of soothing and petting over the spot where the implement had swatted, he digs the rounded edge into the small of her back pointedly.

“Pretty rough, huh?” Harry comments quietly, “…I think we’re getting back up to speed.”

She makes another garbled noise into the comforter and then says something that sounds an awful lot like, “That’s not nice.”

He snaps at the other side with the implement— hard enough for her whimper to come out as this brittle, squeaky breath that sounds squeezed out of her throat. Then again, low on her thigh, where a small, raspberry-tinged spot in its shape flares as consequence.

“I know it’s not nice,” Harry agrees, and then he tips forward a tad to caress one fleshy globe (it’s really just a ruse— an examination of the marks disguised as affection, tugging the skin taut under the flats of his fingers) before he lets go and plants another blow against that little crease where ass meets thigh, drawing a squeak and a hitch forward of her hips. “But it’s not nice when you make your bratty, little remarks, either.”

Y/N swallows.

It’s almost overwhelming— well, not almost. It is overwhelming; watching the emotional rollercoaster, the way the route along the tracks shifts starkly somewhere between the playfulness and the way the man starts hammering in, coaxing little, breathy grunts and hisses, like her ass has personally wronged him in a past life. Y/N is just a bystander watching a playback and she’s ready to apologize. Maybe, partly for witnessing moments that so clearly belong behind closed doors, not broadcast across her laptop screen. The sexual charge, even despite the lack of actual fucking, fingering, and/or fellatio, is so present. Unmistakeable. Loud, actually— the kind of atmosphere that says give it fifteen minutes, maybe ten, and he’s going to be digging his fingers into her ruddily bruised hips like they’re malleable handlebars and fucking into her from behind as if the only things more important than staunch obedience are the noises he can pry as he bottoms out. It’s still pornographic, raunchy, before it even gets to that point— and the little are-you-18+-are-you-lying-to-us, double pop-up the young woman had encountered entering the website checks out.

What’s worse is that— as if the cosm is testing her fragile sanity by all measures— the shape of his cock has actually, physically started straining into a surprise guest appearance. The thickened, swollen outline of it shamelessly sits up under the cotton, impossible to ignore (which is a whole other series of revelations to unpack). It’s not even the main focus of the video, all things considered, but it sits there like it’s under a glowing spotlight.

Y/N isn’t twelve— she’s seen the outline of a dick before. She’s watched porn. She’s had sex. The kicker here isn’t the phallus imprint, so much so that it’s… Harry’s. Her neighbor, Harry— rococo fever dream with operational legs, the kind of man you’d make unintended eye contact with in a coffee shop and lose the next seven months of your love life to. She has to look at him after this. Run into him in the hallway, coexist, accept whatever misfiled mail he hands off, and pretend.

And it’s big. Lying fat and heavy against his right thigh, straining the soft gray fabric taut. Because this gets him off. This is something he does, just an average, casual form of sadomasochistic foreplay on a Wednesday night, and then he probably fucks whoever he is doing this to—

With each harsh smack, the woman’s foot has hitched a little higher, higher, knee bending back, heel making little, incremental jolts up like a reflex. Her face is buried into the sheets, hair cascaded in wild clusters around her, arms tucked up under her head. Little mewls and stuttery noises that sound stretched somewhere between a laugh and cry flood like muzzled pleas. It’s one particularly stinging hit that makes her whole body tense; she rolls up onto the toes of one foot, the other folded back enough to impede further impact, and a grunt that sounds sealed behind her teeth slips and then morphs into an oh that sounds an awful lot like knocking your funny bone against a hard surface.

“Ugh— Sir—“

“I’m not done,” Harry states pointedly, “I don’t think the lesson’s sunk in yet— put that foot down,” and then he pats back at her calf with the flat edge, sighing.

She rocks forward, whining, but slowly lowers her foot, kicking it back up instinctively when he smooths the face of the spoon over that crease where ass meets thigh again.

“Why?”

He pauses, no laughter in his tone despite the words— only concentration— before he catches her ankle in his palm (alongside the stem of the spoon) and manually pushes it down, “Why? Did you just ask me why?”

“Yes.”

The thing is, it’s one thing to know. To live in proximity to something and learn its weight through osmosis; to absorb through walls, through muffled moans and rhythmic headboard squeals and creaks, the velvet-soft sound of incomprehensible pleas and praises. It is another thing entirely, however, to see it. To witness the mechanical rhythm of it. The choreography.

It’s another thing to watch Harry— Harry from next door, with the nice hair, and the nice dimples, and the nice forearms, who has stood, damp from a post-shower haze, smiling like he isn't a threat— currently pixelated on her screen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, one knee hiked up on the bed, voice buttery and cruel as he says, “Because it’s in the way.”

She starts to argue, laughter coloring her tone, “That’s not—“

Only, her sentence becomes punctuated (and cut short) by the next round of blows, seamless and merciless, prying a high groan instead and a stray hand as she untucks it from under her head and waves it back. The motion causes the man to pause again, and this time, he sounds far more sober (words low, serious), as he catches her wrist in the other hand and pins it to the small of her back.

“Do not bring your hand back again,” Harry orders, quiet and low. Under the way he’s got her arm pressed back, Y/N can see the faint way the young woman’s back rises and falls as she breathes quietly. “Do you understand me?”

The words are almost imperceptible, but she picks up on the quiet “yes, Sir,” the girl amends with, her fingers flexing loosely. Harry lets up, unclasping the grip over the joint and shifting on his knee as the woman slowly tucks her arm back under her.

“You don’t do that,” he reaffirms.

And then he continues.

Watching the unconventional practice is one thing— despite the dirty thrill that’s been pin-balling up her spine for the duration of the video, everything feels detached, in a way. Removed could be the right word— this is an …exercise that these people partake in, apparently habitually, but it feels entirely separate from Y/N and her life. Almost. Because the moment something threads into Harry’s voice again, dripping sultry in a way that shouldn’t be— probably isn’t meant to— Y/N recognizes that her body’s been responding.

When he speaks over the woman’s frantic whimpers, tone laced with borderline vulgar authority, and asks, “Are you going to be a good girl?” and she rocks forward, mewling, “yes, Sir.”

A searing flush works up across Y/N’s cheekbones and she sucks in a soft breath through the tight gap between her teeth, eyes dry and aching from how long she’s kept them open without realizing. There’s a warm hum in the trench of her belly that feels almost electric, all too familiar, and a tender pang sits between her thighs. Perhaps the most overwhelming revelation amongst all of this is that by some seedy, twisted volition unbeknownst to Y/N— she’s turned on. Horribly. Ravenously. Turned on by the firmness saturating his voice, discipline clinging to every word, the way his hands look, his forearms, the sharpness of his swing, the effortless, quiet sense of power that’s molded around the shape of him. And it’s a difficult epiphany to grapple with to say the least. When the young woman’s hazy mind catches up with the rest of her body, the thought webs along her skull like an invasive crawler plant and nearly makes her flinch; she’s undeniably, unequivocally aroused by the view of the man next door— all boy-next-door charm, revised— pressing soft-colored, surface-level bruises into the woman beneath him with a kitchen utensil. Tension dusting his knuckles, rings bold and shimmering when they catch in the light, deep rubescent hues kissing her skin and blooming out wide across the full slope.

And Y/N is wet. The heat licks along her core in quiet devastation before she recognizes she’s been clenching her thighs. It’s in a way that suggests Y/N wants to take her place, and it’s something she’s unwilling to admit to herself.

“Say it,” Harry demands, unfazed by the sharp gasp from her that swells in the midst of his statement, “‘I’m going to behave, Sir.’”

A soft swear gets tangled in the woman’s throat, webbing up in the soft, flexing tissue, overthrown by another heaving breath.

“I’ll behave—“

This man is— brief, longing glances from across the hall, bunnies, anfractuous glances before the elevator doors slot together that feel almost book-bound in this rose-tinted-glasses, can’t-grapple-with-the-concept-of-the-way-your-attractiveness-makes-me-feel way. The guy you definitely have post-breakup-sex with, but in a wholesome, I miss you because it was right-person-wrong-time and you-were-really-good-in-bed-and-to-my-soul kind of way, rather than a drunk spiral you regret in the morning. Soft, wet hair when he stops by her door to hand off misplaced mail from his hybridized collection.

Y/N slams her laptop shut.

Technically, the screencap will still taunt her the next time she props it open and turns the device on, but the heat lapping over her psyche and body feels too stuffy and suffocating, so it’s a problem for another day. If she touched her face, she’s sure she’d feel something too similar to the sear of the sun. And if she reached between her legs?

Well, that’d be a problem for the next few months.

Read the next 13.3K here now or > access on tumblr 05/12/25

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #dom harry styles #dom!harry x sub!reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry fanfic #harry smut #harry styles au

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charliemwrites · 4 months ago

Text

Gaz loves his Alpha.

He didn’t think it could be like that - a thief in the night after his heart. A silent creeping fog of devotion and affection, filling his lungs and clogging up his head.

From the stories his parents told - a beautiful Alpha/Omega pair, perfectly mid-spectrum that bore two pups - love is wildfire. It sparks, catches, spreads. Heat and light, it burns sometimes. Unmistakable, though, as it consumes.

It wasn’t like that with Saint. Like the Alpha themself, the love trickled in unobtrusive but steady, a dawning of new emotion, forging bonds like bands of sunlight cresting the horizon. Not a crackling blaze but a warming light. Until all at once it was day; it was love.

Saint, patron of devotion.

They’re sleeping under Gaz right now. Long, deep breaths that raise him with each inhale, a slight purr on each exhale. Content with his company even when unconscious.

Their eyes are closed, head lolling to reveal the strong column of their throat. The edge of their scent gland peaks past their compression shirt, a fresh smear of neutralizer over the bruised skin.

Post-Rut Saint is delicious. Lazy and slow as they recover energy and spent calories, napping in long shifts. Languid, relaxed, effortlessly Alpha.

They shift as the scent of Gaz’s arousal tickles their nose, tongue peaking out to swipe over the sharp curve of their fangs. Muzzle on again, of course, but one with bars instead of grid, easier to see their pretty mouth. Gaz is in no condition for another round, not after the thorough three days of fucking he and the other Omegas received, but the thought still makes his gut flip pleasantly.

He churrs, just to see what Saint will do, still mostly asleep.

The Alpha churrs sleepily back, the big hand curled around his thigh flexing.

Always so responsive, his Alpha, now that he knows what to look for. Saint never ignores them, never dismisses them. They’re always attuned to the Omegas, listening, ready to provide. Indulgent, even. Gaz and the others are spoiled - not that anyone would get away with saying so.

“Alpha…” he coos, nuzzling under Saint’s chin.

He does it because he can, and it’s still a novelty. An Alpha so extreme on the spectrum, yet so tolerant of vulnerability and all the liberties he and Soap take. Licking and nipping at their throat, scenting them on a whim, leaning and tugging and pressing close all the time. Not even a grumble for their trouble, just slow blinks and chuffs of amusement.

Alphas usually don’t let anyone but mates or pups near their throats, the submissive subtext and dangerous position grating on their instincts. But Saint has always let Gaz shove his nose against their jugular, or that tender spot beneath their ear, or the hollow where their purr sounds best. Even now, only just stirring, they tilt their chin back to grant him access.

“Omega,” they rumble, and a shiver wracks Gaz from head to toe.

Saint is rare with their voice. Saves it for the field or private moments; the subharmonics are intense, dominating. He barked at an Alpha recruit the other day, a touch less patient in pre-Rut, and the kid practically threw himself to the ground, belly up and whimpering submission. The other recruits dropped their knees and eyes, shying away from the Alpha’s correction.

The response that voice garners in their Omegas is different. Yielding rather than submitting. A happy, gooey melt rather than a brutal breakdown. For Gaz, it sounds like safety, protection, care, leadership. He still gets goosebumps remembering the first time he heard it, during a long-awaited Heat.

“Kyle.”

He jerks a bit, realizing that the voice isn’t just in his memory. Saint is waking, roused by Gaz’s incessant poking and prodding. As always, they don’t seem bothered. Their thumb caresses the back of his neck, sweeps along his hairline, soothing him.

He sits up a bit, anyway. Saint blinks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, obviously not quite with the program yet. That subsonic hum of an Alpha entreating their Pack member to stay, settle, sleep is still vibrating in their chest. Kyle chirps in return, a greeting and assurance in one.

“Time to eat, Alpha.”

Saint blinks twice more, takes a more deliberate breath in. Coming alive again. The subtle shifts in muscle beneath Gaz are enough to obsess over. He’d love to know what they do in that Alpha gym every day, they’re a work of art. Type of body that could go on the cover of porn magazines and Heat partner sites.

Saint yawns, big and wide, teeth on display. Shakes their head a bit to dispel the last of the cobwebs.

“Mm.”

That’s his cue.

He clambers off the Alpha, stretches out long and lithe, maybe showing off just a little. His effort is rewarded with Saint following, nuzzling his hip with an appreciative purr, before standing. They pop their neck with a quick jerk of their chin, before turning to Gaz. Always waiting, always ready.

“The others said they’ll meet us there,” he explains, heading for the door.

Like Alphas of old, Saint always stays at Gaz’s elbow. Easy to speak to, but clearly following the Omega without inciting the sense of being hunted. (Not that Gaz would mind Saint hunting him… not at all.)

“In the usual spot?” Gaz asks, pointing at the 141’s table. At Saint’s nod, he adds, “I’ll get you a tray if you want to go change into the bite guard.”

They hesitate for a moment, considering. Then nod, brushing their wrist against Gaz’s shoulder. He beams, swipes his jaw against Saint’s shoulder, before sauntering to the line.

It’s rare that Saint will wear any less than a muzzle, especially somewhere public like the caf. But post-Rut has them ravenous and slightly less reactive, lowering the bite risk in conjunction with their already iron-clad control. Enough so that they for once feel comfortable settling for a bite guard.

Gaz happily loads up their plate with their favorites, glancing around every once in a while for his other Pack members. Ghost and Price had paperwork to catch up on and Soap switched recruit duty with Gaz so that he could rest a little longer after that final round. They must not be done just yet - no surprise there, they’ve timed it to avoid the worst of the meal crowd.

As Gaz steps out of the line, a tray in each hand, he’s surprised to find the table absent of his Alpha. Saint’s adept with their muzzle and their bite guard, it hardly takes them any time at all to place or remove either.

Then he spots them by the water fountain. They’ve clearly gone to grab an extra cup, dehydrated from Rut. But they’ve been held up by someone.

Gaz recognizes them as a recent transfer, an Omega operator with a decent record. He has no opinion about them one way or another, hasn’t had much chance (or reason) to work with them.

Or at least he didn’t have an opinion until right this moment.

Because they’re not just talking to his Alpha. They’re leaning into Saint, tilting their head just so to show off their pristine mating gland. They’re peering at Saint through their lashes, swishing their hair to release their scent.

And that would be fine and good. At a cafe, a bar, a club, the bloody grocery store - hell, even here. It would be, if they were acting that way with anyone else. Gaz would even cheer them on.

But that’s Saint. That’s the 141’s Alpha. Their Alpha that they’ve built a bond with, that takes care of them, that they love.

And Saint is treating them the way they do every Omega. Calm and stoic, head tilted in non-threat. Listening to what this Omega could need of an Alpha. Only the subtle clench of their jaw and stillness of their chest indicating that they’re even remotely uncomfortable. Speaking to a strange Omega with no muzzle on, post-Rut, in a crowded place.

“Look like you’re about to explode, what’s got you burning pheromones?” Ghost asks.

Gaz didn’t even hear him approach but he’s too busy wrestling down his less flattering instincts to be startled.

Omegas don’t usually have the territorial edge to their protectiveness that Alphas have. Usually. Not never.

“Look,” Gaz growls, jerking his head.

Ghost follows his piercing gaze. “Ah.”

There’s a beat of silence as the Omega sways closer, obviously purring even if they can’t hear it at this distance.

“Well?” Ghost prompts.

Gaz takes a couple steps forward before he even realizes it. Pauses when Ghost’s hand lands on his shoulder, staying. Right. Best not to cause a scene, even if obscene instinct is demanding he climb Saint right there.

Instead, he clears his throat.

“Alpha!” He barks. Not needy or wanting. Demanding.

Saint’s head whips around, silvery gaze locking on Gaz instantly. They don’t look away as they dip their head politely to the other Omega, a silent goodbye, and stride across the room in a handful of long strides.

The rolling chur they let out is questioning, surprise in the arch of their dark brows when Gaz shoves his face in theirs. Scenting them there too, where the skin is so rarely available for it.

“You're irresistible, Alpha,” Ghost chuckles.

Saint grunts in distracted greeting, still looking confused. A big hand circles the back of Gaz’s neck, not quite a scruff.

“Settle,” they murmur, ducking their head to kiss his temple. “Eat.”

And Gaz would be more ashamed of how loud he instantly starts purring - if not for the way Saint’s eyes soften and the corners of their mouth curl slightly up, fond.

“Same to you,” Gaz huffs, tugging their belt loop.

Most Alphas would take at least mild offense, would tell him to watch it, only half joking.

But Saint chuffs in acquiescence and sits, leaving their own Omegas to stand over them - even if momentarily.

Ghost and Gaz settle in, just in time for the Johns to step out of the chow line as well.

“What did that bird want?” Ghost asks as he digs in.

Saint doesn’t take their eyes off their last two pack members. They shrug.

“Looked like they were chattering up a storm,” Gaz notes, only a little tart.

Saint flicks him a devastatingly attractive smirk. “Couldn’t hear them over you.”

And Gaz doesn’t need to hear them say it, to know that Saint loves him just the same.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #cod oc #my oc #operator: saint #kyle gaz garrick #gaz my beloved #gaz x oc #non traditional omegaverse #Charlie’s a/b/o verse #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o fic

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jaylaxies · 11 months ago

Text

HARD THOUGHT !

pairing: sunghoon x fem!reader

cw: smut, unprotected sex, usage of nicknames.

warning: 18+ content, minors dni

Best friend!Sunghoon had easily convinced you to move in with him. His reasoning sat well with you—low cost and splitting of the rent. As a university student, you would do anything to save up some extra cash and this deal was spot on as it saved you half the amount of your usual living expenses.

However, the provided reason wasn’t even close to what Sunghoon had actually wanted. He knew you had a crush on him, yet you never acted upon it due to your experiences regarding sex and love were limited, which made him want to ruin you beyond words. He was more on the possessive side of the spectrum, which was also laced with jealousy as he hated the idea of anyone else touching his little angel, his kitten.

So he took the matter in his own hands, pulling you even closer to him now that you shared an apartment with each other. He stared at you a little longer, walked around shirtless, his touch on your bare skin lingered for a second too long and you loved it. Your body always reacted to him in such a manner which made him lose his patience each fucking day, until he finally decided to cage you between him and the wall when you had freshly came out of the shower, clad in just your tiny towel.

“You like showing your pretty little body, don’t you, kitten?” He’d whisper in a deep tone, eyes dark as he stared right in your eyes. He could see you biting your lip, your thighs pressing close to each other as you tried to formulate a reply. “What are you talking about Hoonie—” you were shushed with his slender finger, which was now pressed against your lips. “I know you want me, baby. You just have to say it, yeah?” He assured you slow but serious.

You couldn’t wait any longer, not when you dreamed the filthiest of your fantasies with him, not when you touched yourself desperately hoping that it was him instead, even more so when he simply sat in the room next door. You nodded fervently, “want you so much, Hoonie,” you almost whimpered, feeling smaller than ever under his intense gaze.

“Oh baby, I’ll ruin your cunt and fuck you in every corner of this goddamn apartment,” he growled.

He was gentle with you for your very first time, he knew exactly how you’d like it, he was your best friend after all. But you didn’t bother thinking that he’d actually fuck you everywhere. It started from your bedroom, where he took care of your all night, trying his best not to go overboard with you. The next time, he took you to his bedroom. The task was simple, you’ll have to suck his dick and he’d make a mess on your pretty face.

It then progressed to you crying out his name in pleasure as he fucks you from behind on your couch which barely fit two people. He didn’t even leave the kitchen out of the deal as he fucked you on the marble counter, his cock hitting just the right spots as you dug your nails into his shoulders for support. Then he proceeded to take you to the bathroom, the reason was simple again—to save the water.

It didn’t matter if it was your study table or the wall next to the front door, it never mattered if you were on the carpet or his gaming chair, he had to fuck you. As for you, you loved every second of it, he made sure to get your wildest fantasies out of you, only to make them come true.

When you finally crawled up to him, giving him your sweetest smile as you asked him to fuck you, he knew he had won in life.

He had ruined you.

#ria:thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enha smut #sunghoon smut #kpop smut #sunghoon hard thoughts

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purplereina11 · 9 days ago

Text

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

Babies first few weeks

The first week home with Sofía was everything you’d been told it would be.

Beautiful. Overwhelming. Magic. Exhausting.

A full spectrum of emotions you weren’t entirely ready for, no matter how many baby books you’d read or how many lists Alexia had prepped.

Some moments were breathtaking—Sofía falling asleep with her tiny hand wrapped around your finger, her sweet sleepy sighs against your chest, Alexia dancing barefoot around the nursery in the middle of the night just to make her laugh.

But then came the hard moments.

The ones no one really prepared you for. The ones where you hadn’t slept, your shirt was stained with milk and tears—some yours, some hers—and your body still didn’t feel like yours.

Alexia had gone back to training that morning. It was only a short session, just a few hours, and she’d kissed your forehead three times before she left, whispering, “Call me for anything. Anything, okay?”

You had nodded. Smiled even. And then Sofía started crying. And didn’t stop.

You tried everything. Feeding. Rocking. Changing. Holding. Swaddling. Skin-to-skin. Music. Silence. Tears.

Still, she cried. And you broke.

You tried not to. You tried to be strong. You told yourself it would pass. That babies cry. That this didn’t mean you were doing anything wrong.

But an hour later, standing in the middle of the living room with Sofía sobbing in your arms and your own chest heaving with silent panic, you finally cracked.

Your hands were shaking when you picked up the phone. “Eli,” you cried when she answered. “I need help. Please—I… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You didn’t hear what she said in reply. Just that she was coming.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Then it opened, and Eli stepped inside like a wave of calm you didn’t even know you needed.

Alba was right behind her, unusually quiet, following her mother’s lead.

You stood there, frozen in the middle of the room, still cradling Sofía, who was red-faced and wailing. You couldn’t even speak. Just looked at them with tears brimming in your eyes, your jaw trembling.

Eli didn’t say anything. She walked straight to you, her hands gently reaching out. “May I?” she asked softly.

You nodded, unable to form words, and carefully passed Sofía into her arms.

And just like that—like it was nothing, like it was everything—Eli rocked her gently, pressing a kiss to her tiny forehead, whispering something soft and melodic in Catalan.

The crying began to ease. Not instantly, but in time. Sofía’s sobs turned to little hiccups, then soft whimpers. Then stillness.

And that’s when you broke.

Alba caught you before you could fall apart, her arms wrapping around you tightly as your legs gave slightly beneath the weight of it all.

“I’m so tired,” you sobbed against her shoulder. “I feel like I’m failing. I don’t know what she needs. I don’t know what I need.”

Alba didn’t say a word. She just held you. Let you cry. Let you break and fall and be in that moment. When you tried too hard to be strong for Alexia wracked with her own guilt of not taking time away from football. You knew how important this part of the season was, and you didn't want her thinking you were struggling because of her.

“You’re not failing,” she whispered eventually, her hand stroking your hair. “You’re doing the hardest thing anyone can do. And you’re doing it with a newborn who’s very dramatic—so she takes after me, obviously.”

You laughed through your tears, broken and breathless.

Eli looked up from where she was now seated on the couch, Sofía quiet in her arms, her little hand resting on her grandmother’s collarbone. “You’re doing beautifully,” she said gently. “And you called. That’s what makes you strong.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve, still shaking slightly. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Eli smiled, still rocking Sofía. “Always.”

And in that little moment, in your messy living room, surrounded by half-folded blankets, empty water bottles, and the chaos of new motherhood—you realized you weren’t alone.

Not even close. You were surrounded by love. And you were going to be okay. Even on the days you forgot it.

The house had finally gone quiet.

After what felt like an eternity of tears and holding it together and breaking down again, Sofía was asleep on Eli’s chest, the rise and fall of her tiny breaths matching Eli’s steady ones. The lights were dimmed, a quiet hum of the dishwasher in the background the only sound that filled the stillness.

Eli sat with her hand gently cradling the back of Sofía’s head, her thumb brushing back soft strands of baby hair. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She knew what you needed more than anything right now was space to fall apart and someone to keep your world still in the meantime.

Alba reappeared beside you in the hallway and gave your arm a gentle squeeze. “Come on. You need air.”

You hesitated.

“I won’t say anything annoying,” she promised, lips twitching with a sad half-smile. “Scout’s honour. Just come outside with me.”

You nodded.

The garden air hit you like a wave—cool and fresh, the late afternoon breeze brushing against your face and catching in your sleeves. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not from cold, but from everything inside of you that felt unheld.

Alba guided you to the bench under the small olive tree, the one Alexia had once said reminded her of summers with her dad. She didn’t push. Just sat with you, her shoulder lightly pressed to yours.

And that’s when the tears came again.

You tried to stop them, truly—you were tired of crying, tired of feeling like every emotion had burst free of its usual boundaries—but Alba didn’t flinch when your breathing turned ragged again. She just reached over and took your hand, holding it like she had no intention of letting go.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered, voice breaking apart with the confession. “One second I’m in love with her, the next I feel like I’m completely drowning. Like I’m not enough. Like I’m... failing her.”

Alba’s thumb rubbed over your knuckles, her own eyes wet now. “You're not failing, that little girl is incredibly lucky to have you.”

“I didn’t think it would be this hard,” you said, the words tumbling out now, like once they started they couldn’t be stopped. “And Lex, she’s amazing, but she’s not here all the time. She’s training. And I don’t blame her—God, I don’t—but I feel like I’m unraveling alone and I’m scared if I say it, I’ll ruin everything. Like I’m already supposed to be the strong one.”

“You don’t have to be strong every second,” Alba said softly, voice firmer now. “You just have to be. You’re not alone, even when it feels like it. And if you’re breaking, we’ll hold you until you’re okay again.”

You nodded, tears still slipping down your cheeks.

Behind you, Alexia got home.

You didn’t hear it right away—but Alba did. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Alexia step into the living room, eyebrows furrowed with concern at the sight of her mother on the couch, baby curled on her chest.

“Mami?” Alexia asked, setting down her bag.

Eli looked up, smiling gently. “Hey, baby.”

Alexia’s face softened. “What’s going on? I thought—”

Eli stood carefully, adjusting Sofía as she settled her into the bassinet nearby. She walked toward Alexia, keeping her voice low and calm.

“She had a bit of a wobble,” Eli said gently. “She called me. It was the right thing. Alba’s with her outside.”

Alexia’s whole body shifted—alert, anxious. “Is she okay?”

“She will be,” Eli said, laying a hand over Alexia’s heart. “She’s been holding a lot in. Alba got her to open up. You know how she is—sometimes she needs someone to just let it out with.”

Alexia nodded slowly, guilt flickering in her eyes. “I should’ve—”

“No,” Eli interrupted, firm and kind. “You’re doing what you have to do. This is just part of it. Let her talk to Alba. She’s saying things she needed to say out loud. You’ll be what she needs when she comes back in.”

Alexia looked toward the glass doors, her heart twisting as she spotted you on the bench, hunched slightly forward, Alba’s arm around your shoulders, your hand covering your face.

She swallowed hard, tears pricking behind her own eyes. “I hate how she doubts herself,” she whispered. “She's amazing with Sofia.”

And inside the house, Alexia moved to Sofia. And outside, beneath the olive tree, you continued to cry.

By the time you stepped back inside the house, your eyes were still red, your shoulders sore from the weight of everything you’d just let go of out in the garden, but your breathing had settled. The heaviness was still there—motherhood didn’t pause for tears—but there was something lighter in your chest now, like you’d finally loosened a knot that had been silently tightening for days.

Alba squeezed your hand gently at the door. “I’ll put the kettle on. You go sit.”

You nodded, eyes scanning the house, and then stopped. Because Eli was everywhere.

Not in the noisy way, not in the “look at me being helpful” kind of way—no, she moved like only a mother could, her presence felt in every gentle, unseen gesture.

The living room had been straightened. A pile of burp cloths neatly folded on the armrest of the sofa. The bassinet was freshly lined, and a new pack of wipes had been opened and placed beside it. You could hear the distant hum of the washing machine in the utility room—your baby’s tiny clothes already being gently spun into softness again.

You wandered into the kitchen, heart tightening all over again at the sight before you.

Eli stood at the stove, a wooden spoon in hand, humming softly as she stirred something in the pan. The air smelled of garlic and herbs—comfort food, home food, the kind of warmth that makes your knees weak when you didn’t even know you were hungry.

You leaned against the doorframe, blinking hard. “You didn’t have to do all this…”

Eli turned, her expression impossibly kind, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she smiled. “I know,” she said softly, walking toward you and gently brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “But I wanted to.” She took your hand and gave it a squeeze. “I remember what those first weeks feel like. The world keeps spinning, but you… you’re cracked open. You’re learning your baby, learning yourself again. Sometimes you just need someone to make a meal, clean a room, take a load of washing. So that you can breathe.”

Your eyes welled again, and Eli saw it coming before you did, wrapping you in a hug that smelled like rosemary and warmth and safety.

“I gathered up a load of washing to take home,” she whispered against your hair. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow, folded and fresh. You don’t need to worry about anything but her. And yourself. Think of it as a reset so you and Ale have tonight to rest, together.”

You nodded into her shoulder, too overwhelmed to speak.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and a few seconds later, Alexia appeared, towel-drying her hair as she paused at the threshold, blinking at the domestic calm she’d walked into.

“Mami… are you cooking?”

Eli turned around like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Of course. You’ve both had enough on your plates.”

Alexia’s eyes flicked to you instantly, searching, reading you like she always did. She softened when she saw the quiet in your posture—the peace that hadn’t been there before.

“Did you talk?” she asked gently.

You nodded. “I cried.”

She crossed the room slowly, reaching for your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I wish I’d been here.”

You reached for her, fingers curling into her shirt. “You are here.”

Eli returned to the stove, Alba appeared in the doorway sipping tea, and Sofía let out a soft sigh from the bassinet in the living room like she somehow knew things had settled.

First time in what felt like days, you finally sat down—on the couch, on the warmth of your family, on the comfort of knowing that even on the days you fall apart… You’d always be put back together.

After dinner, the house was bathed in soft golden light. The baby had finally settled after another feed, curled up against Alexia’s chest in the living room while she gently rocked the chair back and forth, humming under her breath. Alba had cleared the table, rinsed dishes without being asked, and then quietly slipped out to take a call, leaving you and Eli alone in the kitchen, sipping warm tea in the afterglow of a meal that had tasted like love.

You glanced down at your mug, fingers wrapped around it tightly, your thumb tracing slow circles around the rim. You’d been thinking about asking her since the moment Sofía had latched that afternoon and made your eyes sting—not from tears, but from the searing discomfort you’d tried not to flinch through.

You shifted slightly in your seat, then looked up at Eli.

“I… can I ask you something?” you said softly, your voice barely above the hush of the evening.

Eli looked up instantly, her expression already full of that gentle understanding she always carried with her. “Of course.”

You hesitated, cheeks burning slightly. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. It’s personal.”

She tilted her head with a small smile. “Pregnancy is personal, cariño. There’s not much I haven’t already talked about—or yelled about in a grocery store when Lex was teething.”

That made you smile, the smallest curve of your mouth, but your eyes were still heavy when you asked, “Did you breastfeed?”

Eli’s smile didn’t falter. She nodded slowly. “I did. With both girls.”

You nodded too, letting that settle between you before your voice cracked just a little. “Did your boobs hurt?”

Eli’s expression softened immediately. She set her mug down, reached across the table, and gently took your hand in hers. “They hurt like hell,” she said, honestly, without sugarcoating. “Especially in the beginning. Like no one told me it would feel like someone had taken sandpaper to them. Like fire.”

You let out a shaky breath, and to your surprise, your eyes filled with tears again. “I feel raw,” you whispered. “Every time she latches, I tense. And I love feeding her—I do—but it hurts, and I feel awful for not being able to just… power through it. I don't want her to sense that from me”

Eli nodded, her thumb brushing the back of your hand. “It’s okay that it hurts. It’s okay that it’s not beautiful every second. You’re not failing. Your body just went through something massive, and now it’s learning again. So is hers. You’re both new at this.”

You swallowed thickly, eyes locked on the tea you’d stopped drinking. “Did it get easier?”

She gave your hand a squeeze. “It did. But I also gave myself permission to ask for help. To rest. To cry. To use creams. Cold compresses. To stop if I needed to. Whatever it took. You don’t need to prove anything by suffering through something that already takes so much.”

You looked up at her, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. “Thank you.”

Eli leaned across the table and pulled you into a hug—warm, firm, steady. The kind of hug only someone who had survived the storm could give. “You’re doing so well,” she whispered. “And you don’t have to do it all alone.”

Just then, from the living room, you heard Sofía stir and let out a soft, sleepy cry, followed by Alexia’s quiet voice: “It’s okay, mi amor, I’ve got you… not too loud, mama needs a rest, you know how she worries”

You smiled through your tears. You had an army. And you were learning, day by day, how to let them carry you, too.

The living room was glowing in the soft hum of evening—TV playing low, casting flickers of light across the walls, a cozy domestic calm wrapped around the house like a blanket.

Alexia and Alba were sprawled on the rug in front of the TV, arguing gently over which movie to start for the hundredth time. Sofía was in the bassinet nearby, fast asleep, her little arms flung up like she’d won something in her dreams.

You were curled on the corner of the couch with Eli, legs tucked under a throw blanket, trying to stay present in the moment, but your face kept twitching slightly, your body tensing every few minutes.

Eli noticed, of course she did.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just kept glancing at you sideways with that quiet, perceptive gaze only mothers have. Then she gently leaned over and whispered, “Your chest still hurting?”

You nodded reluctantly, wincing slightly as you adjusted in your seat. “Yeah. It’s like someone poured fire into my bra.”

She patted your knee and stood up. “One second.”

You watched her disappear into the kitchen. The sounds of Alba and Alexia play-fighting over the remote were a gentle distraction, but your focus stayed on Eli. A few moments later, she reappeared with two small kitchen towels, and you could see the outline of ice packs tucked carefully inside.

She came to your side and knelt in front of you, her voice low and gentle. “May I?”

Your heart squeezed. You nodded wordlessly, eyes stinging a little at how kind she always was with you.

She slipped the towel-wrapped packs into your bra, adjusting them gently, her hands skilled and maternal, moving with a sort of tenderness that made your chest ache for a whole different reason.

The moment the cold hit your skin, you let out a soft, gasping sigh of relief.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, slumping back against the couch. “That feels… heavenly.”

Eli gave your knee a reassuring squeeze. “Keep those in for fifteen minutes. Then we’ll swap them again if you need to.”

You reached for her hand and gave it a soft squeeze, lips trembling with gratitude. “Thank you.”

Just then, Alba, who’d apparently been watching the scene unfold with the subtlety of a spotlight, turned around dramatically from the floor and declared: “Mami’s just felt your wife up. That’s what just happened.”

Alexia immediately burst into laughter, nearly dropping the remote. “Alba!”

You groaned, face burning, hand flying to your forehead. “Alba, please.”

“I’m just saying!” she grinned, completely unfazed. “There was cradling. Intimate placement. Zero hesitation.”

You let out a wheezing laugh, pressing your hand to your face. “Oh my God.” the ice packs soothing more than just the pain now.

Your body might have felt broken in parts, but this—this—was what healing looked like. Warmth, laughter, kindness... and your wife’s family becoming your family.

Painful boobs and all.

It was mid-morning when the doorbell rang.

You were curled up on the sofa, still in Alexia’s hoodie, hair in a lazy bun, Sofía snoozing in a sling across your chest, her warm little body a soothing weight that anchored you even when your mind still felt like it was treading water.

Alexia beat you to the door—she always did—and when it swung open, her voice lit up with a familiar kind of comfort. “Mami… you didn’t need to bring anything!”

Eli stepped inside, smiling like she hadn’t already given you the world three times this week. She held a large reusable shopping bag in one hand and a neatly wrapped gift in the other. “I’m a grandmother,” she said with a shrug, moving toward the kitchen without waiting for permission, “which means it is now my job to bring necessary things into your house.”

Alexia turned to you with a smirk. “She’s nesting. For you.”

You smiled from the couch, gently patting Sofía’s back. “She’s doing a better job than I am.”

Eli reappeared a moment later, her arms full. “Freshly washed baby clothes, a giant container of caldo, some snacks for you, and…”—she held up a brand-new, still-in-the-box breast pump—“…this.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Eli…”

“I know,” she said quickly, holding up a hand, “you don’t need to use it unless you want to. No pressure. But I was thinking about what you said last night… about the pain. And I remembered how I felt after my first week with Alexia.”

You looked at her, gently bouncing Sofía as she began to stir.

Eli sat beside you on the couch, her voice softer now. “I started pumping after a few days—not because I didn’t want to breastfeed, but because I needed a break. Physically, emotionally. And also… so Juame could feed her, too. Help with those night feeds.”

You glanced down at your daughter, who shifted in the sling but didn’t wake.

“He was so in love with her,” Eli continued, her smile bittersweet. “And when I handed her to him with a bottle for the first time, he cried. Right there in the middle of the living room, didn’t even try to hide it. He just kept looking at her like she was made of stardust, and said, ‘Now she knows me too.’ Babies bond mostly when feeding”

Your eyes filled with tears instantly.

Eli rested a hand over yours. “Feeding isn’t just about food. It’s connection. And your body’s already done so much, is doing so much with making milk and healing. It’s okay to give yourself a break if you need one. And it’s beautiful to share those moments.”

You blinked rapidly, holding back the tears as you looked down at Sofía’s tiny hand poking from the sling. “I love feeding her. I really do. But sometimes I just… want to breathe.”

Eli squeezed your hand gently. “Then breathe. You deserve to.”

Alexia knelt by your feet, looking up at you with so much love it physically hurt. “I’d love to help feed her,” she said softly. “When you’re ready.”

You nodded, voice cracking. “I think we’re ready. I feel like a cow in a milker”

Alexia tried to hide her laughter but failed miserably, as Eli slipped into the kitchen to heat up the caldo, and Alexia leaned her head gently against your knee, her fingers brushing the fabric over Sofía’s back, you felt it again— This wasn’t just your journey. It was all of theirs too. And Sofía… she would never go a day without knowing love in every form it came. in this moment you knew, Alexia needed those alone bonding feeding moments too.

By this point, with Eli, dignity was just a long-lost luxury you had waved goodbye to somewhere between hour twelve of labor and the moment she’d helped you shuffle to the hospital bathroom, holding your elbow with one hand and a fresh adult nappy in the other like it was the most casual thing in the world.

She had seen it all.

The rawness. The blood. The wobble in your knees when you stood up too soon. The moment you burst into tears because the hospital underwear felt like it was made out of netting and betrayal. She’d knelt in front of you in that sterile bathroom, helping you into a clean pad and mesh pants like it was the most natural thing a mother-in-law could ever do.

So when you found yourself in the nursery two days later, holding the still-unboxed breast pump in one hand and the instruction booklet in the other, looking entirely defeated, asking Eli for help felt about as strange as asking her to pass the salt.

She knocked lightly on the half-open door and peeked in. “Need backup?”

You sighed, dropping the instruction booklet onto the changing table. “It’s like assembling a car. For my boobs.”

She snorted softly and stepped inside, already pushing up the sleeves of her jumper. “Let’s go, cariño. I’ve fought with breast pump parts in the middle of the night before. They don't scare me anymore.”

You looked at her, hesitant only for a second. “This… isn’t weird, is it?”

Eli met your eyes and smiled with a tenderness that wrapped around your ribs. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “I’ve seen you sobbing with your boobs out and mesh underwear halfway down your thighs. If this is weird, I’ve missed the mark.”

You let out a laugh—half-relief, half-exhaustion. “Yeah, okay. Fair point.”

She walked over and helped you unbox the pump, sorting through the pieces with practiced ease, handing you the right ones without a word like it was second nature. You sat on the nursing chair, shirt unbuttoned, cheeks flushed not with embarrassment but just from being tired.

Eli handed you one of the silicone shields and smiled knowingly. “This bit goes on like a suction cup, but with attitude.”

You laughed again, grateful. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”

She gave you a look. “I was once the queen of clogged ducts and late-night pumping while your wife screamed in the background. Consider this my redemption arc.”

Once everything was attached and in place, she gave your knee a gentle squeeze. “Want me to stay while you try?”

You paused, then nodded. “Yeah. Just for a minute.”

And when you hit the button and the rhythmic sound of suction started—strange, almost robotic—you winced slightly, then settled, watching in fascination and disbelief as the pump did its job.

Eli sat beside you on the edge of the crib, not watching you directly, just being there. Offering silent support in a way only she could.

After a few minutes, when you finally started to see the first few drops collect, you let out a long breath and smiled, teary-eyed all over again.

“It’s working.”

Eli reached over and squeezed your hand. “Of course it is.”

There was no awkwardness. No tension. No shame.

Just one woman helping another through the most vulnerable, powerful, exhausting part of life—because she knew exactly how it felt. And because now, she got to watch you become the mother her daughter had chosen to walk through life with.

The quiet whir of the breast pump had become oddly hypnotic, lulling the room into a strange, soft rhythm. You were seated back in the nursery chair, one hand adjusting the silicone flange for the hundredth time, the other resting over your lap, your shoulders finally relaxing as the process—miraculously—started to feel like it was working.

Eli sat beside the crib with the manual in her lap, casually flipping through it as if this were all just another Tuesday. She was calm and reassuring, occasionally glancing over at the bottle as it slowly filled, nodding like a proud coach watching her athlete find their stride.

You were mid-laugh over her latest tip—something about “massaging your boob like you’re convincing it to let go of a secret”—when the nursery door creaked open, and Alexia’s head popped around it.

She paused.

Her eyes flicked from you—with your shirt half-open, pump whirring steadily—to her mother, perfectly at ease beside you, looking up as if this was the most normal mother-in-law/daughter-in-law bonding activity in the world.

“…Do I want to know what’s happening?” Alexia asked slowly, blinking.

Eli didn’t even look up from the instruction booklet. “I’m helping your wife pump.”

Alexia blinked again, then looked at you.

You smiled—tired, amused, completely over being modest around either of them. “She’s seen me cry half-naked in adult nappies,” you said dryly. “This is nothing.”

Alexia snorted, stepping fully into the room now, arms folded over her chest, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Well, I was going to ask if you needed anything,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, “but clearly you’re already in excellent hands.”

Eli turned the page. “You should take notes. I’m a one-woman postpartum doula service.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Alexia’s gaze softened. She crossed the room and knelt in front of you, her hands coming to rest on your knees. “Neither do I,” she said quietly. “But mostly, I’m just in awe of you.”

You blushed, still learning how to accept praise without deflecting. “I didn’t think I’d need this much help.”

Eli looked up finally, setting the booklet aside. “No one does. But the strongest mothers are the ones who know when to let people in.”

You blinked fast, suddenly full of tears again—but the good kind this time.

Alexia leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then one to the side of your head, right above your temple.

“I’ll go put the kettle on,” she murmured, brushing your hair back gently. “And maybe sneak a cuddle while you finish your boob duties.”

You laughed softly as she stood and disappeared back down the hall.

Eli gave your hand a gentle pat. “You’re doing brilliantly, sweetheart.”

And as the bottle slowly filled, your shoulders slowly eased, and your world—the one that had been fraying at the edges just a few days ago—stitched itself back together, one steady breath at a time.

You stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair in a low bun, with one hand bracing yourself against the counter and the other holding the tiny, freshly-pumped bottle of breast milk like it was a fragile vial of liquid gold—which, let’s face it, it was.

Eli was beside you, calmly in her element as she lined up a few sterile milk storage bags on the counter. She'd brought a box of them with her that morning, claiming she “just happened to have some left over” from a friend’s daughter, but you strongly suspected she'd gone out and bought them the minute she saw your face the day before.

“So,” she said, picking one up and showing you the measurements along the side, “you write the date on here, and the time if you want to be very organized, but don’t stress too much about that. Just make sure you’re using the oldest ones first. Store them flat in the freezer—that way they thaw faster.”

You nodded, absorbing every word with the same seriousness you might’ve reserved for a university lecture.

Eli smiled as she gently helped you pour the milk into the bag, her hand over yours, steadying you. “And once you have a little supply going, you can finally rest a bit. A bottle here and there gives you room to breathe.”

The back door swung open then, a familiar voice cutting through the soft rhythm of your kitchen sanctuary.

“Hola! It’s me—your favourite aunt-slash-chaos-magnet!”

Alba strolled in like she lived there, sunglasses still on despite being indoors, a half-empty iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Do I smell something nurturing and maternal going on in here?” she grinned, stopping dead when she clocked the milk bags and the freezer drawer open.

Eli didn’t even look up from what she was doing. “She’s learning to store milk.”

Alba’s eyebrows shot up as she leaned dramatically on the counter. “Already?! Damn, you two are turning into pros. Look at this domestic little set-up!”

You rolled your eyes fondly, but a quiet pride swelled in your chest. “We’re trying to build a bit of a stash.”

“Smart,” Alba nodded, tossing her sunglasses onto the island and plucking up an unused milk bag to inspect like it was a top-secret blueprint. “You’re gonna want a decent back stock anyway. For date nights. Or emergencies. Or if Sofía decides she’ll only accept milk warmed over precisely 37 seconds and sung to in Catalan.”

Eli gave her a look. “She was always this dramatic, even as a toddler.”

“Sorry,” Alba said, holding up her hands. “I’m just saying. If I were a baby and had access to this VIP boob buffet, I’d be picky too.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you slid a freshly labeled bag into the freezer drawer. “We’ve only just started. But it feels good. Like I’m prepping for a rainy day.”

“It’s more than good,” Eli said, placing a hand gently on your back. “It’s smart. And it gives Alexia a way to feed her too.”

Alba’s eyes twinkled. “Are we gonna film the first time Lex gives her a bottle? Because I need to see her cry when Sofía holds her finger.”

You smiled at the thought, your heart doing that little twist it always did whenever you pictured Alexia holding your daughter like she was everything—and knowing she was.

As the milk bags stacked neatly in the drawer and the coffee machine whirred to life behind you, you felt something settle inside you.

You padded into the bedroom barefoot, hips swaying with the gentle, practiced rhythm of soothing a fussy baby, one hand cradling Sofía to your chest, the other clutching a freshly warmed bottle of milk. Her little face was scrunched, already beginning to fuss with those breathy, pre-cry sounds you now knew were your ten-second warning window.

Alexia was by the dresser, sleeves pushed up, methodically folding and putting away laundry—her laundry, your laundry, tiny onesies the size of her palm. She hadn't noticed you yet, humming under her breath, face soft with focus.

“Lex?” you asked, a little breathless.

She turned quickly, the last baby sock still in her hand, her expression immediately alert. But the moment she saw you—hair frizzy, eyes tired, Sofía squirming in your arms—her face changed.

Something warmer. Protective. Ready.

“I need a shower,” you said with a sheepish smile, rocking Sofía gently as she let out a louder whimper. “Can you feed her?”

Alexia blinked. Once. Then again.

You watched it hit her in real time. That this wasn’t a drill. This wasn’t a photo op. This was real. This was you trusting her with something that, up until now, had only been yours.

She swallowed hard, her voice suddenly small. “Me? Now?”

You nodded, stepping closer, already easing the baby into her arms. “You’ll be amazing. She loves you. She’s just hungry, that’s all.”

Alexia hesitated for the briefest second—but the moment Sofía’s tiny body settled into her arms and those big, frustrated eyes blinked up at her, something in Alexia clicked. Instinct took over. Her grip steadied. Her heart slowed. Her entire focus shrank to just the baby in her arms.

You handed over the bottle gently, brushing your fingers across Alexia’s.

“She’s already used to it warm, not hot. Tilt it up just a little. And she likes to hold your finger while she feeds.”

Alexia nodded, like it was gospel.

You leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thank you. I love you.”

She didn’t respond at first, too focused on gently guiding the bottle to your daughter’s mouth. When Sofía latched and started sucking hungrily, Alexia let out a breath like she hadn’t known she was holding it.

“She’s doing it,” she whispered, awed.

You smiled, already backing toward the door. “Told you.”

“I’ve never fed a baby before,” she murmured without looking up.

“Well, now you’ve fed our baby,” you said softly, and slipped out of the room.

As the warm water from your long-overdue shower hit your skin, you could hear, faintly through the walls, Alexia’s voice in the bedroom—low and soft, murmuring to Sofía in a mix of Catalan and wonder, like every word was a lullaby.

It started with that first bottle. The one you handed over with exhaustion in your voice and trust in your eyes. The one Alexia took with hands that trembled just slightly, unsure, reverent. The moment Sofía latched and those wide, curious eyes found hers, something inside Alexia shifted—clicked into place in a way neither of you had expected.

And after that, she was hooked.

She didn’t even try to pretend otherwise.

Every feed since, Alexia had volunteered before you could ask. She timed them now, glancing at the clock whenever Sofía began to fuss. She memorized the little cues—her “I’m hungry” grumble cry, the way she started trying to suck on her tiny fists, how her legs would kick just a bit more when she was impatient. And each time, Alexia was ready, bottle in hand like it was a golden ticket.

You found her one morning sitting in the nursery rocker, barefoot in an old Barça hoodie, Sofía cradled against her chest, taking her bottle like a champ. Alexia didn’t even notice you in the doorway at first. Her focus was entirely on your daughter, one hand gently supporting the bottle, the other wrapped around Sofía’s tiny body, thumb brushing soft circles over her back.

“She hums when she eats,” Alexia whispered without looking away, her voice so full of awe it made your chest ache. “You hear it?”

You smiled, stepping into the room. “Like a little motor.”

Alexia glanced up, and the smile she gave you was the kind of soft that never failed to break you wide open.

“She holds my finger the whole time,” she added, her voice catching with emotion. “Like… she knows I’m hers too.”

You knelt beside the chair, resting your chin on her knee. “She does. She always has.”

Sometimes, after the feed, Alexia would stay holding her long after Sofía had drifted off. She’d keep the empty bottle in her lap, rubbing her thumb over the rim absently, as if parting with the moment too soon might break the spell. You once came downstairs and found her lying on the couch, the bottle already washed and drying by the sink, Sofía curled on her chest, both of them asleep—her hand still resting over your daughter’s back like she was protecting something sacred.

And every now and then, Alexia would whisper little things while feeding her—stories about her childhood, about matches she'd played, about the first time she saw you. She told Sofía how her abuelo would've sung to her. She promised she'd be at every game, every school play, every scraped knee and bedtime story.

One night, when you were both curled in bed, Sofía asleep in her bassinet beside you, you whispered into the dark, “You really love feeding her, huh?”

Alexia turned her head on the pillow, eyes already misty with sleep, and nodded.

“It’s my favorite thing,” she said softly. “It’s like… the one thing that stops time. It’s just me and her. And nothing else matters.”

You reached for her hand beneath the covers, twining your fingers with hers.

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Alexia squeezed your hand gently. “We’re all lucky.”

And in the stillness of your home, with your baby sleeping safely nearby, you knew it was true.

Every moment was a gift.

Especially the ones where love came in warm milk and quiet fingers and a bottle passed between two hearts—yours and hers.

You didn’t expect to be nervous. But there you were, standing in the warm glow of the bathroom, sleeves pushed up, towel folded neatly on the counter, staring down at the tiny baby bathtub with the anxiety of someone about to defuse a bomb.

Alexia was beside you, just as focused, holding Sofía gently against her chest, her hand cupped protectively behind that still-fragile head, the other supporting her bottom.

“She’s gonna hate this, isn’t she?” you whispered, trying not to let your nerves show.

Alexia smiled, but you could tell she was just as unsure. “We’ll be quick. Gentle. She’ll survive.”

You glanced at the sink again. “Will we?”

That made her laugh. “Questionable.”

The water was perfect—lukewarm, tested on the inside of your wrist six times because Eli’s voice had echoed in your head the whole time: “Not too hot, not too cold, just like a womb.” You’d nodded like you had any memory of what that felt like.

Sofía was already fussing a little, her sleepy eyes blinking open and shut against the bathroom light, her tiny fists curling against Alexia’s chest like she could sense the betrayal coming.

“Okay, pequeña,” Alexia whispered, kissing her forehead. “Let’s make this quick and painless, sí?”

You had the baby wash ready, the soft sponge, the tiniest hooded towel folded like a shrine. You gave Alexia a nod. “Let’s do it.”

Together, you knelt by the sink, and Alexia slowly began to lower her into the water. Sofía let out one high-pitched protest cry—sharp and immediate, like she was filing a formal complaint with management.

“Oh no,” you said, your heart tugging immediately. “She hates it. She hates it.”

“She’s fine,” Alexia said, though her voice cracked with the same panic. “She’s just dramatic. Wonder where she gets that from.”

You shot her a look as you reached for the washcloth, gently squeezing warm water over Sofía’s belly.

She kicked her legs once, made a face, then stilled.

You both froze.

Then, miraculously—Sofía relaxed. Her little hands opened slightly, her brow unfurrowed, her legs stretched out in the warm water like she was reconsidering her initial stance.

“She’s… okay?” you whispered.

Alexia blinked. “Is she enjoying this?”

“She’s thriving.” You took turns gently sponging her, giggling like two kids as you washed the tiniest toes, the little creases under her chin, that impossibly soft patch of hair at the back of her head.

“She smells like something holy,” Alexia murmured. “Like warm clouds and… new life.”

“She smells like baby shampoo,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

When the bath was over, you lifted her from the water together, her tiny body slick and wriggling, and placed her into the towel you’d warmed on the radiator. She let out a soft sigh, completely blissed out as Alexia wrapped her up and cradled her to her chest.

“Look at her,” she whispered, eyes full. “Like she just went to a spa.”

You leaned in and kissed Sofía’s damp forehead. “She’s our little queen.”

Alexia smiled, then looked at you. “We did it.”

You laughed softly, heart full. “We gave her a bath without either of us crying.”

“Or dropping her.”

“Or flooding the house.”

Alexia leaned in and kissed you, long and warm, her free hand cupping your cheek. “We’re kind of killing this parenting thing.”

You looked at the towel-wrapped miracle in her arms and nodded.

“One tiny bath at a time.”

The carrier was strapped tightly to your chest, Sofía nestled inside, her little face peeking out beneath the edge of a sunhat that kept flopping over one eye. She was calm, barely squirming, her fingers curled into the soft edge of the blanket you’d tucked around her like she knew, somehow, that today wasn’t just any outing.

Your heart was racing for reasons far beyond just nerves. It was your first solo trip out with her—just you and your daughter, navigating the world together. No Alexia, no Eli, no Alba, no safety net… and yet, it felt right.

Because today wasn’t just about you getting out of the house. Today was for her. For Alexia.

Throughout your pregnancy, Alexia had whispered dreams of this moment into your belly. About Sofía’s first time at the stadium. About her wearing Barça colors. About her being part of this life she’d built with so much passion. But once she was born, Alexia hadn’t brought it up again. Never once pushed, never asked when it would happen. You knew it wasn’t because she forgot. It was because she didn’t want to pressure you. She wanted you to be ready.

And today—you were.

When you stepped into the stadium, the familiar hum of the crowd and the sharp scent of freshly cut pitch hit you all at once. You adjusted Sofía gently in the carrier, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “Let’s go see Mami.”

The stewards waved you through with warm smiles—of course they knew who you were. They always did. You made your way to the pitch entrance, just before the team warm-ups began, and your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Alexia was stretching on the sidelines, chatting with Mapi, when she turned her head and froze.

You saw it. That exact second her heart stopped.

Her eyes landed on you, then dropped to the little baby blue hat peeking out from the chest carrier… and then to the tiniest, most perfect sight she’d ever seen.

Sofía, dressed in a miniature FC Barcelona onesie, her name printed in tiny lettering across the back.

MAMI 11.

Alexia’s hand flew to her mouth for half a second before she was moving—across the grass, boots hitting the turf faster than they probably should’ve, eyes never leaving you.

When she reached you, her face was already glowing, the kind of joy that didn’t need words.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, almost disbelieving, one hand brushing Sofía’s blanket back to see her face. “You really brought her?.”

“She wouldn’t miss her Mamis first home match since she was born,” you smiled. “She told me herself.”

Alexia let out a watery laugh, leaning in to kiss you—soft, slow, overwhelmed. “You’re unbelievable. Thank you.”

“She’s sleepy,” you whispered, “but I think she knows something big is happening.”

“Can I—?” Alexia asked, already undoing the carrier clips gently.

You nodded and helped her lift Sofía into her arms, the baby stirring only slightly, cheek pressed against her mami’s chest like it was the most natural place in the world.

And just like that, Alexia was glowing.

The team, already gathered near the dugout, collectively lost it when they saw.

Mapi clutched her chest. “No me jodas, she’s wearing the kit.”

Aitana nearly screamed. “LOOK AT HER.”

“Can we have her for the team photo?” Patri begged.

Alexia looked at you. "You don't need my permission Alexia" you smiled touching Sofias back, "I'll wait here"

She carried Sofía onto the pitch like she was made of gold, the cameras flashing as the team gathered. Sofía stayed blissfully asleep in Alexia’s arms while the squad posed around them like proud aunties. It wasn’t a typical team photo—it was better. Real. Full of heart.

When it was over, Alexia brought her back to you, cheeks flushed with emotion.

“She was perfect,” she whispered, handing her back as you gently slipped her into the carrier again. “And so are you.”

You leaned in and kissed her, your forehead pressed to hers for a lingering moment.

“Go win this for your girl,” you murmured.

Alexia grinned, stepped back, and winked. “Always.”

And as she jogged back toward the pitch, you saw her glance over her shoulder—one last look at you and Sofía.

Her everything. Right where she needed you.

The corridor outside the locker room still echoed with distant chants and the hum of post-match energy, but your world had shrunk to one tiny heartbeat nestled against your chest.

Sofía was warm, sleepy, her little face tucked beneath the edge of her Barça beanie, the same shade of maroon as her onesie. Her name and number stitched on the back had already gotten more than a few double-takes on the way in. But now, standing at the threshold of the team’s locker room, your heart fluttered—not with nerves, but something bigger.

This moment meant something.

You knocked gently, and someone called, “Come in!”—cheerful and breathless from victory. The second the door opened, conversations dulled, heads turned, and then the energy shifted.

Patri stood and grinned. Aitana practically squealed. Ingrid lit up, already inching closer. But your eyes found Mapi first.

She was sitting on one of the benches, towel draped over her shoulders, sweaty hair slicked back, her eyeliner slightly smudged from the heat of the match. She looked up from unlacing her boots—eyes landing on you—and froze.

Her entire face changed.

From celebration to something so tender it nearly broke you open.

Mapi stood slowly, wordlessly. She didn’t rush you, didn’t say a thing—just stood, hands twitching at her sides like she didn’t want to ask, didn’t expect to be allowed. She looked at Sofía like she was something celestial, like she might shatter if Mapi so much as breathed wrong.

And so, you didn’t speak either. You just walked up to her and, with a soft smile, gently shifted Sofía from your chest and into Mapi’s waiting arms.

The room went quiet.

Mapi caught her as if she’d held her a thousand times in another life. Her arms curled instinctively around the baby’s body, one hand supporting her head, the other holding her close. She looked down—eyes wide, mouth parted—completely undone.

“Oh…” she breathed. “She’s… real. I know I saw her in hospital but seeing her now, she's so real”

You let out a quiet laugh, brushing a tear from the corner of your eye. “She’s very real. And a little bit yours too.”

Mapi didn’t look up. She was completely absorbed. “She’s so small…”

“She’s got strong lungs, though,” you teased gently.

At that, Sofía let out a little sigh in her sleep, and Mapi’s whole expression softened into something reverent. She sank back onto the bench slowly, never once breaking her gaze, as Ingrid came to crouch beside her, peering over her shoulder like they’d discovered a newborn sun.

“Can I hold her hand?” Ingrid asked, her voice hushed like they were in a cathedral.

“She’ll probably grab your finger and never let go,” you smiled.

And sure enough, when Ingrid gently offered her pinky, Sofía’s tiny fingers curled around it instinctively. Ingrid let out a quiet gasp, pressing her other hand to her chest. “She’s magic.”

Mapi nodded slowly. “She’s everything.”

And just then, as if drawn in by the silence, Alexia stepped into the locker room.

She was still flushed from the pitch, sweat-damp hair tied back loosely, eyes scanning the room until they found you—and her whole face lit up like a stadium under lights.

Her eyes dropped to Mapi holding Sofía, Ingrid cooing beside them, the entire team buzzing with awe but reverent like they all knew how important this moment was.

She made her way to you, her smile wide, her voice low. “You brought her.”

You nodded, tears welling again. “I know you would have never asked because you wouldn't want to seem to be pressuring me.”

She leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft, one hand on your back. “You made my whole day showing up with her today.”

You looked over at Mapi, who still hadn’t looked away from Sofía, her thumb now brushing over her tiny head. “She’s in good hands,” you whispered.

Alexia laughed, a little emotional. “We might not get her back.”

And as Mapi leaned down and kissed Sofía’s forehead, whispering something in Spanish none of you could hear, you knew:

This team wasn’t just your wife’s. It was your daughter’s now too. Her first family outside of you and Alexia's. And they already loved her like their own.

The room was still hushed with awe when Sofía stirred.

It started with a tiny squirm, then a soft squeaky whimper from deep in her chest—the kind that meant I'm about to complain, and I'm not sure why yet, but stay close.

Mapi froze.

Her eyes snapped up to you, wide with panic, like the baby in her arms had suddenly turned into a live grenade.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is she okay? Did I break her?”

You stepped forward calmly, biting back a smile. “She’s fine. You didn’t break her. She’s just waking up. She's like her Mami she's grumpy when she first wakes up”

“But—what do I do? Do I—do I give her back? I should give her back.” She was already trying to lift Sofía toward you, her hands clearly unsure of what to do next.

Ingrid chuckled gently and moved beside her, placing a steadying hand on Mapi’s elbow. “Tranquila,” she murmured, adjusting Mapi’s arms with slow confidence. “Here, put her in the crook—like this. See? Better support.”

Mapi let Ingrid reposition her, her posture stiff but her eyes never leaving Sofía’s little face. “She’s gonna scream, I can feel it.”

“She’s not,” you said reassuringly, stepping closer but making no move to take her back. “You’ve got her. Just… hold her like that. And pat her bum.”

Mapi blinked. “Pat her what?”

You smiled. “Her bum. It soothes her. Rhythmic little pats. She loves it.”

Mapi hesitated, then gently—very gently—began patting Sofía’s diapered bottom, eyes narrowing in concentration. And sure enough, Sofía calmed almost immediately, letting out a sleepy sigh and settling back against her chest with a tiny, trusting grunt.

Everyone in the room exhaled. Mapi’s shoulders dropped about two inches. “That actually worked…”

You grinned, crossing your arms. “Like her mama she likes it.”

A ripple of laughter snuck through the locker room—Ingrid let out a little pfft, Patri actually dropped her water bottle, and Aitana choked on whatever she’d been drinking in the corner.

Alexia, standing right beside you, turned slowly toward you with a single raised brow. Her expression: Really? You beamed, completely unapologetic. “I said what I said.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too in love with you to argue that in public.”

“I am lucky,” you said sweetly, kissing her.

Mapi glanced down at the baby in her arms and gave her another gentle pat. “She definitely has taste. Bum pats and chaos.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “She takes after the team already.”

And as the laughter settled and Sofía drifted peacefully in Mapi’s arms, her tiny mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ in sleep, you reached for Alexia’s hand, squeezing it gently.

The locker room had slowly returned to its usual post-match rhythm—half laughter, half exhaustion, and a few girls starting to sneak glances at the clock like their hunger was catching up to them. But Mapi? She was still in the same spot on the bench, holding Sofía like she was made of glass and sunshine, patting her bum like a seasoned pro now, completely unaware of anything happening around her.

You were standing beside Alexia, her hand resting lightly on your lower back, your other hand curled in hers. You kept stealing glances at Mapi—your heart swelling at how soft she was with your daughter, how right it looked.

You leaned in closer to Alexia and whispered, “Now would be a good time.”

Alexia looked at you with a half-smile, clearly knowing what you meant. She gave a small nod, took a breath, and stepped forward, gently nudging Mapi’s knee.

“Hey,” Alexia said softly, sitting beside her. “Still holding my kid hostage?”

Mapi grinned but didn’t look away from Sofía. “She doesn’t want to go back. Look at her—this is pure love. I think I’m her favourite.”

Alexia chuckled, then glanced over at you before turning back to her. Her voice was a little quieter now, more deliberate. “Actually… since you two are getting along so well…”

Mapi looked up, eyes curious.

“We, uh…” Alexia started, then paused. You saw her hesitate, so you took a step forward, brushing your hand down her arm gently. “We’re getting Sofía baptised.”

Mapi’s brows lifted slightly, surprised.

Alexia continued, this time steadier. “And we talked about it for a while, and there was never really any doubt for either of us. We’d be… really honoured if you’d be her godmother.”

Mapi froze.

For a moment, she just stared at the both of you. Then at Sofía. Then back again.

“You’re serious?” she said, blinking.

You nodded, your voice gentle. “You’re her family already. But this… this would make it official. If you want it.”

Mapi’s eyes filled instantly. No dramatic reaction this time. No joke. Just a quiet, overwhelmed, completely unguarded look on her face.

“I…” she started, then stopped, voice catching. “Of course I want it. Are you kidding me? I—God, yes. I’d be honoured.”

She looked down at Sofía again, brushing her thumb across her soft cheek. “I’m going to protect you forever, pequeña. That’s a promise.”

From beside her, Ingrid let out a soft breath. “She’s crying again.”

“I’m not crying,” Mapi sniffed, wiping under her eye. “It’s post-match sweat and overwhelming love, okay?”

You laughed, leaning into Alexia’s side as she squeezed your waist.

And in that small, noisy, sweaty locker room—with boots and socks and half-zipped kits scattered around—you gave your daughter the best gift she could ever have. A godmother who already loved her like she was her own. One more person who’d never, ever let her fall.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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shizuturnspages · 12 days ago

Note

VERY important question: is yan Diluc a cuddly sleeper?

YES. YES HE IS. But also… no. Let me explain. 😌

Yandere Diluc as a cuddly sleeper is… a whole damn spectrum of contradiction. Because this man has two modes:

Mode 1: The Stiff-Backed Tsundere Bundle of Repressed Love

At first? This man sleeps like he’s guarding a war council table. Arms crossed. One eye open. Greatsword within reach. He tells you that “you should sleep first,” and when you wake up? He’s still sitting there, watching you with a haunted intensity and a cup of tea that went cold four hours ago.

"You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you." No, Diluc. No. You just forgot how to lie down like a normal person.

But here’s the thing: he doesn’t mean to be like this. He’s been touch-starved since childhood, and intimacy is both everything he craves and everything he fears. The first few nights, he might keep a respectful distance (even if you’re locked in his mansion with nowhere else to go), thinking he's being “kind.”

Mode 2: The Touch-Deprived Koala Who Will Never Let You Leave Again

… And then one night, you roll over in your sleep and nuzzle into him without thinking. Or maybe you grab his shirt in your dreams. Or worse: you whimper.

He freezes.

And that’s it. That’s the moment. His brain shuts down, restarts, and by the next second, you’re being held like the last ember of warmth in the world.

He doesn't even mean to cling like this. But his arms go around your waist, then your back, then your entire body gets caged in like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve if he lets go.

He doesn’t sleep much—but when he does? He’s all in. You're not going anywhere. If you shift, he shifts. If you sigh, he kisses your forehead half-asleep and murmurs “shhh… I’ve got you.”

He wakes up first and just stays there, watching you sleep with that intense, quiet gaze. Thumb gently brushing your arm. “Mine,” he murmurs to no one.

#shizuwrites #shizuyaps #writers on tumblr #fyppage #fypシ #fyp #yandere #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin yandere #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact diluc #diluc ragnvindr #genshin diluc #diluc x reader #diluc x you #yandere diluc #cuddles

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ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused · 8 months ago

Note

Wolverine x plus size Reader smut?? Thank you 🤭🤭

nsfw.

a/n: okay wow after a bit of time away i feel like this is a very strong entrance!! it feels like it's been so long since i wrote smut SIGH

Okay but like hear me out… backshots with Logan.

Now as I've mentioned before, I do think that Logan is a fairly gentle lover, especially when it comes to your pleasure and well-being, but it’s a spectrum. Albeit rare, Logan has his moments where everything is pissing him off and all he needs is that sweet grounding relief of your wet and welcoming pussy.

He isn’t mean about it, but he takes, and he takes hard.

He allows his self-control to slip a bit at your insistence, your back arched deeply, fingers gripping tightly onto the bed sheets under you. You spread your legs as far as your body physically allows them to (you already know the insides of your thighs will ache later, but that’s neither here nor there).

He has a large hand gripping at the nape of your neck, pressing your face into the bedding. The suffocating feeling of being restrained leaves your head spinning, blissful, helpless moans and whimpers spilling from your lips as Logan pounds into you from behind.

The burn caused by the meat of your fat ass meeting the front of his bare sun kissed thighs has turned into a buzz that encourages the coil deep inside your gut with every stab at your g-spot. Logan is so deep it leaves you breathless, lungs aching to do something - anything that isn’t begging like a bitch in heat; but with every attempt, the air is punched out of you.

Logan’s swearing like a sailor from behind you, his grunts and groans eventually bleed into feral growls. His grip on the fat of your hip is harsh enough to bruise. He’s losing himself every sound spilling from you, and he all but chokes when you clench down around him.

“Sweetheart.”

It’s a warning. A warning to control yourself. To wait. To be appreciative of what he’s giving you.

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry - fuck!” You cry out with a sob. You take to nibbling on the meat of your lower lip.

“It feels good, yeah?” He questions, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Your agreement is garbled but he knows exactly what you said, of what you need.

“I know, I know. I got ya’.”

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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months ago

Note

what about 141 with a reader who’s hard to make cum. like still enjoying everything, but just can’t cum easily <3

Oh anon, you must have read the series with the prompt about being overly sensitive and squirmy during sex. This is the opposite, and I love that. Everyone is different during sex, and I love that I can explore the other end of the spectrum.

As always, these are filthy. Pure smut. Nothing less. Nothing more. I really indulged myself here just because I'm someone who isn't super sensitive, and I need that extra attention to get off. So, with that, enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, dirty talk, praise, clit play, mirror sex, doggy, talking through it, oral sex (female receiving)

Word Count: 2.6k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Hey, baby girl,” coos Kyle into your ear. “Relax.”

Kyle adjusts your legs, pushing them toward your chest. He settles between, the head of his cock catching at your entrance.

“Breathe for me. That’s it.” Kyle starts to sink in and you moan loudly, fingers digging into his back.

Sex with Kyle is always electric. He knows that you tend to get into your head, to drift even if you’re enjoying everything. Kyle understands, which is why he’s always careful in making sure you get off too, even if it takes extra time.

He always knows how to lavish you with attention, making each moment exhilarating.

“You’re doing so well, love. Taking all of me.” Kyle slides home and your back arches off the bed.

Kyle rolls his hips slowly, hitting that perfect spot inside you. He’s taking his time, moving casually, making you take and feel every inch. It’s fucking delicious, and your body buzzes with need as if bees live beneath your skin.

Before this, Kyle had his head between your legs, licking you toward orgasm. But one is never enough for him. Kyle always needs you to have two before he’s through with you.

“That feel good, love?” Kyle leans in and brushes his lips against yours.

You moan into him, and Kyle drapes himself over you, thrusting.

“You’re fucking perfect,” mumbles Kyle.

He shifts to one forearm. His other arm rests against your thigh, keeping you wide, his fingers finding your clit. The touch sends a shiver of pleasure through you. Using some of your slickness, Kyle rubs little circles as he thrusts.

Whimpering, you tighten your arms around him, attempting to pull him closer. Kyle nips at your bottom lip and smiles.

“Let’s have another orgasm, love. Want to feel you come around me.”

Kyle’s words drip with lust. It keeps you in the moment, twisting around you to envelope your senses. His fingers on your clit and his cock inside you stirs everything around.

“Come on, baby girl. One more.”

You do want one more, truly, you do. But sometimes you crawl out of it, sinking further away from orgasm. Kyle must sense this, because he touches the side of your face, guiding you to look into his eyes.

“Look at me, love.”

“Kyle,” you mumble, pussy clenching slightly.

“Look at me.” You do and Kyle leans in for another kiss.

His fingers start up again against your clit. This time, the orgasm returns, and you do everything you can to focus in on it. Kyle isn’t thrusting anymore. He’s entirely focused on your clit.

“Come for me, baby girl. Come for me.”

Your eyelids flutter as you sink into the feeling, chasing it. Your legs fall open, and then you’re split, everything in you firing forward.

“That’s it,” coos Kyle. “That’s my good girl.”

Your body shudders, and your moan comes out chocked.

Kyle starts thrusting again. His fingers play with you through your orgasm, and then he’s groaning above you, holding flush to your body.

Kyle’s lips are on your mouth, on your cheek, on your jaw. They are sweet and coaxing, easing you back down to earth.

“How you feeling, love?” asks Kyle.

You hum with happiness.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“We’re gonna do this nice and slow, love. Okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur in response.

Johnny’s thumb hovers at your entrance where your slickness pools. He catches it, drawing it up to your clit. Presses. Swirls. It’s a sharp tug. A sudden burst. But it is not an orgasm. It’s the essence of one. A spark.

You gasp, back arching slightly as Johnny continues to play with that sensitive bump. His fingers aren’t even inside you. It’s just his thumb teasing. And you are on the journey of unraveling, fingers digging into his shoulders, hips flexing into his touch as your body clenches.

Your moan is chocked. Suppressed. Not much of anything.

Johnny smiles against your throat.

“I’ll make you feel so good, love.”

Wrist rotating, Johnny’s middle finger slides through your slickness. He adds a finger, begins fucking you with it while he shifts up to press his lips to yours. You open for him, and Johnny slides his tongue inside the moment he inserts a second finger. Using the knee already resting on the bed between your legs, Johnny guides your legs wider to completely settle between them.

You are spread wide. Clinging to him. Johnny is seizing control, but it’s good. It’s nice. It’s everything. This is what you need to take you over the edge.

Johnny releases your mouth and roughly kisses down the length of your neck only to run his tongue over your left nipple. Your hips buck, and Johnny meets with a thrust of his hand. His thumb on your clit is relentless and it isn’t long before you feel the gnawing pleasure begin to claw its way to the surface.

“You’re so fucking wet,” murmurs Johnny, his teeth lightly trapping your nipple between them. He tugs softly. Releases the nipple. Kisses it.

With fingers slipping from your body, Johnny is already moving downward, leaving nothing untasted.

The knee between your legs disappears as Johnny moves onto his knees in front of the bed. His arms slide under your thighs and curve up to lock onto them. With a sharp tug, you’re dragged to the very edge.

Johnny turns his head and nips his way down the inside of your thigh. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your legs to the tips of your toes. You float in coiled anticipation. Fingers drag up and down your thighs. Johnny’s mouth hovers close, but not enough to make actual contact.

You’re always in your head. Always taking forever to reach your peak. Johnny knows this, which is why he’s taking his time. He never rushes you toward your end or gets frustrated. He works for each orgasm as if they are a prize.

Johnny sighs heavily, but it tapers out, becoming a growl. He guides one leg over his shoulder while the other is pushed even wider. Descending, Johnny parts your pussy with a slow swipe of his tongue. He swirls up, teasing your clit with just the tip, and that is enough to make your thighs quiver. For your back to come off the bed.

Without thought, your hands seek him. One slides through his hair, tangling, twisting, anchoring yourself as your hips roll against his mouth, riding his face. The other claws, gripping his shirt, snarling the fabric in your fist.

Johnny sucks your clit into his mouth and the leg not draped over his shoulder snaps up, trapping his head between your thighs. But it’s nothing to him. Johnny forces your wide again to take his tongue without resistance.

The orgasm is truly building now. Pulsing behind your temples. Wanting to erupt but not quite there.

“You gonna come for me, love?” asks Johnny.

Your lips part, but Johnny returns his tongue to your clit, stealing all clarity. Johnny tastes and tastes. The only thing keeping you in place are his arms. Everything inside you is wiggling, itching to escape, and yet not bursting.

Johnny places a kiss against your pussy before he guides your leg off his shoulder. His hands begin at your knees, sliding down to your inner thighs. He finds a solid grip, guides them wide, and returns to eating you out.

Your thighs quiver, and your legs jerk, attempting to close yet again. Meeting resistance, the muscles quiver, unable to do anything else.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Oh—fuck. Johnny. John—”

“That’s it, love,” he groans against your pussy. “Come for me.”

When Johnny’s mouth returns, he brings his fingers with him. His enthusiasm in eating your pussy is endless. Using some of his body weight, Johnny keeps you locked into position. His tongue runs lazy trails up and down your pussy, dipping inside before trailing upward again.

Then he goes all in, and you burst, exploding outward.

The orgasm is a shuddering thing. Shaking. Your bones vibrate and your eyes roll backward. There is only darkness and bright spots for a brief few seconds before you return to reality and Johnny’s slow, lazy licks over your clit.

Around you, the bed sinks as Johnny shifts forward, pushing off his knees, crawling over you until the two of you are face to face. Your chest heaves and Johnny’s lips are slightly parted. In a small slash of moonlight, you glimpse the glossy shine on his lips.

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs.

John Price

“I know you want to come, baby.”

John hauls you into his lap, spreading you wide, revealing your slick sex to the bedroom.

“Look how fucking perfect you are,” growls John into your ear.

His gaze is focused on the large mirror in front of you. You meet his stare, and realize how much of a mess you look. Your back is pressed against John’s thick chest, head resting against his shoulder, mouth brushing along his muscled neck. He has you spread wide over his lap, legs parted, feet hanging over his knees and pointed toward the ground.

One arm is draped around his neck, fingers digging into his upper back. Your other hand grips the bed beside his thigh.

“Do you want me to touch you, love? Can I play with you?”

John’s words drip with lust. He’s always been vocal, and you love it when he talks to you. Having an orgasm is often difficult for you, but John only sees it as a challenge. He takes your pleasure into his hands, working you until you come undone to his satisfaction.

Sighing, you give in to John. Sliding your hand between your open legs, you work yourself.

“Like this, John?” you tease, swirling your clit.

“Just like that, love,” he coos, shifting your weight until you’re sliding down his thick cock.

In the mirror, right below where your fingers play, your pussy is stretched, full of John’s cock pumping in purposeful rhythm. When he pulls out, his cock glistens with your juices before disappearing back inside, hitting you somewhere deep.

“Move your hand,” he groans.

You draw your hand away, placing it back on the bed. Each thrust and every stroke of John’s fingers send a little tremor through your legs. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows how to draw your orgasm out from the depths.

John watches you in the mirror, and you’re completely lost in him. There is hunger there—a deep longing that curls your toes and makes your pussy flutter.

John continues to rock his hips, upping the rhythm of his thrusts until your breath comes in short gasps of pleasure. Your eyes begin to close, eyelids fluttering with every tingle in your clit. It is hard to stay with reality. Your focus is shifting down into that space, wanting to unfurl and burst across your skin.

A bite at your earlobe surprises you. “Watch me fuck you, love.”

Your eyelids open, and it is a starving—difficult thing. All you desire is losing yourself in the moment entirely. But John wants you present and focused, to see him take what he wants.

“Fucking perfect,” he purrs against your skin. “So bloody fucking perfect,” he repeats as his fingers stroke against your clit. It has you clenching around him, pulling him further inside.

This is his goal, to make you come, to bring you that orgasm that always seems elusive. John needs you with him, to witness and submit. His words and action create a coiling mix, fusing to bloom heat within your core.

“John,” you groan, the edge arriving quickly.

His pace increases, one hand sliding under your thigh for support as his dick pistons upward into you. John’s face presses against your neck and he growls words of lust into your skin.

“I’m going to fill your perfect cunt with my cum.” The slap of skin is loud and lewd in the room. It penetrates into your bone and blood, consuming you completely. Everything quivers, thighs twitching with pleasure as your orgasm comes clawing to the surface.

John’s teeth nip at your neck. “You’ll be dripping with me.”

His words sink in. You want to be bred. You want to come and scream John’s name.

John’s fingers swirl against your clit. The orgasm crests, exploding in your brain to shimmer through your limbs. John thrusts his hips upward as the same moment he slams you down on him, sinking himself to the base. Your nails dig into his forearms as John moans into your throat.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His praise is sweet—a little treat on top of the orgasm.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You want to come, love?”

You whimper, and Simon roughly squeezes your ass.

“If you want my cock you need to use your words.”

Simon’s words curl around you like smoke. He’s taking his time. Drawing this out. An orgasm for you isn’t a quick, sharp thing. It unfurls slowly, slithering up to the surface at its own pace.

At times it frustrates you, believing that you’re somehow inferior or broken. But Simon never feeds into this idea. With him, you don’t feel less. He treats each orgasm like a reward, and he guides you toward it eagerly every time.

“I want you, Simon. Need you,” you murmur.

Simon kisses you between your breasts, descending to your belly, and then your thighs. His hands roam everywhere, leaving nothing untouched.

“Need me where?”

You slide your hand over your body to clasp his own, guiding it between your legs. The tips of his fingers part your slick pussy, caressing your clit. It sends a little shudder through you, back arching slightly as you press into his touch.

“Here,” you breathe.

“Here?” he asks, as if he hasn’t heard you correctly.

Simon inserts one finger and then another, pumping slowly. Pleasure blooms and surges out from your pussy. It’s not enough to send you over the edge but it does melt your muscles into gentle compliance.

“Simon,” you groan, as he hits that sweet spot deep inside.

Between half-closed lids, you watch as Simon withdraws his fingers and places them into his mouth, sucking them clean.

“Hand and knees, love.”

Slowly, you roll onto your stomach. Simon’s hand return to your body, helping to guide your hips upward. The bed sinks beneath you as he settles between your spread legs. There’s a pause—a brief silence of nothing—and then the head of his cock presses, pushing in, splitting you open.

He goes slow, easing in inch by inch, making sure you take all of him first before he starts fucking you.

“Take me so well, love. Fucking look at you.”

Simon’s grip on your hips tightens. He begins to thrust, bringing you back against him to meet him. The pace is steady—not slow or rough. Your back is arched, ass entirely up in the air, and Simon is claiming your pussy, perfectly filling you.

“Touch yourself,” growls Simon.

Shifting to one forearm, you slide your hand over your stomach, finding your clit. You are sensitive now, every nerve ending wired with need. The contact sends an instant wave of pleasure through you, and you fall into it, focusing on the way Simon slides in and out of your body, and the swirling movement of your fingers.

“That’s it,” coos Simon. “Fucking come for me, love. Want to feel you.”

His praise and need sink in, and on the next pass of your fingers, your pussy flutters, clenching down. Your breath is choked, pulled from your lungs in a harsh gasp as your orgasm scrambles forward.

Simon groans, and as your orgasm begins to smooth out to a dull contentment, he grinds forward, flooding your pussy. He drapes himself over you, pinning you to the bed.

“Feel good?” asks Simon, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

You turn your head and claim his lips.

Opening, you melt into him as his hand slides between your legs.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @daemondoll @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@pearljamislife @ash-tarte @eternallyvenus @spookyscaryspoon @vrb8im

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eyeritestuff · 10 months ago

Text

Billy Kid x Reader Headcanons ☆

—X—

A/N: super into ZZZ right now (and billy.)

CW: nothing, maybe a few suggestive jokes but everything is generally SFW :3 i’m super sleepy and writing this at 1am so bare with me when it comes to spelling and grammar :’)

Reader: Gender Neutral [they/them]

—X—

Billy takes a lot of selfies, especially when on missions, and sends them to you. You don’t know what made him start doing this, but you save each and every one of them and you make sure to drop whatever you’re doing to ask him about it.

Billy is on the spectrum. Don’t ask me the logistics of it, yes he’s sophisticated AI, but hear me out! Though you like to indulge in some childhood nostalgia, you aren’t particularly fixated on watching just one media from your childhood. However, one of the medias you watched back in the day is called Starlight Knight. As soon as you told him you enjoyed that show, he would come to you to talk about it. It wasn’t all the time, of course, but whenever conservation went dry (in person or via DMs), he’d make it a thing to talk to you about it for hours. It didn’t annoy you, not in the slightest. It made you happy to see him so happy about the children’s show, and so you entertained it as much as you could.

When Billy texts, he uses old fashioned emoticons as punctuation. Think ‘ :3 , ^_^ , o_O ’ and then replace it everywhere a period, an exclamation point, or a question mark would be. So many emoticons…

Billy loves to play video games, especially at the arcade. He invites you, and usually you tag along. When you can’t, he sends a selfie of him making a sad face. He’d probably captions it something like ‘Missing my pookie.. 💔💔’

On that same note, Billy will pick up on vocabulary you use and steal it. So if you have a habit of saying ‘pookie’ ? That’s his now. He’s using it all the time.

Billy panics easy when it comes to you. not only when it comes to safety, but also when it comes to romantic scenarios. During times you hang out with Anby and Nicole, they spill all the details of how Billy went on a rampage to find the perfect flowers, or how Billy sat in a corner all morning whining about how he didn’t find the right color outfit for you. Things along those lines!

Sortve related, but Billy gets flustered easily. Especially when you make dirty jokes, most of which aren’t really directed at him. He doesn’t get the jokes at first, but when he does understand them, he reacts in such an over the top and dramatic manner. Flailing around, gasping really loud, whining, yknow the works! One time you made a joke about ‘whimpering audios’ and he didn’t understand it. For a while too! Once he asked enough people (Anby explained it to him), he went silent and locked himself in his room for a considerable amount of time. He wasn’t sad or anything, just… shocked.

Billy isn’t human, so he doesn’t necessarily get injured in the traditional sense. One time he came back from a commission with his arm all battered up. You never seen him so down in spirits! You were able to help him, luckily, because it was only one part on his arm that was damaged that really messed up the rest of it. You kissed his hand, and immediately after inspecting your handiwork, he stuck his hand out again. “I dunno.. my arm still feels wonky. How about another kiss for good measure?”

When you’re bored, you love to dress up as Billy. Well, you’re not really dressing like him, you’re just wearing his jacket. You also like to wear the jacket with certain outfits you think it would look best with. Since your boyfriend is so tall and broad in the arms, you mostly wore it as a shoulder drape in an odd anime fashion statement. Regardless, Billy loved to see you wear it.

Earlier I mentioned Billy loves to take selfies, but I forgot to mention how most of them include you, and despite having all of those selfies of himself, half of his camera roll is you. He likes to sneak pictures of you sometimes! It’s one of his more odder behaviors, but he takes such cinematic pictures of you, even when you’re wearing the worst outfits. You didn’t know how he did it, but it’s one of the things that made the random picture taking somewhat okay.

Billy loves hugs. Don’t ask me how it works in terms of comfort. I would assume it’s the equivalent of sleeping in a car. However, Billy does have plenty of plushies thanks to you, and you use those to your advantage… so it’s not all bad :)

You asked Billy to teach you how to sling guns, and the entire tutorial sesh was just him feeling every inch of your body, memorizing and admiring how you looked. He loved you. All of you! He thought he was being sneaky, but you knew (and secretly loved it too).

Billy loves to carry you on his back and walk around. All I’m saying is, he’s got handlebars on that jacket for a reason… this has to be one of them……

Billy loves stickers. Self Explanatory!

Billy loves giving you gifts. He puts your needs over his more than he should, but luckily you’re not in this relationship to take advantage of his immaturity and inexperience. You give back as much as you can.

Billy is clingy. Needed to type it out despite it being loud as hell in this list.

Billy cant cook. Not like he needs to anyways, but he wants to learn for you! So when you’re cooking, he watches close behind you and asks you every question he can think of.

Billy likes to ask why… a lot. It gets frustrating sometimes, but he genuinely wants to learn.

—X—

A/N: thx for reading! idk might make a part 2 i’m gonna go fall asleep now :3

#billy kid #ZZZ #zzzero #billy kid x reader #billy kid zzz #zzz billy #zzz fanfic #zenless zone zero #zenless zone zero fanfic #fanfiction #i don’t know what else to tag this i’ve never written fanfiction before #billy kid x reader zzz #billy kid zenless zone zero #x reader #eepy #eepyposting #zzz fanfiction #headcanon #lalala

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apomaro-mellow · 4 months ago

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Steddie Bingo Prompt: Switching

@spectrum-spectre asked for this one

Steve's brow furrowed as he focused on his task. He couldn't believe he got to do this. Couldn't believe that he got to see Eddie like this. Strung out and moaning as his cock. He’d been wanting it all night. From the moment Eddie stepped foot through the door and started to pass his wares around. The boys loved him once they got used to how weird he was. He was like a beloved dog to the brothers of Steve’s frat.

And after they were done giving him pets (in the form of high-fives), Eddie went upstairs with him to get his bone.

Eddie clawed at the sheets of the bed. One that had seen many a sorority girl in this house’s history. Steve groaned as he watched his cock sink in and pull out. The way Eddie took it, arching his back. Moaning for the whole house to hear if they weren’t blasting music. Sometimes he wondered if Eddie would be just as loud if they fucked in front of everyone. When he blew his load into him, Eddie cried into the pillow by his face.

Better than any fucking fleshlight he’d ever had.

“Does it really feel that good?”, Steve asked as they were coming down together, passing a joint back and forth.

“Feels like fucking heaven, dude”, Eddie said, laying on his front. He took a long, slow drag.

Steve’s eyes were glued to him. To every part of him. His long fingers, his pink lips, his hair spilling across the pillow and the line of his back. He realized he’d been staring for too long when his eyes met Eddie’s and he saw that knowing smirk on his face.

“I can see the cogs turning in that head of yours. Care to share with the class?”

Steve shrugged, then looked up at the ceiling. “Does it really feel that good?”, he asked again.

When he looked back at Eddie, he saw that familiar grin on his face. When it was turned on him, it usually came before wild ideas like hot sauce chugging, barrel races, and them fucking for the first time.

“You wanna try it out?”

-----------------------------

Steve was on his back, his hole having already been lubed up and stretched by Eddie’s fingers and against all odds, he was hard again. Eddie wasn’t grinning at him anymore, no he was smiling. Something warm and this felt different from their usual fucking. Eddie held his legs apart as he sunk in, carefully and slowly. Steve’s chest rose and fell and Eddie’s hands were drawn to his pecs.

“Feel good, man?”

“Feels good, holy shit”, Steve’s eyes screwed shut.

Eddie’s grin returned then, one that felt almost devilish. “Good. Get ready, baby.”

A couple of guys walked by the bedroom, carrying a keg together. This far from the music, they could hear the bed moving and someone’s breathy whimpers along with what was obviously the sound of ball-slapping good sex. They both beamed at each other.

“Dude, Harrington’s getting his back blown out!”

“Dude! Finally!”

They high fived each other before continuing on their way to share the good news.

@steddiebingo

Bingo card:

#apo writes #stranger things #steddie #this is a very sex positive frat

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redvexillum · 6 months ago

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I feel like the way I portray Alastor is all in the spectrum of Yandare. So, I tried my best to write...yandare Alastor in a way it makes sense for my head canon of him. I want to give a quick shout out to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe ! I thought the best way to welcome her is dedicating this unhinged Alastor story to her!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, dub con, obsessive!alastor, p in v, gentle sex, gaslighting, entrapment, breeding kink, psychological, dark, mental torment, unhealthy relationship, orgasm denial, power dynamic, unhinged!alastor, reader is not okay, implied cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, depression, reader is delulu, alastor is delulu, extreme co-dependency, extreme denial, yandare!alastor

🙏 please mind your mental health before you read 🙏

The thought curled through you like poison, clinging to every corner of your mind: you wanted to die.

It was a siren song, cruel and haunting, a whisper that slithered deep into the crumbling fortress of your mind, eroding the defences you’d built to keep it out. Your hands shook as exhaustion seeped into every crack; bones weary from a battle that felt endless. It wasn’t just tiredness – it was a soul-deep weight, a leaden heaviness that hollowed you out.

In the background, soft jazz played from the kitchen, each note swirling with a warmth that felt so alien in the cold void within you. Sunlight poured through the window, a golden river that washed over everything it touched, indifferent to the shadows lurking within.

You noticed the knife on the counter – a sharp gleam that seemed to pulse with a dangerous allure, its polished blade catching the light with a slick, almost wet shine. It seemed to call out to you, offering a quick, dreamless eternity.

But even as your gaze lingered, your heart resisted, tethered stubbornly to someone who’d become both your prison and sanctuary.

Alastor.

A man you never should have crossed paths with. A man you should never have fallen for.

You sighed, holding the knife as you turned back to the chunk of meat. Its once bright crimson flesh changing to a dull, dead brown. The raw smell was overwhelming, thick and nearly spoiled in the oppressive Louisiana heat. Alastor left you with some tasks today, after you had begged him to give you something to do as you wait for his return. Your task was to package the meat, clean up the kitchen, polish the floor while you waited for his return.

The smell of raw meat brought images to flicker through your mind: men and women, faces frozen in terror as Alastor dragged them down to the cellar. A shiver ran down your spine, and a small whimper escaped, a whisper of fear against the tears that threatened to fall. You tore your gaze away from the knife and forced yourself to look outside. The bayou stretched out beyond the window, a bleak expanse of gnarly trees and dark water – silent, desolate, and as inescapable as him.

You took a steadying breath, mentally reciting the day’s tasks like a prayer to keep you grounded. Finish the meat, scrub the blood stains, bleach the floor, and when the last crimson smear was gone, he’d return. By then, you’d be ready, composed. With a sniff, you shoved your feelings back, burying them under the monotony of chores.

Finally, when every trace of red erased from the floor, you heard the front door click open. The sound echoed, a rhythmic click-click-click, each lock sliding free, the metal grating sharply against the silence. Your heart skipped as the door creaked, and there he stood – Alastor, haloed in the setting sun. His smile was gentle, but his eyes gleamed as he opened his arms.

“My love,” he murmured, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat with an air of practised ease.

You scrambled to your feet, the memory still fresh from the last time you hadn’t been there to greet him. He had panicked, refusing to leave your side for days. He held you then, whispering sweet words of devotion, his arms an unyielding cage, each word sinking deeper until it was all you knew. You didn’t know if he knew the truth – that every word bound you closer even as you longed to escape.

Fear wrapped around you, yet somewhere deep within, in a place even you struggled to reach, you needed him. The years of isolation had stripped you bare, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange dance.

Five years – five years of him as your only constant, your only company in this void. That had to be love. It was the only way to make sense of why you stayed, why you remained bound to him by something more powerful than chains.

It had to be love.

“Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, legs shaking from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing away every crimson stain. You took a step forward, the chilling clink of metal grazing the wood beneath your feet with each uneven, hesitant step. The floorboards seemed to pulse below you, each creak an echo of your own heartbeat, until finally, you stopped, frozen four steps away from the exit.

He chuckled – a warm, resonant sound that should have been comforting but only heightened the chill trickling down your spine. With graceful steps, Alastor closed the distance between you, his arms circling around your shoulders. His chin rested gently against your head, the weight of him grounding you in place, his presence washing over you like a tide you couldn’t escape.

“I missed you,” you mumbled against his chest, nuzzling into his embrace. The heat of him, the solid reassurance of his touch, brought you back to yourself, to the one undeniable truth of your existence: you were here, alive, because he held you tethered. “Did you have a good day at work, my love?” you murmured, soft and tentative.

His hand slid over the back of your head; fingers gentle as he stroked you. He breathed in deeply, a wistful sigh slipping from his lips. “My love, you never left my thoughts for a single moment.” His voice was soft, warm, and his arms tightened around you, so tightly that for a second, you felt as though the air was slipping away.

Finally, he parted, just enough for you to breathe again, his fingers grazing along the warm curve of your cheek. “Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” His voice was gentle, and his whisky-brown eyes glittered with a kindness that made your chest ache.

A swell of relief surged in you, and you threw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Alastor, thank you!” Laughter bubbled out of you, bright and involuntary, stretching your lips into a smile that felt foreign, almost unbelievable after everything.

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength both exhilarating and terrifying as he carried you toward the couch. Each step sent the faintest clinking of metal into the air, a reminder of the bond that held you captive.

As he set you down and took a step back, you could feel his gaze moving over you, slow and deliberate, like he could peel back each layer with a single look. You flushed under his scrutiny, your shoulders curling inward, a strange blend of shame and need warring within you. Despite your clothes, under his gaze you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could read every thought you’d ever dared to keep from him.

“Cher,” he murmured, his hand drifting over the outside of your calf, fingers tracing a path until they reached your ankle.

You heard the fabric rustling, and then – there it was, glinting between his fingers: a silver key. Your eyes focused on the key, and your heart skipped, hope blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. The promise of freedom lay in that tiny object, so close and yet, a lifetime away. You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he took your ankle in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your bare foot. It was a reminder of the first time he’d ordered you to go without socks when you first escaped from this manacle.

He slid the key into the lock, and with a single twist, the manacle opened with the same familiar click that marked his return home every day. The cool metal fell away, clattering weakly to the floor. A rush of air hit the skin beneath, and you winced as blood surged back into your ankle, a dull ache flooding back into limbs so long constrained.

The shackles lay there, lifeless on the floor, the physical proof of your captivity now nothing more than a scrap of metal, stripped of its power. And yet, as you looked up at him, his eyes shining with something both possessive and achingly tender, you realized you could never truly cast off the chains that bound you to him.

Not as long as you believe you loved him.

“Oh, my poor cher,” Alastor murmured, his voice thick with a twisted blend of regret and possessive tenderness as his eyes traced the dark bruises wrapping around your ankle. His lips brushed softly over the tender skin, lingering in a gentle, reverent kiss before his forehead rested against your leg.

With his eyes closed, he sighed, pressing warmth into you. “It pains me,” he whispered, “to see even the slightest mark of discomfort on you.” His lips began a slow journey, grazing from your ankle upward along the sensitive skin of your inner calf, each kiss stealing a shiver from you. “But you understand, don’t you, cher? It’s a necessity.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, their intense gaze sending a shudder through you. His position – kneeling between your legs – made it impossible to think straight. Despite being in a servile pose, he was still the master of your heart.

“Yes...I understand,” you managed, your voice raspy and barely audible. His lips continued their climb, each kiss leaving a cool, tingling path against your skin. “But I’ve been good, Alastor.” Your breath hitched as his head came to rest in your lap, his fingers tracing languid circles along your thigh.

He chuckled softly, low and indulgent. “You have been,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “Perhaps if you continue to behave...I might let you roam freely around the house when I’m not here.” He looked up, giving you a small, playful smile that made your heart stutter.

The thought of moving freely, without the heavy, omnipresent clink of the chain dragging behind you, sent a thrill through your veins. You clenched your hands into fists, desperate to keep your excitement contained.

“I can be good,” you whispered, fingers drifting to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you stroked his head. “I can be good for you, Alastor...”

A groan escaped him, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into your touch, savouring the sensation like a man starving. Emboldened, you took a breath, letting words slip out – words you’d held back for so long, daring to hope he might grant them.

“Maybe...” you hesitated, voice barely a murmur. “Maybe sometimes in the distant future, I could go into t-town with you?” Your fingers froze in his hair as his body tensed, muscles stiffening under your touch. You held your breath, dread and hope tangling within you, afraid you’d crossed some unseen line. Alastor’s overprotective streak was ironclad – whenever he sensed a threat, real or imagined, his vigilance would lock you down even more tightly than before.

A heartbeat passed before he spoke. “Perhaps...” He rose to his feet slowly, drawing you up with him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Perhaps one day, cher.” His hands slid under your legs, lifting you from the couch, his grip firm and desirous. “But for now...” he trailed off, leaving the sentence open, thick with suggestion as he carried you up the stairs.

The scent of him, rich and intoxicating, filled your senses, mingling with the sharp, metallic undertone of old blood. Recently, he had brought up the idea of family, his eyes lighting with a dark kind of joy when he saw your loneliness. The house felt hollow most days, empty but for him, and he’d suggested a child - a little soul to fill the silent rooms.

At first, the notion had left you reeling, uncertain, but the longer you were left alone with only your thoughts, the more the idea began to take root. Its appeal started to bloom uncontrollably like weeds in your mind.

Now, Alastor and you spent every waking moment together in his bed, until your wishes took fruit.

He lowered you onto the bed with an almost reverent tenderness, as though each touch was sacred, each look a silent promise. He shed his clothes slowly, his eyes never leaving you as his skin emerged, bare and raw. By the time he climbed onto bed, leaning over you, his desire was unmistakable – his cock hardening just from watching you laid out beneath him.

He hovered for a moment, his face close to yours, and his gaze softened as his hand brushed along your cheek. “Cher,” he murmured, a plea woven into his tone, his voice low and thick. His fingers traced down the side of your face as though memorizing you by touch alone. “Will you let me...feel you tonight?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, each word like a promise. “For the rest of the night?” His hips lowered, pressing himself against your thigh, his warmth branding you.

Heat flared through you, your body’s response instant and shameless. Every part of you remembered him – his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed you until the world slipped away. Your body answered before your mind could, a warmth pooling low in your stomach as he lifted the hem of your dress, slowly baring your skin. You sat up, letting the fabric fall away, and his eyes flickered, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. Your only cover now a thin piece of cloth hiding the most intimate part of you.

Alastor’s grin widened, his gaze roving from the pebbled peaks of your nipples down to the damp fabric between your thighs. His hands traced down, catching the waistband and tugging it free. His touch lingered over each inch of exposed skin as he pulled it over your thighs, past the bruises on your ankle, until you lay just as bare before him.

Your legs fell open, your slick folds glistening in invitation, your body traitorous in its eagerness. Alastor’s eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his cock as he gripped himself, slow strokes stoking his own arousal as he stared, captivated by your wetness.

“The thought of you carrying my child, cher...it drives me mad.” His voice was a rough whisper, his breaths shallow as he stroked himself harder, faster, his eyes on your throbbing core. “It drives me to the edge,” he murmured, his grin feral as he leaned closer, his gaze smouldering with dark intent. “Drives me to the point of bloodlust,” his adam’s apple bobbed up then down, his grin trembling as it couldn’t stretch further lest it tore through his cheeks.

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the edge of his words, at the memory of the shadows he kept hidden – the bloodstained cellar, the bodies you helped him to clean. Whether you were here or not, you knew he would continue to kill, as relentless and ruthless as ever.

"Ah, cher,” he sighed, settling his body over yours, his hard length pressing flush against your entrance, teasing you with his warmth. “Cher, cher, cher,” he murmured, his voice a low chuckle as he brushed his fingers through your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Why do you have to be so lovely?” His nose skimmed your hairline, nuzzling his way to your temple, where he pressed a slow, heated kiss. “Why do you tempt me like this?”

“You’re all I think about, dream about,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet as he pressed his mouth against your skin, each word a whisper trailing down your cheek, your neck, and finally, open-mouthed and lingering on the curve of your breast. “So much so, cher, that I sometimes imagine killing you.” His tone was soft, unsettlingly jovial as though he’d confessed a secret desire, his hands tracing delicate patterns over your skin.

Your heart pounded, memories flashing across your mind like dark, haunted snapshots – the cellar door muffling desperate cries, the hollow silence that followed. The scent of blood hung thick in those memories, the darkness swallowing up the faces that haunted you. Your hands trembled, a pulse of fear mingling with something deeper, something you could barely acknowledge.

“But I won’t,” he murmured against your skin, pulling you from the spiral of those memories. He lifted his hand to catch a tear that had slipped from your eye, his thumb brushing it away softly. He gazed at the glistening drop before licking it from his fingertip, his eyes darkened as he held you captive in his gaze. “I would never hurt you, cher. Have I ever hurt you?” His voice was quiet, coaxing yet intense, his question leaving no room for escape.

His eyes burned into yours, searching, unwavering. “Tell me, cher,” he pressed, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with a demand that made your pulse stutter. “Do you see me as a bad man?”

There were moments when Alastor felt so delicate, so gentle that he might as well have been made of glass, every touch featherlight. But there were others, moments like this, when he shifted – his possessive grip, his words, his gaze – all dark and consuming. When he asked these questions, you felt like a bird trapped in his cage, heart fluttering as you tried to find the right words.

Your lips quivered, unable to form a reply, the silence thick as more tears slipped down your cheeks. Alastor’s gaze softened just slightly, and he gathered you close, arms wrapping around you as he rocked you, as if you were a fragile, precious thing in his hold. “Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your hair, “I love you, cher. I love you, I love you,” he repeated, his voice lilting like a lullaby.

Your mind fractured, the edge of your memories sharp, each fragment glinting in the dark recesses of your mind. You reached out within yourself, searching, groping for the piece of you that had loved him first – the man you’d met one hazy night at the speakeasy, the man who seemed to light up the room just by existing.

Slowly, you let your hands drift to his back, your fingers pressing against the warmth of his skin. Your eyes closed, more tears slipping free as you tried to remember the feeling of joy, of laughter that you’d felt with him. Your lips brushed against his shoulder, a tentative sign of trust as he sighed, his body relaxing under your touch.

You dug deeper, sifting through memories of that laughter, of your first dance, your first kiss – all those quiet, gentle confessions that had once coloured his eyes in soft brows. You found yourself on your knees, clutching at those fragments with desperate hands, determined to recall the moments when his touch had felt safe, cherished.

“Shh,” Alastor’s mouth hovered over yours, his lips ghosting against yours, a barely there whisper of warmth. “It’s alright, cher. I have you.” He guided himself against you, pressing gently, his cock slipping slowly into your wet, pulsing heat. His mouth melded to yours as his tongue traced along the seam of your lips, savouring each taste as his low moans mingled with your soft gasps.

A hum escaped him, rich and satisfied, as he sank into you, his body pressed to yours, filling you with a quiet intensity that left you breathless. The salted trails on your cheeks lingered as your lips curved into a slow smile, your legs parting, welcoming him deeper, your heart opening despite everything, the echoes of his whispers filling the night.

“Good girl,” Alastor groaned, his hips pushing forward, stretching you around the hard, unyielding thickness of him. “Oh, cher, you’re perfect for me,” he murmured, his words a deep, reverent moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped. His hands settled possessively on your hip, his eyes devouring the sight of you.

“I’m going to fill you with my seed all night, love,” he purred, rolling his hips with a languid, maddening rhythm. “After all, your body is begging me to take you – wouldn't you say?” His voice rose with playful amusement, the bed creaking beneath you as if echoing his delight.

“Yes,” you gasped, breathless, the sensation of him making you tremble. “Please,” you whispered, your nails pressing into his shoulders, urging him closer. Alastor drew his hips back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip of him remained, only to push back in, the pace deliberate, every inch of him dragging against you with intent. Each movement seemed to ignite a new flame within you, stretching your pleasure, drawing it out until it was almost unbearable.

“Look how good you are for me,” he whispered against your flushed cheek, his lips tracing his words into your skin. “Look how perfect you are,” he breathed, sinking deeper as he tightened his arms around you, locking you into his rhythm. “No one will understand you the way I do. You were destined to be mine.” His voice was rich, warm, but tinged with darkness that was both thrilling and terrifying.

“Al-Alastor,” you whimpered, each thrust stoking the tension building inside, reaching deeper, pulling you into a spiral of desire and delirium. His moans, his heated words, his relentless pace – all of it washed over you like a fevered dream. Each breath, each sigh and whispered praise tangled together in a symphony of need.

The creaking of the bed became louder, and with a sudden surge, he lifted himself, teeth gritted, and drove into you harder. His hips snapped against yours; his pace relentless.

“Cher...cher...” he growled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he focused on you, his gaze hungry. “That’s right, cher,” he chuckled breathlessly, each laugh broken by the sound of his hips smacking against your own. “Oh, you’d make a perfect mother,” he panted, his words nearly incoherent as he picked up his pace. The final thrust left you both gasping, his grip on you tightening as he finally reached his own release, filling you with powerful, pulsing bursts of warmth.

You moaned in frustration, your pleasure still simmering, unsatisfied, leaving your skin taut with need. You tried to move, but Alastor held you firmly, pressing himself deep inside, his body still wrapped around yours.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he slowly softened within you, the warm rush of his seed starting to trickle down. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slipped to your entrance, pressing lightly to try and keep every last drop inside, as if marking you as his.

Lying on his side beside you, he gazed at you, his expression gentle as he took in your flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, still needy with unfulfilled desire. A smile tugged at his lips when you also turned to your side to face him. His eyes drifted down, and you knew he was watching his own essence escape, sluggishly slipping down and pooling on your inner thighs. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said quietly, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take care of you, again and again, tonight.” He withdrew his fingers, now slicked with his and your arousal. “Until your body takes my seed, we’ll keep trying,” he promised, his gaze flickering down between you both before meeting yours with a playful, boyish grin.

With a breath that finally began to steady, you raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek tenderly. He turned to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a quiet moment of warmth shared in the aftermath.

In moments like these, in the field of fractured memories, you saw one shard glinting brighter than the rest, pulling you toward it. It was a piece of you – something essential, something more truthful and dangerous than anything else. It shimmered with dark clarity, cutting through the shadows of doubt and lingering despair.

You drifted past the memories that still haunted you, not quite registering the images that flooded your mind. Alastor’s eyes, once warm, turning nearly black with fury the night you tried to leave, his grip like iron as he vowed you’d belong to him. You passed by the moment he chained you to the cellar walls, his victims mere echoes in the darkness, his voice soothingly venomous, telling you that no one else could ever understand you as he did.

Each scar those memories left on your soul was still fresh, a raw edge in the depths of your mind, fragments of yourself that would never heal.

But in this one shard – this singular piece of undeniable truth – you saw something more. It was in these quiet, raw moments after he’d loved you, held you close, his breath mingling with yours. It was here, next to him in the aftermath, that you could almost believe he was the only soul in this world who would ever love you with such consuming fervour.

You dragged your body closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, as his arms immediately circled protectively around you. His eyes softened as you leaned closer, drawing him into a gentle kiss. Your lips grazing his in a tender, slow exchange that felt achingly real. His fingers traced up and down your back, as if branding his name on your skin.

In this quiet, lonely world, he was your guiding light, a burning soul who consumed all but left you somehow whole. You wanted to hold on to him, to keep him by your side. You feared whatever darkness lurked beyond Alastor, the fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of leaving the one person who had vowed to love every fractured, scarred piece of you.

He needed you, just as much as you needed him.

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