#will never get over it until it's resolved

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — the light is coming . . . mean!chris

in which . . . the light returns after the darkness nearly ruins you.

warnings . . . smut , resolved angst , making out , makeup sex , rough sex , unprotected sex , wall sex , creampie , chris is lowk toxic uhh

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈���𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #2

he’s been cruel before—cold, cocky, dismissive. that’s just chris. you’re used to the eye-rolls and backhanded compliments, the sarcastic jabs and passive-aggressive smirks. most days, you can take it. give it right back, even.

but lately? he’s been mean.

not the usual teasing kind. not the charming kind. just mean for the sake of it. insults that feel like knives. silence that stretches too long. eye contact that feels like daggers instead of comfort. and you’re sensitive, you know you are—but that doesn’t make your feelings any less real.

so you pull away.

tell him you need a break. that his energy’s been too dark lately and you need space to breathe. he scoffs when you say it, says “whatever”, but he doesn’t stop you.

and then three days go by.

no contact. no calls. no texts.

nothing.

until tonight.

you hear the knock before you see him—loud, urgent, relentless. and when you open the door, he’s just standing there, eyes all stormy and jaw clenched tight, like he hasn’t slept or so much as relaxed in days.

“you really gonna ghost me now?” he spits. “that’s cute.”

you stare, arms crossed. “chris, you deserved it.”

he exhales hard through his nose. doesn’t even try to argue. instead he mutters, “i can’t do this shit. not with you. not like this.”

you blink. “so stop being a dick.”

“i know.” it comes out fast. harsh. like it hurt him to admit it. “i know. i’ve been a dick. i’ve been…worse than usual.” well, you already knew that.

a beat.

“why?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t answer. just steps inside like he owns the place, slamming the door shut behind him. “because i was scared,” he bites out. “okay? i’ve never—fuck, i’ve never felt this wrapped up in someone and i didn’t know how to deal with it.”

you flinch at the honesty. he notices, grabs your waist. and then it all happens at once.

your back hits the wall, the impact knocking the breath out of you, but not as much as the way he’s looking at you. jaw tight, eyes wild, hands already gripping you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue and frustration, and you can feel the pent-up tension in the way he kisses. like he’s punishing himself for every second he spent away from you. like this is the only language he knows.

his hands are everywhere—gripping, pulling, roaming like he can’t get enough. your shirt rides up, your breath hitching when his fingers skim your bare skin. he doesn’t ask permission. doesn’t slow down. just yanks the fabric over your head and tosses it aside, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to memorize you, as if he hasn’t already. you weren’t wearing a bra since you weren’t planning on having any visitors.

his mouth finds your neck, hot and relentless, teeth grazing that spot he knows makes you whimper. you arch into him instinctively and he groans, the sound deep and wrecked, hips grinding into yours with zero patience. he yanks down your shorts, your black, soaked panties going down with them, leaving you naked and hot.

you’re clawing at his hoodie, shoving it up, needing him closer. when he peels it off, he’s flushed and breathless, chest rising and falling like he’s about to lose it. your fingers trail down his stomach, finding his belt, undoing it with shaky hands while he mouths at your collarbone. his belt falls with a thud, his jeans following soon after.

there’s no talking. no time. just heavy breathing and rushed movements and the sound of clothes hitting the floor. chris wastes no time in tugging his shirt up above his head, tossing down with the rest of his clothing, leaving him in just his boxers now. he lifts you, presses you harder against the wall, and your head falls back with a soft cry when you feel how hard he is against you—thick and throbbing and there. you lock your legs around his waist for extra support.

you cling to him like nothing exists but this moment, nails digging into his bare back, legs tightening around his waist. he ruts his boxer-covered hips into yours once, rough and slow, and you both moan—quiet and choked and needy.

he buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse, and you can feel the apology in his touch. in the way his hands cradle your hips. in the desperate way he holds you like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you ever pull away again.

chris flys down to the waistband of his boxers, pulling his rock-hard cock free from them. he locks his lips with yours once more—starving, desperate. he drags his tip through your sopping folds, lubing himself up with yours juices.

as he slips inside you, he bites down on your bottom lip hungrily to distract you from the pain of the stretch. he sinks his length all the way in, hissing at the tightness. you cry out at the burning stretch, digging crescents into his back with your nails, head falling back against the wall.

“god, i missed you—missed everything…especially this fuckin’ pussy—god, i love you…”chris grunts, starting to plow into you at an animalistic pace. your jaw drops open, a loud moan ripping through you. as his thrusts get rougher, your legs tighten around his waist and you’re sure he’ll have defined scratches all over his poor back by the morning.

“fuck, i love it when you’re loud—“ he groans, shoving his face into your neck and nipping at your flesh. you whimper, tears pricking your eyes at the dual stimulation. your body is hot, on fire even. despite how good it felt to ignore chris for days and gain your power back, there was no denying how much you’d missed his cock and how good he always fucks you.

your eyes roll back, a loud moan escaping your lips at the way he spoke to you. the way he pounded you against the wall. the way you could feel his apology in the way he held you like you’d disappear if he loosened his grip.

chris had trouble verbally apologizing for things. you knew that. so he’d apologize through actions. taking you out places, buying you things, and this. fucking his ‘sorry’ into you.

the tears in your eyes finally spill over as you start to feel the knot in your gut tightening, threatening to snap. you rapidly blink your eyes, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. chris revels in the sight of how good he’s making you feel, and he really starts to realize how much he missed you.

“hated not talkin’ to you. every day felt like shit.” he growls, moving his hands down to your thighs to better support you against the wall. and despite his gritty tone—due to how hard he’s hammering his cock into you—you can hear the raw emotion in his voice. something you don’t get to hear from him very often. at all.

his hands tighten on your thighs, grip a little desperate, a little shaky, like he’s trying not to lose it. he’s still plowing deeply inside you, pressed up against the wall, your back flat to it and his body pinning you there. everything’s messy—your moans, his breath, the way his hips keep stuttering even though he’s trying to keep up the rough pace.

“bed,” he mutters against your neck, already peeling you off the wall like he can’t wait another second.

you don’t even have time to think. his hands tighten their grip under your legs, lifting you easily off the wall and into the air, keeping you filled the whole time. it’s all clumsy and rushed—stumbling a little as he walks you both to the bed, cursing under his breath when your walls clench around him mid-step.

and then he’s lowering you, just barely—just enough to press you into the mattress, your back hitting the sheets as he leans over you. your knees are still up around his waist, and he grabs them, presses them toward your chest like he wants to fold you in half.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes, hips snapping deeper. “you take it so good—always do.” he presses down on your legs, changing the angle to hit even deeper. his thrusts become more brutal, driven by his need to please you. his need to apologize.

the thick drag of one of his more prominent veins makes you flutter around him, a strangled, whiny sound leaving your lips. he feels your warm, velvety walls constrict around his length, eliciting a deep groan from him. he leans down to capture your lips in a rough kiss, swallowing your moans. his pace becomes erratic, his cock twitching inside you.

he breaks the kiss to watch your face contort with pleasure, sweat sheening on his forehead.

“fuck—fuck, i’m sorry,” he breathes out suddenly, like it slipped. like he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. the world stops spinning.

chris

just

apologized

to

you.

mean, asshole chris, just said he’s sorry.

your eyes flutter open. “i—what?”

he groans low, jaw clenched as he thrusts in deeper, harder, like he’s mad at himself. “you heard me.”

you blink up at him, dazed. “s-say it again.”

he rolls his eyes like you’re being annoying, but his hips stutter when you tighten around him. “don’t make me,” he mutters, almost pouting. then, quieter, “you know i don’t do this shit.”

“chris.” you whine.

he exhales hard through his nose. doesn’t slow down, but leans in closer—forehead practically pressed to yours.

“i’m sorry,” he grits, like the words taste bad. “i shouldn’t’ve done half the shit i did. shouldn’t’ve iced you out like that.”

your attempt at a smile is broken into a jaw-dropping gasp when he angles his hips, hitting deeper. he smirks a little, even as his breathing stays rough.

“fuuuck, i—please tell me you’re close—“ he grunts, hips stuttering as his balls draw tight. you just let out a shaky whine, unable to form words. because you are close. dangerously close to that feeling of pure bliss. chris takes the tears falling from your eyes and your trembling body as a yes.

when he lets out a slightly higher-pitched groan, his hot seed spurting itself inside you, you fall over the edge. a violent tremble takes over your body, a loud shriek ripping through you.

and when it’s over, you open your eyes to chris. hot, sweaty, apologetic chris. he releases his grip on your knees, and you let them collapse flat onto the bed.

he stays inside you, hips twitching slightly as he lets out a deep, broken exhale. then his body collapses on top of yours—heavy, flushed, damp with sweat. his face buries into your neck like he’s hiding there, and you let him.

his breathing evens out first. then yours. and for a second, it’s just quiet. still. you’re half-expecting him to ruin it with a joke or some dumb comment, but he doesn’t.

instead, he just mutters, voice muffled against your skin, “you done being dramatic now?”

you scoff, smacking the side of his thigh. “you done being a dick?”

he grins against your collarbone, nipping at it softly. doesn’t say anything.

he doesn’t have to.

he’s still on top of you, still inside of you, still here. and for you and chris, that says more than words ever could.

the light is coming back to your relationship. slow, stubborn, soft around the edges.

and you couldn’t be happier.

author’s note . . . ummm im so bad at writing angst bye it only lasted like 3 seconds..sorry this is ass

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© cayleeuhithinknott

[reit0o]

his resolve .ᐟ ⋆˙

★ summary- caleb x fem!reader. caleb has never known safety, but he’s learned what it means to protect it. so when he finds four guys cornering you, he knows he can finally do something about it. because you're the reason he fights—the only thing that makes surviving feel like something more.

★ wc- 3.4k

based on these calebweek prompts 🍎

The park near your house was the perfect place for finding unusual flowers—the kind that didn’t usually make it into flower crowns or get crushed into pigments for paint, but held their own kind of charm. They were perfect for breathing life into Caleb’s and your little ‘secret base’, as you called it. Your personal touch.

Today was different from normal. You had snuck out early, your plan carefully plotted. You wanted to surprise him with a flower garland—something beautiful and a little messy like the both of you—to hang above the entrance of your shared haven. A quiet declaration that ’this place was ours.’

The park was always alive with soft background noise—murmurs of old ladies working out on the creaky fitness equipment, the tinny laughter of toddlers being pushed on swings by their mothers, and the steady hum of everyday life. But you didn’t head toward the open areas. You turned a sharp corner and slipped through the patch of thinned-out shrubs, worn down from all the times the two of you had snuck through, until you reached it: a little corner garden, hidden just out of sight. The community had planted it to help wildflowers grow freely.

The waft of the flowers was both overwhelming and alluring. It always smelled sweet here, sweet enough to make your chest ache. You leaned in, wide-eyed, fingertips brushing gently over the blooms. Primrose. Sunroots. Asters. You picked the fullest ones, stems breaking with a soft snap as you tucked them into your dirt-streaked hand, careful not to overpluck from any one patch.

The only other kids nearby were four older boys from the neighbourhood loitering around on the swings. You kept adding to your bundle, unaware of the swing’s squeal as it came to a stop. Unaware of the gritty sound of gravel underfoot, drawing closer—until they stood right behind you, shadows obscuring the sight in front of you.

“You’re that girl,” a voice said behind you. Older. It belonged to one of the four from the swings. “The orphan.”

The word cracked against your spine like a branch splitting.

“The one who clings to that boy like his tail. Caleb, right?”

You turned slowly, unsure if you should respond. But before you could speak, one of them stepped forward and grinned. There was something sharp and cruel beneath it, something that made your stomach twist.

“What are you even doing here?” another scoffed, then looked down at your bundle of flowers. “Trying to play house in the dirt like some stray?”

Then one of them kicked the flowers out of your hand.

You dropped to your knees instantly, grabbing at them, but they were already crushed. One of the petals tore in your hand. You sat there, crestfallen, eyes lingering only on the scattered remains lying defeated at your feet.

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” another boy sneered. “Nobody’s gonna care what some charity case brat wanted to hang up. You and that moron Caleb—no wonder you stick together. Freaks find freaks.”

Laughter broke among them. Your knees stayed rooted to the ground, the weight of their words clinging to your back like wet clothes. You didn’t dare look up.

“What’re you doing?”

The voice cut through clean like a blade.

Caleb turned to her, kneeling beside the scattered flowers. He crouched beside you, eyes scanning the crushed remains before landing gently on yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded, just barely. Your voice caught in your throat, unable to form a sound, eyes grazing past his shoulder at the boys who were still watching.

The boy frowned. “We were just talking to her.”

Caleb stepped closer.

“Didn’t sound like talking.”

Caleb didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scowl or shout. But something in his presence shifted, almost quiet and terrifying, like the still air before a thunderstorm.

Your eyes scoured him, your only sign of guidance, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m just gonna have a chat with these guys,” he said, brushing a bit of dirt off your knee. “Don't worry about me, pipsqueak, I’ll be back soon.”

Then he reached up and gave your nose a gentle squeeze, the smallest curve tugging at his lips.

“Why don’t you start hanging these around our base?” he added, nudging your shoulder gently in the other direction. “Make it look nice and pretty when I get back.”

You hesitate and take a step back, anxiety clouding your thoughts with each movement at the mere idea of Caleb might do—or worse, what might happen to him. The crushing thought of him coming back injured made you glance over your shoulder, but before the thought could fully form, gravity seemed to drag you forward, and you stumbled into the garden.

The tall metal gate loomed before you, and the sharp click of its lock echoed in your ears, sealing your fate.

Dread began to pool in your stomach. Your plans from earlier vanished swiftly from your mind. The bouquet slipped from your hands, dirt clinging to the once-vibrant petals. Panic rising, you lunged for the gate, trying desperately to pry it open with your bare hands. But it held firm. Locked.

Your hopeless struggle left you with nothing other than guilt-ridden fear.

Your knees, now sore and reddened, buckled beneath you. You crawled back to the mound of dirt where the flowers had fallen, now bruised and broken, and collapsed limply beside them.

Part of you feels like this was your punishment for sneaking out. Now forced to sit alone, swimming in guilt for the foolish decision to leave after lunch against Gran’s and his wishes.

You only wanted to do something nice for him. But the cost of that decision left you locked away at the edge of your garden, cut off from the world beyond the stupid gate. And Caleb—the one always eager to take care of you—was now out there fighting your battles.

Tears welled, blurring your vision. You sniffled, trying not to break down completely, trying not to seem even more like a helpless case in need of saving. But every passing minute drove you deeper into despair.

The sun dipped lower, casting hues of gold and pink across the sky. Its last rays clung to the walls of your house like soft brushstrokes. The flowers in your hand drooped, nearly bare now as you sheepishly plucked the petals one by one, letting them pool around you. Just as you reached for the last one, the familiar creak of the gate split the silence.

It swung open slowly.

And there he was—Caleb. Stiffly stepping into the garden, flashing you a weak smile.

His hair was dishevelled, dirt-streaked his knees, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. One hand clutched his stomach; his wince betraying the pain he tried to hide behind that familiar, reassuring grin.

Your legs sprang into motion as you stumbled forward, knees weak and numb as you tried to regain your balance. Small hands clung to his rumpled clothes, searching desperately for more injuries, for an explanation.

“Caleb, what happened to you?”

A short, humourless laugh escaped him as he braced himself against the wall. “It just got a little rough,” he muttered. “You don’t need to worry about the details. All you need to know is—they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You searched his face for something—pain, fear, even regret, but found none. You didn’t care about the kids who had been teasing you. The only thing that mattered was the boy in front of you, wincing with every breath as he tried his best to bite down  any pain he was feeling.

“Cale—”

“What happened to your knees?” he interrupted, hunched over anxiously, examining the light marks and abrasions turning into bright red sores.

“I tried climbing over the gate,” you weakly admitted.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put? Come on, let’s go inside before it starts to get infected.”

“But—”

“I said don’t worry about me,” he cut in again, softer this time. “I’m okay, I promise.”

He was lying. And you both knew it. But you didn’t fight him on it. Instead, you let him loop an arm around your shoulders and guide you into the back door of the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled faintly of antiseptic. The quiet hum of the fridge filled the silence as you sat on the wooden chair.

Caleb had already cleaned your wounds, applied antiseptic, and plastered your knees with care—even drawing a little smiley face on one of the bandages as if that could somehow undo the chaos of the day.

Even when he was hurt, he still took it upon himself to tend to you. You always had his full, undivided attention.

He commended your bravery and promised to make your favourite snack as a reward. The skin around your nails reddened from the constant picking, and your legs could do nothing but swing from the wooden chair. Brave? That was the last word you’d use to describe yourself.

No. Liar. Selfish. Weak.

A brave person wouldn’t let someone they care about get hurt in their place.

“This is all my fault,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have snuck out.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose roughly on your sleeve.

“I just wanted to make our base look pretty… add something of my own. But instead, you got hurt because of me. Why didn’t you let me stay?”

The last word cracked, almost squeaked out, betraying the tears pushing up behind your eyes.

Caleb didn't say anything at first. He just wiped your cheeks with the edge of his shirt.

“How come when I see you, you always have tears running down your face?”

“You got seriously hurt, Caleb!”

“And you think I would’ve let you fight them all alone?”

You hiccuped. “No… but we could’ve gone home together, where it’s safe. Or fought them together.”

Silence hovered between you for a moment. Caleb’s brow softened as he let out a long, tired breath.

“Look at me,” he said, flexing his arm in a half-hearted show of strength. “I may not look it, but I’m strong. Stronger than you think. I don’t need you going out looking for trouble when I’m around.”

His eyes drifted to the window. He stared at the fading light, and for a second it looked like he wanted to say more. But whatever thoughts stirred behind his eyes stayed there—unspoken.

“Not everything ends in a fair fight.”

“Next time,” he said finally, turning back to you, his tone firm, “tell me. You don’t have to tell Gran everything. But let me know.”

His gaze held yours, unwavering.

“I don’t think I could forgive myself if you got hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb.”

“Don’t apologise,” he said gently. “Just promise me. Promise you’ll tell me everything.”

He raised his pinky toward you.

You wrapped yours around him, tugging tight with all the strength in your small fingers.

“I promise.”

The evening had quietly settled over the kitchen by the time Gran returned home. At the dining table, you had already fallen asleep, leaning into his side, your arm still wrapped tightly around his, like you were trying to hold onto him even in your dreams.

Earlier, you’d practically begged him not to leave. Sleep had made your head bob, and eyelids heavy, but you fought it with everything you had, clinging to him as he fed you snacks. When he offered to carry you up to bed, you refused outright. Your grip on him only tightened.

You didn’t want to lose sight of him. Not again.

The kitchen was eerily still as Gran slipped into the seat across Caleb, quietly applying ointment to his injuries. There were no thoughts, no distractions, no outside noises leaking in, only the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.

His usual easygoing demeanour had all but vanished, replaced with a hollow, strained stillness. His eyes tracked every motion of Gran’s hands, each cut and bruise slowly bandaged. There was no pretending when you weren’t awake. His limbs hung slack, lacking their usual tautness and strength. It felt like he’d just run a marathon, every muscle screaming with exhaustion.

Gran’s brow furrowed deeply when he lifted his shirt, revealing a particularly nasty bruise blooming just below his left rib.

“Caleb,” she murmured, her voice low and resigned. “I don’t want you getting into these fights anymore. When I took you in, I asked you to look after each other, but… this isn’t what I meant.”

His nostrils flared outward, fingers spread white against the edge of his seat.

“If I hadn’t been there,” he swallowed hard, “she would’ve gotten hurt. Badly.”

“Just look at the number of bruises on your legs.”

He winced as the ointment touched a deep scratch along his leg, muscles twitching against the sting.

“This is nothing,” he hissed.

But another flinch betrayed him when the ointment brushed against his arm, pain flashing through him in waves he couldn’t fully hide.

The events of that afternoon flooded his mind, threading through his thoughts like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Any smart kid would’ve backed off the moment they saw the odds—four against one. The others were older, bigger, meaner. But Caleb didn’t flinch.

They were fast. Fast enough that two of them had grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind his back while the others took their turns. Each picked their blow with cruel precision, mocking him before finally knocking the wind from his lungs. When they were done, they dropped him like a broken toy—discarded, unwanted, like some street dog left to rot.

It didn't last long. It felt pitiful to drag out what already seemed like a losing battle. His knees and elbows took the worst of it, scraping hard against the gravel as he crumpled to the ground, helpless and abandoned.

His hands still prickled as he flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp sting of humiliation. He could still see them—laughing, sauntering away without a care, their figures shrinking as they disappeared from view.

He thought of the garden. Your safe place. The promise that he made to you every time his name trembled and failed to leave your lips.

He never knew his heart could sink that low, twisting deep in his chest, his stomach unravelling into a pit of guilt and helplessness with every step of that memory.

He remembered how powerless he felt in the lab—how his voice hadn’t mattered, how his body hadn’t been his own. But now… now he had freedom. And freedom was a weapon. A chance.

He’d be damned if he let that go to waste.

“What happened to those boys, Caleb? The lady on the corner said she looked out her window and saw four young boys crying, clutching their arms in pain. They were screaming loud enough for the next neighbourhood to hear.”

Her words fell through the silence like water flowing into a gutter. His mind was far away from the conversation.

Her words broke through his thoughts like a knife. “She said one of their arms was broken.”

Gran licked her thumb and gently wiped a smudge from his cheek, then gently cupped his face. He looked at her expressionlessly. There was no guilt, just a quiet acceptance of what he’d done. She peered at his face, looking for any hint of reasoning. His eyes didn’t waver, just stern and fixed, backed by a quiet determination. A look that said all how he was feeling, full of something far older than his years. He wasn't scared.

He wasn’t like kids his age who had the freedom to do as they pleased. Caleb had seen the horrors, what it was like to be powerless. To have choice ripped away. He knew things weren’t guaranteed in this life. He knew fear better than anyone else, and he didn’t flinch in the face of it anymore.

“I won’t lose,” he said, voice low. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

I have someone I must protect.

He would break the world first, than lose you. Gran’s gaze softened with sorrow, with helpless guilt. No child should know the weight of survival like this. Fearing for his safety is a burden she wishes she could lift from him. The wounds on him serve only as a reminder of her inescapable remorse.

“I don’t want her to be in pain again,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath, the last word catching at the edge of his throat.

And she saw him, for a brief second before he turned away, casting a glance at the sleeping girl beside him before discreetly wiping his eye with the back of his hand.

She saw it clearly then: his legs dangling off the edge of the chair, and his tiny fists clenched tight around the hem of his stained shorts.

Just a small, terrified boy, trying to protect someone even smaller than him.

She carried them both to the couch, settling them gently before tucking a blanket around their small, tired bodies.

“You two only have each other in this world,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “She looks up to you, Caleb. When she sees you hurt, she hurts too. I need you to look after yourself, just as much as you look after her.”

She never knew if her words ever truly reached him. Deep down, she suspected he would never see things her way. To him, there was only one truth: that they had no one else. Just each other.

He gave her a silent nod.

She leaned down, kissing them both softly on the head.

“Goodnight, my dear.”

His eyelids felt heavy. With a small, sluggish shift, he tried to adjust his arm into a more comfortable position, but your hold only tightened. You burrowed closer, murmuring in your sleep, “Caleb… don’t go…”

He turned his head toward you. Your face was still blotchy from tears, the bottom of your nose marked with dried snot. His arm had long since gone numb beneath your weight, but he didn’t move.

Instead, he let out a long, tired sigh, resting his head back against the couch cushion.

He was the product of an experiment before he was ever a child. A child who met more tears than laughter. The sterile confines of the lab taught him his first lesson—that tears were worth less than the dust collected on the floor.

That feeling of helplessness was less a memory than a constant reminder. The image resurfaced in his sleep every night, the haunting picture of your unconscious body on the operating table, surrounded by people who treated you like nothing more than data. Watching it all unfold like he was living through a tragedy he had no power to stop.

He would always remember how gently he’d introduce himself to you, again and again, with a softness neither of you had ever been given. It was the only thing he could offer then—tenderness in a world that had given them none.

The promise you made in the safety of your shared haven was bound tighter that night. And so too was the vow Caleb made to himself.

A tethered kite can only soar so high. But he swore he would fly farther. Farther than the weight of fear, farther than the gravity that tried to keep him grounded. He’d make sure your days ended in laughter. That your joyful cries would finally outnumber the tears you no longer remember shedding. He would be your anchor when every adult had failed you. Your home, when the world gave you none.

To him, failure wasn't an option. Failure meant losing you.

His hand came to rest gently on your head, fingers brushing back the hair that had fallen along your cheek. Caleb looked at the dim reflection cast in the glow of the living room lamp—your image softened in its warm light, quiet and still, as if untouched by the chaos beyond these walls.

The steady rhythm of your breathing pulled him closer to sleep, like a lullaby only he could hear.

He wrapped the blanket more securely around you, drawing you into him as if the simple act could protect you from every shadow waiting just beyond reach.

His purpose came from you, and what had left that lab was a love born from survival.

He stroked the back of your head slowly, gently, each pass easing him closer to rest. Soft fragments of a promise lingered on his lips.

“Don't worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

If he could help it, he would shape the world into something safer for you. He would stand in the way of anything that tried to hurt you.

He would build something better.

A world so far out of reach that harm could never graze you again.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated! feel free to ask me anything or pop in and say hello ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

a/n- let's ignore the fact im already a few days behind in this calebweek. im still a firm believer josephine cared for caleb but their relationship was def rocky and not the same she had with MC. i love this prompt so much bc caleb was still a child when he took on his protective role, like they were both just babies. also if you see me spam post to catch up, no u didnt

as always hope you enjoyed reading!!

[watermelondip]

transatlanticism | chapter six

masterlist ao3

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Series Description: The past, present, and plausible future. Knowing Steve in the in-between. Or, as you grow up in Hawkins, parallel to Steve's rich kid bubble, you fall out of favor with expectations, and end up abroad for the rest of highschool. In light of an abrupt return, you try to rekindle a friendship with someone you don't know anymore.

Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

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steve harrington / reader Warnings: makeout! Words: 5.1k

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He didn't call. A small, lingering, juvenile part of you though that maybe, and only if it was a really good one, a call might make you take it all back, but he didn't call. In a brief dream you had that night, the night after all was said, he kissed you hard, kissed you against his car, said he loved you, and when he pulled down his pants like it was a race, like always and before, it didn't feel like a failing moment, but more like a fair resolve. 

You kept packing. After having filled three medium sized suitcases you took a nap, woke up, showered, ate lunch, thought about showering again, felt sweaty, felt full of something hard to describe but easy to feel, and fell asleep again. You watched Cheers for an hour or so. You tried to find a movie after that and, in a moment of intense Deus ex Machina, pulled out Fright Night, unplayed and unreturned. It made you monstrously upset, and it was only three. You watched it anyway, and liked it, and made popcorn, and didn't brush your hair. It was like a breakup but there had never been much of a relationship, so it was all inflated, your underlying sense of stupidity making you all the more distraught.

Your dad locked himself in his office all day. Had it not been for the maid, you would've died on the couch in the T.V. room. 

-

Two days later: a pizza date. You planned on leaving in a week or so. Carol had a friend in Indianapolis with an opening for a roommate; it was a matter of getting all your stuff put in boxes, your father satiated. Pizza date felt comforting, a swift distraction. His name was Dylan, and he was blond (surfer blond, California blond, and blond like your first boyfriend, from that September when you were thirteen and utterly petrified).

Dylan ordered too many toppings for his own good. He was a prospective military man, someone who'd despised community college and figured he'd have a better time shooting guns and killing his ego. He ate like a heathen, and it reminded you of Steve, and you suddenly realized that you were incredibly bitter and totally unfit for a new, causal romance. 

"You eat like a squirrel," he accused with a rough laugh, poking fun at your awkward, tiny bites. You explained that you read it in Seventeen once, it must've been at least five years ago now, and you'd been on a weight loss kick so it had just stuck. But it was just pizza and he just this messy sort of guy. Wealthy, sure, but shallow and uncaring all the same. You felt tense and very non-flirty. It was only mildly miserable, though, with the crowded ambiance of the place somewhat blurring whatever hesitancy existed in the conversation.

After a half an hour of dull, incessant talking points, the date became predictable and utterly reminiscent. While Dylan was stuttering on about protocols and prospects, a little bit of sauce on his face, a little bit hideousness with his expression and his slump, you attention drifted to the door. In another act of vague Deus ex Machina (the phrase was getting thrown around a bit, but God in, if not the machine, the bell on the door, or the smallness of the town) movie girl entered, Steve in tow, both hungry in a post-shift haze. 

You didn't mean to stare, all wide-eyed and ominous, like an owl, a predator of sorts, ignoring Dylan's attempts to regain your attention. He didn't understand that you were just in orbit, just floating around Steve, just circling him over and over, over and over until the world ended. When he glanced over his shoulder as Robin ordered, sort of forlorn and sort of wistful, you felt emotionally lobotomized, movements becoming jittery as you covered your gaze with your hair. 

"You know that guy?" Dylan asked, looking back and forth, dumbfounded and unimpressed.

"A friend," you murmured. Your cherry coke was too sweet and your throat was tingly, bordering on sick but maybe just disturbed, uncomfortable. You choked the animosity, the guilt, and the fervor down, falling into a soft grin. "Maybe more like frenemy." Dylan found that charming; he chuckled. He made a quip about having competition. You could see, in his eyes and his shoulders and his grin, that he wanted, passively or not, to sleep with you later. The longer Steve lingered, leaning against the counter as Robin listed out a plethora of toppings, the more the idea made you slimy, uneasy, and perturbed.

You started going on about your local involvement and ladylike activities, boring him to death all while painting yourself as elegant and pageant-like. Steve was still waiting for his pizza, but he was looking. The outward facing side of your head was hot, sweaty and burning up, feverish, while the one facing the wall, facing Dylan, was cold, gloom-covered and slick with a faux content. You were so glad for Indianapolis. Another lifetime of running into him would've been a whole fresh hell.

Dylan furrowed: "He's coming over?" he whispered, leaning over the table. And then Steve was standing all rigid and kid-like beside you, Robin fiddling with her thumbs from across the room.

The absurdity overtook you, and you glared expectantly, trying your best to flaunt a nonchalance that evaded you.

"Hey," Steve coughed out, looking down to his feet. Dylan leaned back, sighing all loud and jerky, a solid and opposing force to your effortless non-effort. He tried once more: "Hey, sorry, don't mean to interrupt."

He had nervous hands, anxious eyes, and you wanted to eat his face, put his whole self through a pasta maker, ring him out and spread him thin, just to rebuild him better, making him understand, kiss more, talk more. Despite desire, your face remained indifferent and, if anything, cruel, a slight grimace pulling at your lips. Most of you hated him, saw him cowardly and silently malicious, his reformation a simple ploy to get you all twisted around his finger again. A little bit you was sympathetic, but it was easily smothered with your gritting teeth and your sharp shoulders.

"Do you, like, need something?" You invoked the screaming, whining little girl from highschool that faked a subtle vocal fry and made fun of thrift stores. 

"Yeah, we should talk." His blunt maturity only managed to harden you further. 

"Kinda busy," you retorted, gesturing to Dylan. "I'm on a date." You punctuated the statement with a sip from your half empty glass. 

"I see that." He coughed out something of a laugh, and you shrunk. "Look," he glanced to Dylan, emotion dropping low, "I'll call you, okay?"

It was a spontaneous burst of interaction, an unrealistic, improbable dream scenario, and you fell far too much into bitch to make the most of it. Your guarded shoulders and your aura of subtle disgust warded off his niceties, and you felt horrendous, felt juvenile like before. You wondered if there was any jealousy under his annoyance. You wondered if there was any love under his jacket. He waited for a reply, expectant, unsuitable for the air and wavering between nervous and unhindered by your aggression.

"Fine," you stated, placing down your glass with an overt slam, and when he left he didn't look back.

-

He'd never had any time to miss you. Falling in love and bleeding all over, you were the farthest from his biggest concern, much less his most sentimental acquaintance, more so a spec of dust on his past perfection, someone who fell into the crevices of what remained. He didn't have time to ruminate on what ifs, but you were still the cobweb in the corner of his room, the loose shirt on his floor, the dead bug floating in the pool as the air began to chill. There was something pungent about those lingering afterthoughts, those poorly developed polaroids. 

You were the counterpart to a boy who died the moment Nancy Wheeler gave him the time of day, kissed him in the bathroom, made him go all mushy and loser-like. You were the manifestation of a life long since lived, a decaying possibility. It felt like an underreaction just to call.

-

You were doing aerobicize in your almost grave, a.k.a. the T.V. room, the time nearly ten, your leotard a bit too tight and your leg warmers a bit too warm-y, sweaty ankles ruining whatever bounce you'd carried in your step twenty minutes prior. But with every drip of sweat there was a drip of solitude, too, and the sense of peace you had with your ever-growing alone, the big, black void in the big, empty Indiana house, only deepened. Besides, the movement made you tired, and tiredness promised serenity in sleep.

From the hallway, as you walked to the bathroom, from the hallway in the dark, your father still had the light on in his office, dim and silent in the night.

The apartment in Indianapolis was a soft yellow, covered in art, art from a aunt in Texas, one who always sent paintings in the mail. Carol's friend was named Amy, a business and communications student with a liking for movies and pottery. The description played like a mantra in your head as the T.V. drawled on. The apartment in Indianapolis was next to a pharmacy, and it was a nice neighborhood, and there had never been any trouble there. Your room was waiting for you, a single bed and a small window. 

There was a knock at the door. You paused, arm falling down heavy to your side, breathing like a dog, smelling a bit too much like deodorant and a few floral spritzes. Another knock, and another, and then a flurry of them. You paused the television. Yet another knock, louder. You huffed, running the back of your hand over your forehead. You called out, tucking the hair out of your face and rushing to the door. You said you were coming. Another knock.

Steve had open eyes, open eyes like the eyes of the boy from middle school, the boy with the wilted corsage. His head was leaning forward a little, subtly ashamed and showing a certain humility that you found jarring. He had a wild look, a sudden urgency, and a moving form, shifting in and out of himself, getting closer without taking a step.

"Hey," he addressed, dropping his hand.

"Hi." Unlike previous encounters, you felt soft and quiet like the baby you'd never been, the one that didn't whine or cry or thrash, the baby with the gummy smile and the grabby hands. "You said you'd call," you pointed out, brow furrowing. 

"I couldn't--" he stopped himself, looking too deeply and feeling too much with his mind, not his words. "I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, can I come in?" And so he came in.

You ejected the tape, organizing and shuffling around and doing your best to tidy up as he followed behind, silent and jittery, hand fussing with the hem of his shirt. You told him to be quiet, said your dad didn't want guests over for a few days, but that he was probably asleep at his desk and would hardly know, or maybe would hardly care, not if it was Steve. In truth, your father liked Steve more when he was young and like his father, still in the position to thrive in a world that rejected ambivalence, but couldn't hate him now, not even with the dumb job or the dumb friends.

"I look crazy," you apologized, messing with your hair, pulling at the edges of your leotard. He shook his head. He did it so much you wondered if there was anything he didn't disagree with. 

"It's hot." He sat down on the La-Z-Boy, feeling spectacularly expected and remembering, with a tilt, the always and before, the time in which he spent in the room when he was young and green and free of tarnished memory. His jest did little to amuse you, and he smiled. "I'm kidding," he added on, and you sat down in the chair next to him. There was a couch, of course, but it was not a couch conversation and being close like that felt too hefty and presumptuous. 

"You really could've just called." Again, a head shake, a furrow, and a downturned look.

"I wanted to see you," he explained, glancing at the shelf, the tapes, the books, and the old, empty coffee table. The room was dim and mostly brown. "I feel like shit. I needed to see you." His eyes implored. It hurt to hold his gaze, and so you faltered, flickering down to the ground, to the scuffed wood floors and your still clammy ankles. He breathed out a laugh: "I couldn't fall asleep last night. I mean, it was three in the morning and all I wanted to do was call you and tell you I was sorry and tell you that none of that crap was true."

You went hot and stuffy, nose big like a balloon, eyes obscured, hair growing, falling to the floor, wrapping around your neck like a noose.

"I don't want to argue," you retorted, laying bare the nature of the relationship, the devolvement of every internal discussion. He sat on the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees.

"I don't want to argue either. We don't have to argue." No matter how much you avoided it, he kept looking and staring, glancing, saying things like he was bleeding, wanting more. "Hey, look at me? I just wanna talk. Can you look at me?"

But in his eyes was the always and before, and in the always and before was a confession, an inability to forgive. Most of you hated him. The part that didn't, which laid silent in the kisses and the words and the looks, was pancaked and pummeled when you were still a kid. It hardly helped. You shook your head. You became urgent and insistent and wordy, searching for his soft spot.

"I'm leaving town in a few days. My room's half packed and the car's in the shop," you blurted, a steady tone forcing an unwavering confidence that failed to come across in your other venues of communication, your posture or your expression, your feet or your shoulders. "There's a girl with an apartment in Indianapolis and she needs a roommate, so I'm going." Steve stiffened. "Permanently," you added on, kinder than you'd like. "I can't be here anymore."

"You're serious?" he asked. You nodded. He scowled. The air got tight and the outfit, the leotard and the legwarmers and the silly, happy colors, it all became entirely and fantastically ironic. "You're serious?" Rhetorical. "After all this, one fight and you just wanna leave again? I mean, is it your dad? Is he making you?"

"No." Your hands went to your knees, nails digging into your skin. Steve shifted.

"Well, what the fuck? Were you going to tell me?" You were mad, so you probably weren't, just to make him think about that, how you left and never said goodbye.

"I'm not sure," you muttered, the lie sitting heavy on the back of your neck, forcing you down. He scoffed, falling back into the chair, hand over his face, in his hair, fingers in his eyes, rubbing the disbelief out of them until he was red and raw and floppy, arms at his sides. No matter how much you wanted to punish him for his ignorance, in its heart, leaving would've been an act of kindness. He'd never wanted anything more than to be free from the part of himself that was still attached to you. His head went straight to his hands, heaving.

"I know I've been a dick in the past, but it's not like that anymore." He was raw and mushy, moldable, perceptive. "It can be complicated. I don't care, okay? I want it to be complicated. Anything, just something, yeah? I just wanna be with you." The words came to you like a dream, a fantasy. He'd said them to you so many times before, shifting in the sheets, fan running on low, head submerged under a shroud of pillows and sleeping pills. Your waking dream was lucid. His affection was a wavering light, a rope, a guide, but it fell short, made you trip. You'd spent so many nights drinking for the loss of him, the 'never was' of him. It felt unfair to indulge in everything now, to let yourself forget.

"It doesn't work like that, Steve." Your voice came out rough.

(When you were both sixteen, the always and before of it all, divulging in the vulgarity of the memory, he'd had you on your knees, his hand in your hair, and he was grunting like an old man, someone tired and cliché and trying to get the last bit of your innocence pelted out of you like it was currency. He came in your mouth, and he didn't say a thing about it. You had wanted a thank you, or maybe even a smile, but he fell silent, became stoic, and zipped up his pants. He'd left you in his bedroom, a bit red around the eyes, a nasty ache in the back of your throat. There were people downstairs, and he said he'd return the favor later, but you didn't care much about that. For you, the sex was a means of closeness, a way of communicating through quick glances and rushed movements.

Mostly, you liked doing those things for him because it was as if, for a moment, he needed you, or at least felt universally drawn to you by some ape brain attraction that had settled deep in his gut. Mostly, when he was sighing or groaning or grabbing on to your skin for leverage, and anyone else would've called you a whore for it, it felt most like love, and you were happy. But it was not like this for him. You grew to resent the brutality in his desires. You were made of plastic, and when he kissed you there was no air, and when he fucked you there was no heartbeat, and he did not love you.)

"It can," he argued, vast in all of his inadequacies.

"There's stuff you can't take back," you admitted, burrowing into yourself. He narrowed, considering this statement greatly. For all of the time he'd spent deciding what to say, he'd never much figured why he had to say it. You supposed it all looked very different to him.

"What do you want me to do? God, I'm sorry, you know that, but it's not like I can go back in time." You time traveled often, frequently finding yourself lost in an old memory, re-writing the script to a conversation long since ended. When you went back, you liked to kiss him again, feel how it felt when you were youngest, not yet quite understanding his hold on you, feeling the fingertips of possibility with his locker notes and desktop confessions. You scoffed. There was an ache inside, a young girl, a willing participant begging for you to forgive him, to let it all wash away.

"I know." You relented, sighing, smiling, feeling softer under his glaze. "I know, I just--" but he was so pretty by the lamp, and you were so lost in the fantasy. "It's just hard for me," you admitted, scratching at your wrist, clawing at your prickly skin. His sweetness was like a toothache, radiating from the gums, the core of the bone, all before spreading to the rest of the mouth, ruining your day and forcing you to complain, hand rubbing fruitlessly at your jaw.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he swore, feeling obstinate to your insistence that, in fact, all he had ever done was skin you alive.

The deceit festered. The house grew cold and untamed.

"Yeah, well, you did, so," you replied, feeling blunt and soaked in brevity. Your normality was fading, your crazed casualness falling away like the peel of a rotted banana. If you added a 'like' or an 'um' between every few words, you were socially demeaned, no longer taken very seriously, and returned to your cage of conversational solace, no one digging too deep and no one prying too far. After all, what could you feel? When men (if they could be called that, the boys they were) touched you, you never made much of a noise, and you only said their names when they seemed particularly insecure about the whole thing. You'd never had a boyfriend of note. You'd never told anyone that you were in love, and so you weren't in love, not really. You supposed, in the midst of most moments, you truly were plastic.

You were so entirely confident that he hardly remembered what he'd done to hurt you. You crossed your arms and waited for the fallout, the inevitable.

"I'm sorry I was such a dick, and I'm sorry about when you--" he paused, swallowed, and you blanched, albeit metaphorical, your complexion unhindered. "I'm sorry about when you said, or I guess, when you told me how you felt, when we were sixteen. I was such a dick about that, and I wish I could take it all back, alright? I wish we could just start over." There was a dwindling sense of devotion in his tone that your foot begged to step on. It felt masochistic to your own wants, but then there was the memory of his unyielding control, his deity-like cruelty, and you felt that pull, that urge to devour.

But he was also Steve, and he looked like he loved you, and he was being honest for once. You considered symbiosis. You considered the relenting resolve, the future flaws, and the overpowering stench of happy endings, of false starts. It was here, you thought, that it could be your living daydream, but only if you were to enter a sudden metamorphosis, freeing yourself of all hardened outer shells and shedding your tattered skin, presenting yourself as the meat on bone you knew to be. Otherwise, the relief of atonement felt temporary, unforgiving. You smiled at him begrudgingly.

"It's late, and my dad can probably hear us talking, so..." you stood up, fussing with your outfit again. He shook his head, insistent and assertive. "So, you should leave, Steve." He followed your movements, forgoing the chair, entirely unimpacted by the drowsiness that had been sprung upon you so recently. 

"You gotta give me a chance here." Your time with him had always been littered with chances. You grimaced.

"Look, we're both tired and it's probably making you emotional, okay? We should talk after you sleep and think and maybe eat, like, real food and not takeout for the billionth time this month--" something passive and defeated flitted across your expression as he cut you off.

"I can't sleep, not unless I know we're okay. I just need to know, alright? I just need you to tell me we're okay." He grabbed your arm, your elbow, made you face him, had you close as he felt warm and full of air. "I mean, you've always been there for me." His voice was tight and selfish; it made you wholly unresponsive. "I don't want you to just get pissed and run off. I don't wanna lose you like that." Vice grip, loose-lipped, older and a bit bigger, wearing clothes that smelled more like closet than cologne, you loved him just as you always had, and you faltered.

"You're not gonna lose me," you muttered, maneuvering your elbow away, reaching to grab his hand. Your shoulders were hunched up rigid near your ears, the universe constricting you. "I just hate this dumb town," you admitted, rolling your eyes. He laughed, but it was sick with sadness, and nothing about him exuded glee. You wanted to stitch his fingertips to yours, to keep him in your pocket or stuff him in your drawer, to never sit in silence, not without his thick, crackly man breath on your neck. His hand squeezed yours.

"Me too." He glanced at your hands, rubbing his thumb along your knuckle. For a moment, the idea glistening a bit, you did forgive him, and everything was okay.

You kissed him, free hand going to his neck, his hair, teasing it with a scraping motion right where his skull began. There was an itch to dig deeper, sink your nails into his skin and rip it off, to see his bones and watch him wither, but instead you relaxed into his form, pressing your hips to his. He sighed, and his sounds were catharsis, whatever that noise released piercing your gut and letting the pent-up bile and disgust spill out, falling between the floorboards. 

He pulled away: "It's not just sex," he whispered, "not anymore." You bounced on your toes, furrowing at his hesitancy. His forehead fell to your brow. "Need you to know that." Both his hands went to your face, your neck, around your jaw and behind your ears. He closed his eyes, and his neck arched over to you, a fleshy, aching bridge between whatever worlds you both existed in. You nodded, the movement rubbing against his tight expression, softening him immensely. He breathed out one of those thick, crackly man breaths and it forced a shiver out of you, gliding from your nose to your neck to your shoulders to your knees, stealing your focus and throwing you back into a million different, scattered thoughts that pounded at your head.

"I know," you said, because it had always been more for you, and he was just being naive, and then he kissed you again, and then it was all warm.

He dipped his fingers under the stretchy strap of your leotard, tugging it away from skin and pulling it to the edge of your shoulder. It felt like the sort of thing kids do, kissing light, no tongue, dark room, clothes thin and loose and falling astray. It felt like the freshman year bonfire, or the dance, or the after dance, which was where he had done something similar, albeit sloppier and more inexperienced. He tilted, pushing his mouth harder against yours, tongue in it now, or tongues, and a little bit of teeth, and he groaned, and it felt like a fire in your empty, bleeding gut.

"Don't go to Indianapolis." He pushed you to the door and moved his mouth to your neck. He hadn't given you a hickey since high school (you never liked them, and when you were twelve your aunt said that they were childish and to never let a boy brand you like cattle), and even if it was sort of an assault on the senses, wet neck and cold air and hot mouth, and even if you knew you were still a little sweaty from your workout and maybe not your most put together, you fell easily into it, the back of your head hitting the door. "Don't leave." He grabbed your waist, your hips, hands under the leotard, rubbing at your skin, pushing up the edges of the fabric. 

"I promised Carol," you explained, a bit too airy to maintain the stoicism you had previously spouted. 

"Fuck Carol." His tone was an attempt at sternness, but he never carried much authority in the quiet moments (maybe if he was angrier, red-faced and heaving and dumb with a bloody nose or a broken hand). His hand reached the hem of your underwear. "Promise me you'll stay."

"Okay." Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and half-hazy. You were weightless and floating and sinking in a sea of him. "Okay I promise."

When he kissed you in response it was partially cruel, sort of forceful and unkind, tongue parting your lips, sliding and prodding and pushing. His hands went all sorts of places: in your underwear, on your hips, your thighs, once on your shoulders, once on your neck, but never touching you like you'd expect, skirting around the important places. The little Steve inside of Steve, the one with the horns and pitchfork that told him to be mean to girls in high school, was taunting you for all of your inconsistencies, your imperfections.

You grabbed at his belt, hinting at something abrupt, but your fingers hooked lazily onto the leather, pulling his hips to yours before falling back down at your sides. Your slump was evident, and he paused, pressing his nose to yours.

"You're tired," he observed, brushing the hair out of your face. "You just wanna sleep and I'm torturing you with my carnal desires."

"Don't mind," you mumbled, smiling, fading, hand teasing the collar of his shirt. "But it is late, and it was a long day."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot about your hot date." The remembering crumpled you up, and your head fell to his chest, a groan resonating in your throat. His arms wrapped all loose around your shoulders, a hesitant, burgeoning smile forming against your hairline.

"Oh my god, Steve, it was so boring. He kept talking about, like, cars and stuff," you grumbled against his shirt, slipping your hands around his waist, feeling the strip of skin right where his top didn't quite reach his jeans. It was a deconstructed embrace, hands fiddling with their position a bit mindlessly, and neither of you having much of a hold on each other. Floating and sinking and screaming amongst it all, you felt it made an abundant amount of sense. He laughed into your hair.

"If he calls you, I'll kill him," he jested, releasing a bubble of air from his throat, sighing into a closer position, nose pressed against the side of your head. In lieu of a lucidity that had always marked your previous encounters, he was solid, stable, tight around your limbs, latched onto your ankles, keeping you near, fending off the wind. "Scratch that, he doesn't even have to call. I'll use my natural stealth talents to track him down and take him out before he has the chance."

"Just because he's a bore doesn't mean he deserves your wrath." Beneath the causalities, there was a hint of exclusivity that made your heart race, something vile and untouched pounding your head with metal hooves. Steve wasn't your boyfriend, just as the rocks weren't actually alive and the trees weren't really made of broccoli. He was the enteral companion, the eternally fading friend, not the eternal lover. Your perspective shifted, your universe slowly coming apart in long, paper-like strips.

He grew suddenly intensely sure: "From now on, I'm your only pizza date, yeah?"

"Yeah," you said, and night was day, and day was bright, and the always and before marched on with wide-legged strides.

[themontess]

In which Emmrich has a small existential crisis about getting naked (and does it anyway) - now featuring Trans!Emmrich

After a few weeks of fucking, Rook wants to see Emmrich fully naked. Emmrich has... feelings about this. They resolve them at the Necropolis. Kinda hot in parts, mostly incredibly sweet. Rewrite featuring Trans!Emmrich and additional body dysphoria/worship.

This is a rewrite of one of my existing pieces, inspired by this post by @the-bear-and-his-sunbird on Tumblr. Trans!Emmrich is not a character I have headcanoned before, but what they wrote was so sweet, I could really see it working in what I'd written, especially with the fact of Marilys' own gender identity journey.

NB Mourn Watch Rook x Trans!Emmrich

Mostly centres on their age difference (~30 years) and bodily insecurities relating to gender identity

Explicit

CW for mild gender dysphoria: nonbinary character uncomfortable with menstruation (implied more than detailed), trans character recalling past reactions to their body.

5.6k / One Chapter

Emmrich swallowed. Hard.

It was certainly true that Rook’s exposure to his body had been limited. The base of his throat when he had loosened his collar; enough stomach as was required to untuck his shirt, to run their hands over the flat expanse of his chest; they had never mentioned his scars. But the rest he had kept under wraps until now. It wasn’t through lack of self-appreciation, not quite. Emmrich had become, with time, proud of his body. He took time and care over it, through light physical exercise, diet, careful application of products from the pomade in his hair to the talc on his toes. His nightly routine of tonics and tinctures could be passed off as part of that, the vanity of an ageing man - but there was more to it. The potions that Rook had once taken were what he sipped every day alongside his camomile tea. His manhood carefully crafted not just in appearance but in substance as well. What made him a man was, well, Emmrich himself. He hadn’t been born with this body or blessed under that name, and for all that Rook had been open about their own identity, their struggles with dysphoria and the peace they’d found… No. He hadn’t told them, yet.

Read on AO3.

[whyarewecalledtheshipname]

rambled this before but MAN that riku is paralleled to terra who's dad was so extremely aligned with Light that he basically nearly fell to darkness/evil out of his /extreme/ intolerance of it??? Eraqus who totally doesn't remind me of MoM??? GUH RRAHH

[chimerafeathers]

i love that isafrin can be the most straightforwardly romancey, wholesome pairing on a surface level and then you go one (1) level deeper and run into siffrin’s seething guilt and convoluted feelings around touch and intimacy and the extent to which they want or don’t want those things in a specifically romantic way or if he was trying to seek connection and love in any way he could once he knew that Isabeau wanted those things from him in that context, and the combined power trip/self disgust at “manipulating” Isabeau’s desires without his knowledge to make themself feel wanted and in control. and then you keep going and there’s also Isabeau’s own warped self image (still, in spite of all his changes, fearing that he’s someone that would be shameful to know), his “emotionally stable pillar” role and self-taught therapy talk masking his deep fears of real confrontation (struggling loop after loop to confess, not wanting Odile to confront Siffrin about their weird behavior in the sus quest bathroom talk) and how Siffrin’s fear of vulnerability and Isabeau’s fear of Pushing Too Hard allow both of their issues to fester unspoken long after it’s clear that the problems exist.

all this to say. duality of isafrin. makes my heart full and warm and happy to see the sweet, fluffy, silly love and connection between them (mutually romantic or otherwise). and then also. the delicious, delicious complications. gnawing on them like a dog with a beloved bone

[noctlas332]

day three,,,, i would have had liked to work a bit more on this but alas, that did not happen,,

[quietwingsinthesky]

i dont think millie and pre-Got Caged Again lucifer could have gotten anywhere with each other. the context of her as sam’s little sister overshadows everything there: it’s why he has no reason to harm her and every reason to treat her well, the way you’d treat a guest in your house, to prove to sam that he’s capable of that. and it’s why she spends most of the apocalypse treating lucifer specifically as a non-threat, as compared to the actual threats of demons who might not have heard the memo right, angels from heaven who Do Not care about her when getting to sam & dean, and other shit, but also as like. not a person she can communicate with in any meaningful way. he’s a concept, a force of nature, a fairy tale with rules she can understand and survive if she follows them.

post-cage 2 lucifer is a bad roommate but she can talk to him. and he actually learns who she is beyond the context of sam. you know?

[chuuyasoup]

IT JUST FUCKS ME UP INSIDE OKAY like especially bc. theyre twins theyre inextricably linked theyre inseparable they love each other so much that they hate each other theyre ready to kill each other to save each other and none of it makes any logical sense aughhhhhhhh but u still Know. u still understand

[inkskinned]

it's easier to apply for jobs than ever! so what if you lost your insurance, anyone can get a job these days, even without meds. everyone is hiring! there's a "good employee" shortage!

well you just need to revamp your resume, here's a paid app subscription that can read it for you. rewrite the cover letter they won't read. google jobs in my area and then scrawl through Monster/Indeed/worbly. did you want to save the search? this was posted 98 days ago. over 1 billion applicants! this position is trending.

jobs i actively like doing and get paid for. your search returned no results. easy-apply with HireSpin! easy apply with SparkFire! easy apply with PenisFlash! with a few short clicks, get your information stolen.

watch out! the first 98 links on google are actually scams! they're false postings. oopsie. that business isn't even hiring. that other one is closed permanently. find one that looks halfway legit, google the company and the word "careers". go to their page. scroll past brightly-lit diversity stock photo JOIN US white sans serif. we are a unique, fresh, client-focused stock value capitalism. we are committed to excellence and selling your soul on ebay. we are DRIVEN with POWER to INNOVATE our greed. yippee! our company has big values of divisive decision making, sucking our dicks, and hating work-life balances. our values are to piss in your mouth. sign here and tell us if you have gender issues so we can get ahead of the sexual harassment claim. are you hispanic although let's be real we threw out the resume when we saw your last name.

sign up to LinkHub to access updates from this company. make a HirePlus account to apply. download the PoundLink app. your account has been created, click the link we sent you in 15 minutes. upload that resume. we didn't read the resume, manually fill in the lines now. what is your expected pay grade. oh actually we want hungry people, not people driven by a salary. cut a zero off that number, buddy, this is about opportunity, and we need to be thrifty. highest level of education. autofill is glitching. here is an AI generated set of questions. what is your favorite part of our sexy, sexy company. how do you resolve conflict. will you get our company logo tattooed on your person. warning: while our CEO is guilty of wage theft, we will absolutely refuse to hire a nonviolent felon.

thank you for your interest at WEEBLIX. we actually already filled this position internally. we actually never had that posting. we actually needed you to have 9 years of experience and since you have 10 years we think it might be too many? we'll be texting you. we'll email you. we'll keep your resume. definitely absolutely we won't just completely ignore you. look at your phone, there's already a spam text from Bethany@stealyouridentity. they're hiring!

wait, did you get an interview? well that's special, aren't you lucky. out of 910 jobs you applied to, one answered, finally. and funny story! actually the position isn't exactly as advertised, we are looking for someone curious and dedicated. it's sort of more managerial. no, the pay doesn't change - you won't have any leadership title. now take this 90 minute assessment. in order to be a dog groomer, we need you to explain cell biology. in order to be a copyeditor, write a tiny dissertation about the dwindling supply of helium on the planet. answer our riddles three. great job! we just need to push this up to Tracy in HR who will send it to Rodney who is actually in charge. and then of course it's jay's decision and then greg will need to see you naked and if you survive you'll be given a drug test and a full anal examination.

and of course you'll be hungry this whole time, aren't you, months and months of the same shit. months of no insurance, no meds, no funding, barely able to afford the internet and the phone and the rent - all things you need in order to even apply for our thing. but do it again! do it again and again and again, until you flip inside out and turn into a being of pure dread!

you're not hired yet because you're lazy. there's over one million AI-generated hallucinated jobs in your area. don't worry. with zipruiter, hiring and firing is easier than ever. sign up. stay on-call.

in the meantime, little peon - why don't you just fucking suffer.

[sukumna]

┌─ .✦ HIS FAVORITE TYPE OF SEX part two

part two bc someone ask and i love this style of rambling about my favs.

꒰ part one | jjk version ꒱

✦ — Kenma Kozume, lazy, demanding sex. He’s the type to fuck you slow, dragging it out like he has all the time in the world, arms wrapped around you, keeping you in place like you belong to him. The type to pull you into his lap mid-game, barely sparing you a glance as he grinds up into you, muttering, “Be good and keep quiet.” He won’t stop playing, won’t even pretend to be fully focused on you—until you start squirming, whining, and then he’s flipping you over, making sure you know exactly who’s in control.

✦ — Kuroo Tetsurou, teasing, drawn-out sex. He’s the type to edge you until you’re crying, to drag things out just to hear you beg. The type to pin your wrists above your head, smirking as he murmurs, “Look at you. So desperate for me.” He loves overstimulation, fucking you until you’re a babbling mess, just to see how much you can take. The type to leave bite marks down your body just because he loves seeing the proof of what he did to you the next morning.

✦ — Kageyama Tobio, frustrated, intense sex. He’s the type to fuck you hard after a bad game, hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The type to lose control, voice rough as he groans, “I can’t stop—feels too good.” He fucks with everything he has, like he’s got something to prove, like he needs to feel you break beneath him. He’s too embarrassed to tell you he wants to be praised, but if you grab his face, tell him how good he’s making you feel, he’ll fuck you even harder, desperate to hear more.

✦ — Hinata Shoyo, eager, can’t-get-enough sex. He’s the type to go again before you’ve even caught your breath, to fuck you so hard the bedframe rattles. The type to moan against your neck, whimpering, “Just one more, baby, I promise.” But it’s never just one more. He’s so overwhelmed by you, so caught up in how good you feel, that he never wants it to end. He’ll fuck you with the same reckless enthusiasm he throws into everything else, like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

✦ — Tsukishima Kei, mean but calculated sex. He’s the type to tease you until you’re a wreck, to make you beg before he even thinks about giving you what you want. The type to fuck you slow and deep, smirking as you squirm, whispering, “What’s wrong? Isn’t this what you asked for?” He gets off on control, on watching you unravel under his touch. He’ll act like he doesn’t care, like he’s unaffected, but the second you cry for him—whimper, beg, tell him how much you need it—his resolve snaps, and suddenly, he’s fucking you senseless.

✦ — Akaashi Keiji, attentive, make-you-melt sex. He’s the type to hold your face as he fucks you, brushing kisses over your forehead, whispering soft praises. The type to make you come undone with just his words, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful like this.” He makes love to you, slow and deep, like he wants to feel every part of you. But the moment you pull his hair, scratch his back, whisper something filthy in his ear? He snaps—presses you into the mattress, holds your hips still, fucks you until all you can do is moan his name.

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: You’ve never felt fully at home in your own skin, but that has never stopped Joel from showing you just how much he wants you. One night, you gather the courage to show him what you’ve been too afraid to share, and he shows you exactly what it means to be wanted, worshipped, and seen.

|| smut MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, pinv, f!receiving oral, little bit of (f!receiving) ass play, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare || notes: joel miller in reading glasses hello? dont kill me for being a little bit of a cornball in here. joel is a cornball when he's in love. Yes I know I wrote the word pretty a lot! That’s the point!!! Inspired by this request

Joel’s bed became home long before you were ready to admit it.

It’s where you feel safest. It’s where he tugs you into his chest first thing in the morning, rough hand splayed over your back like it belongs there, murmuring something low and sleep-thick against your temple. It’s where you read curled into his side at night, him propped up against the headboard in that worn old Henley, eyes flicking lazily over the pages of whatever book you handed him, while yours is gripped a little tighter, the latest thriller mystery that has your heartbeat ticking up by the final chapters.

He had told you to stop reading them before bed once, but he didn’t really mean it. Not when you curled tighter into him, not when your hand slid across his stomach and stayed there gripping him like you needed to be close to something steady, something warm. Something like him.

Joel loves you like this. Warm and soft and pliant in his bed.

It’s one of his favorite places. Not just for pressing you down into the mattress and filling you, not just for the pretty, breathy sounds you make when you’re too far gone to think about what you look like or where his hands are. No—he loves the quiet moments, too. The ones where your limbs are tangled up with his, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, your skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.

And every now and then, when you’re asleep on his chest or laughing at something dumb he said, he still finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up with a girl like you.

You’re so much younger. So much softer. He doesn’t know what you see in a man like him—older, rougher, carved from all the years you haven’t had to carry yet. You could’ve had anyone. But you chose him. 

You’ve been together a few months now, and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it. Still doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, your sweetness, your sharp quick wit when he least expects it.

He tried to keep his distance at first. Tried not to look too long when you smiled, not to follow the sound of your voice like a damn tether every time you were in the room. Told himself it wasn’t right. You weren’t for him. You were good. But you kept coming closer.

And once you started to pursue him—sweet and fearless and so goddamn certain—his resolve didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

The years between you didn’t matter to him anymore. The guilt didn’t matter. The voice in his head that told him to stop, that warned him he was too old, too jaded, too broken to ever deserve you—it all went quiet the second you looked at him like he was worth wanting.

He had to have you. To feel you, hear you, know you. So he gave in.

But there was still something there he didn’t quite understand, even now. Something that never quite leaves him.

Because every time he takes you to bed with the singular thought of getting you naked, of taking you until he gets his fill, until you’re trembling and wrecked and crying out his name—every single time, he sees it.

That flicker of hesitation.

He watches your shoulders shrink inward. Watches the way your hands move to cover your belly the second his fingers slip beneath your shirt. The way your breath stutters like you’re already bracing for something—even if it’s just his eyes.

You never say it out loud. You don’t have to.

And every time he settles over you, broad chest looming, palms sliding down your sides with reverent slowness as he lays you down on his bedspread, you ask him in that sweet, uncertain voice:

“Can we turn the light off?”

And Joel… hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take one more look at your face—flushed and perfect and lips swollen from letting him kiss them until they’re bruised. He always obliges. Always reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp without a word, even if something in his chest aches as the room goes dark.

In the low moonlight, he can still see pieces of you. The softness of your belly. The curve of your thighs. The arch of your back when you start to melt beneath his touch. And he reveres it. All of it.

Worships you like you’re something holy.

But even in the dark, he notices everything.

The way your breath hitches when he kisses down your body—not with pleasure, but with discomfort. The subtle tension in your limbs when he trails his lips past your ribs. The way you squirm when his mouth lingers at the tender skin between your stomach and mound. Not because it’s too much. But because you don’t want to be seen.

And it kills him a little every time.

Because he wants to see you. All of you. Wants you to know that there is not a single inch of your body he doesn’t adore.

But still, like many nights before, he obliges you tonight and reaches over to turn out the light at your request.

The room falls into darkness.

Joel wakes to the warm and golden light of the morning, the kind where sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, slatted beams, pooling across the hardwood floor. The kind where the world outside feels far away, like it can wait a little longer while the house stays quiet.

His mind fully catches up to the scent of coffee and the soft creak of floorboards.

The bed is empty beside him, blankets still warm, your pillow carrying the shape of your head. He rubs the sleep from his face and swings his legs over the edge, the weight of last night still humming low in his chest.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, barefoot, wearing nothing but his t-shirt—one of those older ones, soft and stretched out, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair’s a little messy, skin still marked in places from where his mouth had worshipped you in the hours of the night.

You’re so focused on pouring coffee into your favorite mug—the pink one with the little chip at the rim, just big enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful—that you don’t hear him come in.

He steps in behind you, silent as ever, warmth radiating off his chest before you even feel his hands.

One arm slips around your waist, the other gliding up beneath the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—until his hand splays flat across your stomach. His lips find your neck a second later, soft and unhurried, brushing along your skin as he breathes you in.

You stiffen, just a little. It’s not resistance, you could never resist him, but your body goes still beneath his touch, that automatic flicker of self-consciousness rising to the surface like it always does when he touches you in the daylight.

Still, you don’t move away.

Joel’s voice is low and rough in your ear, all gravel and morning warmth, “‘Mornin’, darlin’.”

You smile, small, a little sheepish, but it’s there. “Morning.”

His hand drops lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, then sliding up again, slow and lazy. His other arm tightens around your front, keeping you pulled against him as his lips trail from your neck to your cheek.

“Joel—” you murmur, half a protest, half a laugh, squirming under his touch.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice thicker now, rougher with sleep and want. “So sexy in my shirt, honey.”

You go quiet. Not because you don’t like it. But because it still hits that spot—the part of you that flinches at being seen. You press your lips together, focus on the coffee in your hand, as if the words might disappear if you just don’t look at him.

But Joel sees it. Feels the shift. The way you tense ever so slightly when he calls you nice things. Like the words don’t fit, not yet. Like you still haven’t figured out how to wear them.

He kisses your cheek again, slower this time.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.

You nod once, a breath catching in your chest before you murmur, “I know.”

Joel leans in and kisses the back of your head, just behind your ear, then murmurs against your skin, “Put the coffee down for a second.”

You glance over your shoulder, suspicious but smiling. “Why?”

“Just do it, baby.”

With a soft sigh, you set the mug back on the counter. Before you can ask again, he’s turning you in his arms, hands firm but careful on your hips and over the shirt, as he spins you to face him.

He steps in close, real close, until the backs of your thighs press against the cabinets and his hands come up to cradle your face. Big, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the softness there like he’s memorizing the way you feel under his touch. 

Then his hands squish your cheeks between his hands, just enough to puff your lips out like a fish.

Your brows furrow as you try in vain to pull away. “Joel—!”

“Say it,” he says, dead serious despite the ridiculous hold he has on your face.

Your eyebrows knit further as you still. “Say what?”

He smirks, dipping his head until your noses bump. “Say: I’m pretty.”

You groan, giggling despite yourself as you try to wiggle free. “Joel, oh my god—”

He holds on, pressing exaggerated kisses to your squished face—your cheek, your forehead, your nose and your puffed out top lip. “Say it. Go on. I’ll wait all day.”

“Fine!” you huff, lips barely moving from the way he’s still holding your face. “I’m pretty.”

He grins, loosening his hold just enough so you can speak properly, though he keeps his hands right where they are. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m pretty,” you repeat, cheeks heating as you say it, soft and unsure but not sarcastic. Not deflecting.

Joel beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, kissing your lips as he loosens his hold on your face. “Damn right you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”

You can’t help but smile now, wide and a little bashful. You duck your head, but he catches you again, presses a kiss to your lips again, sweet and unhurried.

And when he backs away and you finally reach for your coffee again, cheeks still warm, he’s watching you like he’s already counting the seconds until he gets to do it all over again.

That night starts like any other night.

Late, quiet, the house dipped in soft shadows. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze, the hum of cicadas drifting in with the warm air. Joel’s in bed already, reading glasses sliding down his nose, thumbing through the same page of his book he’s read three times without taking in a single word.

He’s waiting for you to join him, your book is still closed on the side table. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom before you could even cuddle up in bed beside him. You had said you needed two minutes.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

He figures you’re brushing your teeth. Or lost in one of your little bedtime routines—rearranging things on the counter or doing your 10 step nightly skincare. He doesn’t mind. He’s gotten used to your rhythms the more you stayed over. Grown to love them, even.

But then he hears the bedroom door open, and when he glances up, expecting to see you in one of your usual pajamas, his breath catches. You’re not wearing one of his big T-shirts or those soft cotton sets you like so much.

You’re standing in the doorway in white lace, delicate and sheer and almost ethereal in the low glow of the lamp light.

It damn near knocks the air out of him.

He forgets all about the book in his lap—doesn’t even feel it fall to the mattress as his gaze rakes over you, slow and disbelieving. His jaw goes slack as he removes his glasses and sets them on the side table.

The bra—he doesn’t know what it’s called, not that it matters—looks daintier and more delicate than anything he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. Feminine in a way that hits him right in the chest. It wraps around you like it was made for your body, hugging your curves in all the right places. The straps are thin, dipping into the softness of your shoulders, and the lace cups give just enough to let his imagination blur with what’s already in front of him.

The matching bottoms sit high on your hips, scalloped lace tracing the tops of your thighs, giving him a perfect view of the skin he’s only ever touched in the dark.

Your hair is pulled back behind your shoulders—intentionally, he thinks, like you wanted him to have the full view.

Your lip is tucked under your top teeth, and your eyes flick down for a second, uncertain—then back up again.

But then you smile.

Shy, but proud. Like you’re showing him something precious and a little terrifying. Like you finally believe, even just a little, that he might actually mean every word he’s ever said about you.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed, jaw tight with restraint as he beckons you to him. Slowly, you make your way over, and he soaks in the look of your thighs as you move, the way your body is begging to be marked and taken. His hands curl against his own thighs like he’s afraid to touch you too fast, too hard, and shatter the moment.

But when you move to stand between his knees, and he lifts his eyes up to meet yours, you don’t flinch.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. Then his hands lift slowly, reverently, palms brushing along the outside of your thighs, up to your hips.

His voice is low, almost reverent. “Christ, baby… look at you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping for a second—but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t twist away like you usually do. You stay right there, between his knees, close enough for him to smell the soft scent of your lotion and whatever little perfume you’d put on just for him.

Joel lifts his hands, slow and sure, and holds your hips, warm, steady, splayed wide like he wants to cover all of you. His thumb strokes gently over your skin where the lace ends, just above your hipbone.

“You did this for me?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod once, eyes still shy but glowing with something soft. “I wanted to. I…I know I usually…”

“I know,” he says quietly, thumbs stroking your skin under his touch. “Don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s something else beneath it now. Thicker. Hotter. Like he’s barely keeping a lid on what he really wants to say.

You bite your lip again, tucking it under your top teeth as you gauge his reaction. Joel leans in, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss between the valley of your breasts—slow, open-mouthed, just wet enough to make your breath stutter.

You exhale, body already leaning into him, melting under the heat of his mouth, the drag of his stubble, the way his hands are rubbing slow circles along your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem of the lace between your legs, pinching the delicate fabric between them, like he can’t decide whether to rip it off or worship it.

“You know what this does to me? What you do to me, angel?” he rasps, voice rough now, filthy and unfiltered. “You got me starin’ like a damn animal. Don’t even know where I wanna taste first.”

He kisses the underside of your breast, and even though it's covered by lace, he bites softly at the curve, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands move to grip your ass tightly now, pulling you closer, positioning so your stomach and hips are flush against his chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, you go and give me this?”

His eyes flick up, hungry and reverent. You squirm, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips, but Joel doesn't back off. He presses another kiss to your stomach, then just above your belly button, murmuring into your skin.

“Timid little thing—but deep down you like it, don’t you? Like when Daddy talks like this?”

Your thighs twitch under his hands and you nod.

He grins, feral and soft all at once. His hands slide up your sides, palms hot and steady against your ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of lace as his mouth follows—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, tongue flicking against the fabric covering your breasts. His tongue pokes out over the lace of your bodice right where your nipple would be, teeth grazing over the hidden but pebbled skin. Your jaw falls open as you watch him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching against your sternum. “You wore this just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

One hand lifts, fingers tugging gently at the strap of your bralette, sliding it down your shoulder. Then the other. His movements are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the lace down and away, baring you inch by inch.

And when your breasts spill free, his breath catches audibly.

“Jesus Christ.”

He sits back just far enough to look. Just for a moment. Just to see you.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs, thick with awe and heat. He brings his hands up to grip the flesh of your breasts, kneading them together, “Bet you don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

You bite your lip again, that flicker of shyness still dancing across your face—like you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to cover the revealed skin. But no. Not this time.

Joel leans in and licks a slow stripe over one nipple, making you gasp. He drags his tongue in a lazy circle, then sucks it into his mouth, groaning low in his throat like he’s tasting heaven.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers gripping him as your back arches on instinct.

“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just to press a kiss between your breasts before taking the other into his mouth, this time sucking harder, leaving it damp and peaked from his tongue. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear every sound you make when I touch you like this.”

Your hips roll against him, thighs trembling as you stand between his legs.

“Sensitive little thing,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Just needed someone to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

He kisses lower, down the underside of your breast, then back up again, licking softly, sucking just enough to leave the faintest mark.

“M’gonna take good care of you tonight, baby,” he breathes, dragging his mouth back to your nipple. “Gonna take my timeand take every fuckin’ inch of this sweet body. You gonna let me?”

You nod, breathless, voice caught somewhere in your throat,“Y-yeah.”

Joel looks up, eyes blazing, lips slick from kissing you.

“‘Yeah’, what? Tell me, honey.”

Your begin to squirm as you tell him, “I want you to, Daddy. Please.”

Joel groans like it physically knocks the air out of him. His hands trail back down your sides, slow and reverent, fingertips grazing the lace waistband still hugging your hips.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. 

He kisses down your stomach, tongue peeking out to trace the little dip of your navel, his hands smoothing down your hips and behind to cup your ass again, fingers squeezing tight. The lace panties are all that remain, soft and delicate, slightly damp already with your arousal. He noses along the waistband, breathing you in.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he growls, teeth catching gently at the fabric. “Bet you taste even better.”

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently as he tongues over the lace, not pulling it down yet—just feeling you through it, his mouth wet and hungry over your hips and tummy.

You moan, your hips grinding against him again as he teases you, his one hand reaching down to drag his fingers over your clothed mound, the slick of your folds soaking through. He groans at the feeling before pulling back with a sharp exhale, looking up at you with wild eyes.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.”

You blink, heart leaping, but you don’t hesitate. You scramble onto the mattress, crawling forward on shaky limbs until you’re positioned right where he wants you—on all fours, back arched, breath quick and needy.

Joel groans behind you at the sight, pulling his shirt over his head before dragging a hand up your spine, slow and heavy.

“Goddamn, baby. Look at you.”

Once he’s climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your knees a little wider, he kneads at your ass with both hands, reverent and gentle. He settles his body lower, shifting on the bed until his face is level with your center. He drags his thumbs along the backs of your thighs, spreading them a little wider, groaning low when he sees how soaked the lace of your panties is—slick and clinging to your folds, a perfect puffy outline of everything he’s about to taste.

“Look at this,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred. “Fuckin’ drenched for me.”

You gasp when you feel his mouth again—not on your skin, but over the lace. A slow, deliberate kiss right to the center of you, hot and wet and perfectly placed. His lips part, tongue nudging against the fabric, teasing your clit through the sheer barrier.

It’s maddening.

He hums, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby… I could spend all night like this. Kissin’ you through these pretty little panties. Smellin’ you. Feelin’ how worked up you are for me.” He nuzzles in deeper, breathing hot against you, licking a wide, slow stripe up the center of your heat—through the lace—then mouthing at it, sloppy and wet, soaking it even more.

You sob, spine arching, thighs quivering where they try to stay upright. Joel groans against you.

“Can’t believe you wore this just for me,” he mutters, dragging his tongue back down. “So fuckin’ soft. So sweet. Pussy’s beggin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You nod frantically, already breathless. “Yes—God, Joel, please—”

He chuckles darkly, biting gently at the fabric. “Please what, baby?”

“Take them off,” you gasp. “Please—need you.”

Joel pulls back, and you feel the shift in the air before you feel his hands—rough palms curling under the waistband of your panties, fingers brushing the skin of your hips as he peels the lace down slow. Agonizingly slow.

“Anything for my girl,” he says.

Joel’s broad, warm hands palm at your ass, kneading every inch as he situates himself behind you. He dips lower, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses into the flesh of your left cheek, then the right, before his teeth sink down into the soft meat.

You yelp, hips jerking at the sharp nip.

“Prettiest noises too,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing the sensitive mark he left behind. His hands spread your cheeks, thumbs firm as they open you up for him—and when you peek over your shoulder, you find his eyes locked on your center, gaze dark and fixated, the pupils blown wide.

When he catches you looking, his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“She’s flirtin’ with me,” he says, grinning like the devil.

Your face burns, and you let your head drop into the pillows, hiding from the embarrassment that curls through your belly—hot and helpless, tangled with molten want.

Joel’s lips find your skin again, slower now, more reverent as he holds you open. His tongue drags between your cheeks, a deep, teasing stroke that makes your whole body tense. He kisses your slick folds with a wet, lewd sound that makes you gasp.

He hums, low and satisfied, then laps at your dripping arousal like it’s his first taste of water in weeks.

“And the prettiest pussy,” he rasps, lips brushing your folds. “You know that, darlin’?”

You moan, unable to answer, as his tongue pushes deeper. He flattens it and licks slow, wide strokes up your slit before circling your clit. His nose bumps your entrance, barely prodding, teasing you as his tongue works your clit in tight, filthy circles.

Your hips start moving without your permission, grinding into his face, seeking more.

Joel groans like you’re his favorite meal, tongue flattening again, letting you push into him.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “Ride my face.”

You mewl, your body bucking, wild and desperate, grinding into him like a goddamn bronco at the fair. Your walls flutter, your core pulsing with pressure as it builds, and builds, and builds.

Your thighs begin to shake.

Joel’s grip on you tightens as he takes over, tongue working your clit with expert flicks, fast and relentless.

The pressure in your belly snaps like a pulled cord, your spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as you come, loud and wrecked, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Joel moans into you like he’s the one coming undone, tongue never faltering, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your trembling body. Even as you start to come down, breath catching in your throat, he doesn’t stop. He just slows, letting you twitch and gasp and shake through it.

Then, you feel it. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue pushing up past your folds, over the skin between, then circling your tighter hole. You jump at the intrusion, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips—but the haze of your orgasm makes your body soft, receptive, already melting for him.

You whimper, hips twitching. Joel just groans again, closing his lips around your sensitive rim, suckling gently.

“F–fuck,” you whisper, unable to think, to move, to breathe.

He licks you there once more before planting slow, open-mouthed kisses up your spine, up to the small of your back, your shoulder blades, and finally your neck.

Then he’s curling over you, beard scratchy against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice low and rough, "Wanna see your face when I stuff you full a'me,"

You can’t help but giggle at the tickle of his scruff against your neck, still dazed, still boneless, but do as you’re told—twisting under him until you’re on your back, staring up at him.

Joel’s eyes, though dark with hunger, hold something else too. Something deep and aching. Something sweet.

And then, with that same steady tone he uses when talking patrol routes or fixing fences, he says, “Now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart.”

His lips brush your jaw, then your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so deep, fuck you so full of my cock, my cum, me, that when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you’re gonna see is how fuckin’ beautiful you are—‘cause you’ll still be wearin’ what I did to you tonight.”

Your chest heaves, the words settling deep in your stomach, curling there like heat and honey.

“Joel, I—” you start to say, only to gasp when you feel the hot, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

“You feel this, honey?” he murmurs, pulling back to look down between you, voice rough and reverent. “Feel how bad he wants you? How bad I want you?”

You nod, gripping his forearms tight, your thighs falling open even wider for him.

He notches just the bulbous tip inside you and hisses at the wet heat.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “I feel it, Joel, I—I… pleasepleaseplease—”

“I know, angel, I know,” he pants, his thumb stroking your inner thigh, grounding you. “Now I wanna hear you say it.”

Your brain lags, thick with need, swimming in lust and love and the ache to just feel him.

“W-what?”

Joel watches you, eyes burning into yours.

“Say, ‘I’m pretty, Daddy.’”

Your whole body flushes, lips parted in disbelief, already whining at the way he just knows how to unravel you.

You groan wordlessly, bringing your hands to your face to hide. He is so on your shit list for this.

Joel chuckles darkly, pushing in another inch, and you whimper behind your hands.

“I’m waitin’, darlin'.”

You squirm under him, thighs trembling, skin turning hotter and hotter by the second. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him to move, to fill you, to do something.

But Joel waits. He always waits—until you give in, until he gets what he wants.

You lift your hands from your face slowly, eyes hazy, cheeks heated, lips parted. He’s watching you like a man possessed, one hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around his pulsing member with agonizing patience.

“M’pretty,” you whisper.

Joel’s brow arches, lips curling, “Not quite, sweetheart. You know how I want it.”

Your chest heaves. Your pussy clenches around just the tip of him, and even though you see the twitch in his jaw, he still waits.

So you gather your courage, heart pounding in your throat: “I’m pretty, Daddy.”

Joel’s smile breaks across his face, so bright and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It almost pulls you out of the heat of it, the haze of arousal, until your core clenches and he sinks into you just a little deeper.

You gasp, the stretch sharp and perfect.

He leans down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head, lowering himself onto his forearms until his chest is flush with yours, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

He’s still not fully sheathed in you.

“Again.” 

“I… I’m pretty, Daddy,” you breathe, voice shaky as your pussy tries to adjust around the thick stretch of him.

“The prettiest,” he nods, and his lips mold to yours as he finally pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, the sound swallowed by his tongue slipping between your lips, hot and hungry, as he bottoms out. His balls press firmly against the slick, wet crevice of your ass, and the mess between your thighs is obscene—your arousal dripping, sticky and hot, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Joel groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked like its been trapped in his chest for hours. His hands come up to cradle your head, keeping you right there beneath him as he begins to move, slow at first, pulling out a few inches before rolling back in, the full weight of him rocking your body with every deep thrust.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “Pussy’s so damn tight.”

He pulls out slowly again, then drives back in hard, enough to jolt you up the bed, the sound of it lewd and perfect. His brow furrows, eyes fluttered shut as he focuses on the way your walls cling to him.

“Fuckkkk,” you mewl as he continues sawing into you, filling you and stretching you around him, buried to the hilt.

Joel grins, feral and hungry, sweat starting to bead at his brow.

“Sound even prettier when you take my cock.”

He sets a rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that hit all the way up, filling you to the brim. His body covers yours, chest brushing your nipples, beard scratching your throat as he nips and kisses every inch he can reach.

“Been thinkin’ about this for so long, baby” he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against yours. “The way you’re always hidin’ yourself from me, coverin’ up like you’re not the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I got you, honey,” Joel pants, head dropping to your neck as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him even tighter. “And you’re gonna start seein’ it for yourself,” 

His pace picks up, rougher now, slamming into you with the kind of need that’s barely human.

“Gonna fuck you so full you forget every goddamn lie you ever told yourself in a mirror. Gonna make sure the only thing you remember is me—how you sounded, how you looked, when I wrecked this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, shaking beneath him, stars flashing behind your eyes as he pounds into you like he’s never going to stop.

“That’s it, baby. You take it,” he growls. “Take my cock so good, like the good girl you are for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Joel—” you cry, voice breaking.

He lifts his head, eyes wild and tender all at once.

“Say it again, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how pretty you are.”

“I—I’m pretty,” you choke out. “I’m—fuck, I’m so pretty, Daddy—”

He loses it.

His hand slides under your thigh, hooking it up, opening you wider, deeper. His hips slam into you harder now, the rhythm filthy, brutal, perfect.

“I know, baby. I know. Look at you. My good girl, look so beautiful takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you forward as he sits back—craning your head up so you can look down, see exactly where you’re joined. 

Your mind barely registers the softness of your belly, too focused on the thick stretch of him splitting you open, the obscene way you take every inch. You both watch as he drives into you, slick and deep and devastating, a ring of your last orgasm glistening around his cock. The pressure builds again, white-hot and unbearable.

And Joel knows—he feels it in the way you clench, the way your voice goes high and desperate, the way your hands grip him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“You gonna come for me again, sweet girl?” he pants, fucking you into the mattress. “Gonna let Daddy feel you pulse around his cock?”

“Yesyesyes—Joel, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he snarls, “give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a scream as he releases your neck, letting you arch your back, trembling as you milk his cock with spasms so tight it makes Joel curse, a broken sound from deep in his chest.

And then he’s coming, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, filling you just like he promised. His voice breaks on your name as he grinds through it, hands gripping you enough to leave bruises, breathing ragged.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and uneven. His chest heaving against yours. Your legs shaking around his waist.

His hand slides up, cradles the side of your face. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, even though you’re not crying—but something about the touch makes you want to. Makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all gravel and reverence. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still fluttered shut, heart pounding. “Y-yeah.”

Joel presses a soft kiss to your lips—barely a touch, like he’s afraid of ruining you more than he already has. Then another, and another, until you're giggling quietly beneath him, too dazed to hold it in.

He smiles, the kind of smile he doesn’t show anyone else. The kind that barely reaches his eyes, because he’s still looking at you like you’re a dream that might disappear if he blinks too hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do. You always do when he asks.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, voice low and rough with what sounds almost like awe. “You know that?”

The words hit you deeper than they should. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to even out your breathing, but your lungs don’t cooperate. Your eyes dart away, suddenly misting and too overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze—by the sincerity written all over his face. It's too much. Too close. Too real.

But Joel’s hand is already there, catching your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, soft and steady.

“No,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do that. Not tonight. Not after everything you just gave me.”

Your chest stutters, emotion building so fast and so sharp you feel like you might spill over with it. Your fingers twitch against his back before finally settling, drifting across his damp skin in slow, absent circles. You take deep, calming breaths to settle yourself. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s still inside you, still heavy over you, like neither of you are ready to let go just yet. Your limbs are tangled, the air still thick with sweat and heat and something quieter—something softer.

The room is quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Just your shared breaths, slow and unsteady. The low thump of his heart where his chest presses to yours.

Joel shifts only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then your temple. The way he moves is unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s kissing more than just skin—like he’s kissing the pieces of you he’s afraid to speak out loud.

It makes your chest ache.

“You’re being so sweet,” you whisper, throat tight almost like it’s a secret.

His lips hover at your lips, pressing gently but not fully,  “I don’t know how not to be,” he says softly. “Not with you.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. His scent wraps around you—salt and skin and something warm and comforting that’s just him. The warmth blooms under your skin again, curling around your ribs, spreading down your spine.

“I love you.” he says, like it’s always been there, waiting. Like it’s not a confession so much as a truth that finally found its way out.

Your breath catches. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. The gravity. The sound of those words, spoken into the low light of the room while he's still buried inside you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Your eyes flutter open. You don’t move. Not yet.

Joel doesn’t either. But his voice dips low, softer now. A hint of uncertainty laces the edges. “Too much?”

You shake your head instantly, and your hands rise to cradle his face, looking up at him, fingertips brushing his temples like you need to anchor both of you in this moment.

“No,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping your eye. “No, not too much.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently as you pull him down and press your lips to his. And when you pull back, your words are trembling but sure.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.Then he kisses you—slow and deep and home, his mouth moving against yours like he’s sealing the promise between your bodies.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal, @anxiousscribbling

[rafesangelita]

♡ bitchy!kook!reader finally lets rafe fuck..

warnings: making out, slight degradation, teasing, fingering, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, praise, multiple orgasms

a/n: thank you to the anon who sent in this prompt request for my follower celly! i accidentally deleted your ask ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

you didn’t expect things to get this heated, this fast, both you and rafe messily kissing each other in the darkness of his room, his playlist playing softly in the background while his hands didn’t leave a single inch of you untouched. you could feel his hard-on poking you through the thin lace material of your panties, your resolve crumbling more and more as you let yourself get lost in the taste of him, your desire to surrender and give into his advances only growing with each filthy sentence he spoke to you. “remember all that tough shit you were talking? ‘saying i couldn’t handle all of this but here you are fucking dripping for it..”

you whimpered, your head rolling to the side as rafe planted his lips on your neck, his hand snaking down underneath the hem of your skirt until his fingers slipped below the waistband of your underwear. “you know i can make you feel so good, baby, just give me the word..” he whispered, his teeth lightly grazing your flesh just as his fingertips dipped between your folds, a curse falling from his mouth as your slick allowed him to stroke your clit with ease. you gasped softly, your nails digging into his skin as he rubbed hard, firm circles around your sensitive bud. “come on..” rafe encouraged you quietly, “let me fuck you.”

you sighed softly, your eyes fluttering closed as he moved his lips down from your neck to your chest, his digits continuing their ministrations on your needy cunt. you couldn’t believe you were finally giving into him, all the months of begging and pleading with you to let him have his way all coming to an end once you nodded, your boyfriend cursing under his breath as he tried to his best to keep his composure. rafe’s fingers prodded at your entrance, the sensation making you panic before you stopped him. “wait—!” you panted, slightly embarrassed, “i’ve never done this before, rafe..”

upon hearing your words, rafe used his free hand to grip the back of your neck, his gaze scanning down your pretty face as his chest rose and fell in disbelief. your usual bitchy expression was long gone and was now replaced with what looked like intimidation, your brow etched with worry as you watched the realization dawn on him. “holy shit—” rafe laughed, “you’re a virgin?” you looked away from him, avoiding his burning gaze. “don’t be weird about it, you’re not special.” rafe scoffed, his jaw clenching as he pushed his fingertips into you. crying out, your nails raked down his toned chest, the burning tension making you wince.

“these are just my fingers, babe.. if you can barely handle this, just imagine when i’m fucking you balls deep.” the thought alone made you shudder, a shiver running down your spine as rafe began filling you up with digits, your walls fluttering around the welcomed intrusion. “gentle, please..” you whimpered, a hiss leaving your lips when he pulled at the roots of your hair, forcing you to look at him as he started thumbing at your clit. “gentle?” he laughed, “why would i be gentle with you? you’re not special.” rafe used your words from earlier against you before curling his digits and hitting that soft spot inside of you, your head falling onto his shoulder at the added stimulation.

“m’gonna make you cum all over my fingers, ‘get you all nice and stretched out before i fuck you stupid, yeah?” you whined, wrapping your arms around his neck as your breathing grew sporadic, the heavy tension in your core making your limbs feel like jelly. “fuckkk!” you squealed, burying your face in his chest as you felt the sudden snap in your tummy, your pussy squeezing around rafe’s digits like a vice. you saw stars behind the backs of your eyes, your thighs trembling as he held your hips down to keep you from moving away from him. “r-rafe, that’s enough,” you huffed, “s’too much now!” considering you were about to let him pop your cherry, he decided he’d give your poor cunt a break.

rafe didn’t give you nearly enough time to recover before he had your wrists pinned between tits, your ankles sitting prettily on his shoulders as he tapped the aching tip of his cock against your clit. “i’m never gonna let you live this down,” rafe teased, slipping only the tip in to watch the way you took your bottom lip between your teeth, “no one’s ever gonna fuck you like this.” was the last thing he said before thrusting into you without warning, a half scream emitting from your throat as rafe groaned, his eyes glued to where you two were connected.

“oh my god, you’re fucking gorgeous—” rafe said through gritted teeth, admiring every detail of you he hadn’t seen before tonight. you were rendered speechless, any kind of protests or smart remarks dying on the tip of your tongue as the ache between your legs dulled and melted into pure unadulterated pleasure. from pained whimpers to pleading cries, rafe’s lips found yours as he fucked into you with an unforgiving force. nipping his bottom lip, rafe hissed, cursing under his breath as you managed to get your hands out of his grip.

“not so scared anymore?” he teased, his words making you roll your eyes. “shut up, rafe— oh!” your back arched up into his chest when he changed his momentum, the long strokes of his hips making you hiccup. “tell me to shut up again.” you just about lost it when you felt his thumb return to your clit, your palms pushing against his stomach at the overwhelming pressure building up in your tummy. you hated how easy it was for him to take control of you in this moment, but god, you felt too good to care. not daring to say another word, your eyes screwed shut as rafe pushed you over the edge, his own orgasm causing his hips to stutter.

burying himself as deep as he could, you pulled rafe close as he emptied himself inside of you, your toes curling as he filled you up with his seed, the thick, hot ropes of cum painting your insides while you cried at the overwhelming feeling of your high. you felt like your head was in the clouds, your vision growing hazy as you blinked in slow motion up at the high ceiling. with rafe’s weight on top of you like this, and his moans in your ear, you reveled in the new intimacy that you two hadn’t yet shared with each other, both of you holding onto each other as your climaxes subsided.

still nestled inside of you, rafe collapsed on top of you, your hands wasting no time in moving his bangs out of his face, your heart fluttering in your chest at the sight of the smug grin on his lips. “don’t you dare say anything—”

“i can’t believe you actually let me hit.” rafe sighed, leaving a trail of kisses along your collarbone. you shook your head, a soft laugh leaving your lips as you twirled the ends of his hair with your perfectly manicured fingers. “act up and you’re not getting sex for as long as you piss me off.” you threatened, your words making his eyebrows raise. “you don’t have to worry about me acting up after this.. i can’t go on without it now.” you rolled your eyes at his dramatics before he took your lips in a kiss. “i hope you’re not fucked out just yet, i got some more rounds in me.”

[reesestshirt]

When I was in middle school, I tried to learn how to crochet. I knew how to knit already, so I figured ‘how hard could it be’ and used my Christmas money on a brand new set of aluminum hooks and a how-to book.

To say it was difficult was an understatement. I spent hours pouring over my book, begging to gain some inkling of understanding from what felt like incomprehensible runes. My reward? One lopsided trapezoid of lumpy fabric and a resolve to never pick up a crochet hook again.

And so life went on, I finished middle school and high school without giving crochet so much as a second glance. In college, I read about how crochet couldn’t be replicated by a machine, it was unique in a way that knitting and many other fiber arts weren’t.

For Christmas last year, my girlfriend gave me what I now consider to be my most prized possession: a crocheted plush of my favorite pokemon. I raved over her skills and, since she never learned how to knit, we decided to have a yarn date at some point and teach each other our respective skills.

We never did get around to that yarn date. She passed a few months after our declaration, leaving me to inherit what was left of her yarn.

Nearly a decade after my initial attempt, I got ready for the toughest battle of my life. My weapons? One skein of yarn, a YouTube video, and a crochet hook that I had somehow never gotten rid of.

I slowly made my way through the video, redoing my work a couple times until I was satisfied with my product: a small, slightly misshapen rectangle.

I looked at my pristinely-made pokemon plush with hope for the first time in months and thought to myself, ‘maybe crocheting isn’t the hardest thing in the world, maybe you were just 12.’

Maybe this isn’t the hardest thing in the world. Maybe I’m just 21.

[moonlightwritingf1]

The Night She Finally Gave In | LN4

🎀 summary ━━━━━━━ For eight months, Y/N teased, denied, and kept Lando chasing—but he never gave up. Until one night she finally gives in. 

🎀 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎀 word count ━━━━━━━ 7.9k

🎀 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, teasing

Based on this request.

The persistent hum of the city pulsed against Y/N’s ears as she stepped off the crowded London sidewalk and into a cozy Shoreditch lounge. Music throbbed under low lighting, and the place was already bustling with familiar chatter. Tonight, she was meeting Pietra and Max for casual drinks, but she knew one other person would be there—someone who’d been on her mind more than she cared to admit. Lando Norris.

She spotted Pietra first, her friend waving her over from a corner booth. Max, Pietra’s boyfriend and Lando’s best friend, grinned in greeting. Y/N slid into the booth and unwrapped her scarf, letting the warmth of the lounge soak into her. Before she could even settle, an electric awareness sparked at the base of her spine. She sensed him near before she actually saw him. And sure enough, there he was—leaning against the bar, exchanging an easy laugh with the bartender, but already casting sideways glances in her direction.

For over half a year, Lando had chased after her with single-minded obsession. The moment they’d been introduced—eight months ago at a friend’s barbecue—he’d made his interest painfully obvious. Texts at odd hours, random calls whenever he was in London, spontaneous outings with their mutual friends that always ended with him trying to corner her for a private moment.

She found it thrilling at first. She teased him mercilessly, indulging in the attention of someone so persistent and quite obviously smitten. She’d let him buy her drinks, whisper silly compliments that made her cheeks warm, and flirt back just enough to get his heart pounding. But any time he tried to escalate—from a lean-in kiss to a direct request for a date—she’d reject him. Gently, but firmly. Over and over.

Why did she do it? Maybe she wanted to protect herself from the potential heartbreak of dating a man adored by millions. Or maybe she reveled in the power of knowing that someone as high-profile as Lando Norris was practically wrapped around her finger. Whatever the reason, the game had dragged on for months, and he never gave up. If anything, each rejection only seemed to strengthen his resolve.

And how he persevered. In those eight months, she had watched him run himself ragged trying to impress her. No matter what she threw at him—a dismissive laugh, a pointed change of subject, a half-hearted excuse—he always came back stronger. She’d catch glimpses of his frustration sometimes, in the tight line of his mouth or the way he’d fist his hands at his sides, but he never unleashed that frustration on her. Instead, he teased, he flirted, he praised. And every time she knocked him down, he got up again, more determined than ever.

Lando was desperate. His affection for her had morphed into an all-consuming fascination. When he was away in Monaco, racing or fulfilling sponsor obligations, he’d tell Max how he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d message Pietra, trying to get any new details about Y/N’s day. He was head over heels, losing sleep, replaying every interaction they’d ever had—each brush of the fingers, each clever remark that made him laugh, each time she chewed her lip and pretended not to look at him, even though he felt her gaze.

She, meanwhile, was enjoying the slow burn. It was cruel in a way, but exhilarating. She loved the sense of power over a man who had the entire world at his feet yet seemed willing to crawl if it meant she’d say yes. She wasn’t intentionally cruel—she did like him. In fact, she liked him a lot. But the thrill of him chasing and her evading was addicting. She made sure to flirt just enough to keep him on the hook—an extra lingering stare, a subtle graze of her hand across his chest whenever she passed by him at a party, a playful text that ended with a winking emoji—only to turn cold if he tried to corner her for anything more.

And it worked. She reeled him in, then pushed him away, over and over. Each time, he fell deeper under her spell, thoroughly bewitched by the side-smiles, the confident tilt of her chin, the way she’d arch an eyebrow whenever he tried to inch closer. Lando found himself wanting her with a fierceness he’d never felt before. Some nights he’d lie awake in Monaco, scrolling through photos of them at group events—her bright eyes, her maddening half-smiles—and wonder what he had to do to make her his.

So here she was again, sliding into a lounge booth with Pietra and Max, fully aware of Lando’s presence across the room. She greeted her friends with a sweet smile, but her pulse fluttered. Lando soon made his way over, wearing a casual denim jacket and a grin that betrayed a hint of nerves. He paused by the table, his gaze locking onto Y/N’s.

“Evening,” he said softly, eyes gleaming.

She cocked her head, forcing a pleasant smile. “Hey there, Norris. In London again?”

He shrugged with forced nonchalance. “Yeah, had some meetings earlier. Thought I’d stick around for the weekend.” It was a lie. He’d finished his obligations days ago, but no one doubted he’d stayed in town solely for her.

Pietra nudged Y/N with a playful smirk. “Glad you two can finally catch up. We’ve barely seen you in the same place these last few weeks.”

Lando lowered himself next to Y/N on the booth’s bench, the cushion sinking beneath his weight. She could practically feel the heat radiating from him. He smelled fresh and warm, a subtle cologne mixed with something distinctly him. “I’m starving,” he announced to no one in particular, though his attention stayed fixed on Y/N. “Hungry?”

She had eaten earlier, but she smiled coyly. “Might nibble on something if it’s good enough,” she teased.

His gaze flickered over her lips as she said the words. “I’ll make sure it’s good,” he murmured, voice dropping lower.

Goosebumps prickled her skin. She had to look away, heart drumming. If there was one thing Lando excelled at, it was firing her up with a single line of flirtation. She tensed her jaw, determined not to let him see just how much she liked that.

As the night wore on, Max and Pietra chatted about their upcoming travel plans. Lando and Y/N lingered at the edge of the conversation, occasionally joining in, but mostly locked in a subtle battle of words and glances.

At one point, Y/N excused herself to go to the bar, deliberately leaving him behind, half-hoping he’d follow. Sure enough, a moment later, a figure slid in beside her, resting an elbow on the wooden counter.

“You’re really not going to sit next to me all night?” Lando asked, feigning a pout.

She shrugged with a lazy grin. “You seemed too eager. Didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

He let out a soft groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she teased. “I’m counting on it.”

He placed a hand on her lower back. Not too low, but enough to make her heart jump. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused, though the corners of his mouth lifted in admiration.

She pursed her lips. “I might be.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Why do you keep saying no?”

“Because…” She trailed off, letting the unspoken tension fill the gap. She could have easily told him she was afraid or uncertain, but that wasn’t the game she was playing tonight. Instead, she flashed a small, almost innocent smile. “Maybe I just like watching you try.”

His expression tightened, eyes flashing with frustration and something hotter. “Then watch me,” he said. “I’m not quitting.”

She gulped, momentarily stunned by the heated timbre in his voice. A flicker of genuine nerves fluttered inside her because she sensed his patience was wearing thin, replaced by a more urgent desire. For all her playful torment, she couldn’t deny a thrill ran through her at the thought of him finally snapping—that the slow burn might become an inferno that neither of them could control.

They returned to the booth, but an hour later, the small party started to disperse. Max and Pietra had an early morning. With warm hugs and goodbyes, they headed out, leaving Y/N and Lando alone amidst the lounge’s dwindling crowd.

He slid closer, draping one arm along the back of the booth. “So… are you gonna run away now?”

She pretended to check her phone. “It’s getting late. I might call it a night soon.”

He exhaled a barely concealed groan. “You always do this. We hang out with friends, you tease me, and then you leave me high and dry.”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” She batted her eyelashes, an expression of false innocence.

“Barely,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Then he steeled himself. “What if I said I’m done taking no for an answer?”

Her pulse skittered. She arched an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously close to an ultimatum, Norris.”

He looked straight into her eyes, unwavering. “I want you. You know it. You’ve known it for months. I’m tired of playing the same game where I lose every time.”

Her stomach twisted with both excitement and the faintest tremor of guilt for having strung him along so long. But her desire to keep him on the edge remained strong. “You sound desperate,” she murmured, leaning forward.

His cheeks flared with color, but he didn’t back down. “I am desperate. Do you have any idea how you’ve been driving me crazy?”

She placed a hand delicately on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath her palm. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” she quipped, pressing just enough to keep him leaning toward her.

He caught her wrist lightly. “And you’re unbelievably gorgeous when you’re tormenting me.” His gaze darkened as he whispered, “Come home with me. Or let me come home with you. Either way, let’s stop pretending we don’t want this.”

For a moment, she was silent. The tension between them was near stifling. Every inch of her body buzzed with anticipation, and she had to swallow hard to steady her voice.

She trailed her fingers up his neck, pausing to toy with the hairs at his nape. “My place,” she whispered. Her heart pounded at the stunned look that crossed his face. “You coming or not?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

They left the lounge together, the cool air of the London streets a sharp contrast to the heat that had built between them. Neither spoke much on the walk to her flat—a short distance that felt endless in the taut silence. Lando’s hand found hers, and she didn’t pull away this time. In fact, she threaded her fingers through his, sending a jolt of excitement right through them both.

He followed her inside the building, up two flights of stairs to her door. She fumbled with her keys, her nerves betraying her calm façade. Once inside, she discarded her coat, setting it on a rack by the door.

Lando shut the door behind them. No small talk. No polite questions about whether he wanted a drink. The second they were alone, he crossed the space in two strides, cradling her face with both hands and pressing his lips to hers in a long-awaited, bruising kiss.

A whimper escaped her as she leaned into him, arms sliding around his shoulders. Their mouths moved in a frenzy of pent-up hunger. She could feel his desperation in every breath, every gasp. He’d waited so long for even a taste, and now he devoured her lips, tongue stroking against hers as though trying to claim every inch.

She broke away momentarily, panting. “Hungry?” she teased, voice uneven.

“Starving,” he growled, eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and raw need.

Without warning, he scooped her up around the waist, drawing a startled laugh from her. She hooked her legs around his hips as he backed her up against the wall, ignoring her protest that she could walk just fine. His lips returned to hers, trailing hot kisses along her jaw, down her neck.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” he breathed against her throat. “You, in my arms, not running away?”

She shivered, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “And do you know how many times I’ve thought about you losing your composure like this?” She let out a shaky exhale as his teeth grazed her skin. “I love seeing you barely holding it together.”

He groaned. “You really do get off on tormenting me, don’t you?”

She only smiled, unrepentant. “Maybe.”

With an exasperated laugh, he carried her deeper into the flat, pushing open a door until they tumbled into her bedroom. He set her down carefully, but kept her pinned against him, lips still fused.

Clothes became an unwanted barrier. They stripped each other down in hurried, desperate movements, fabric hitting the floor carelessly as they pressed closer. His palms roamed her curves, mapping them with reverence and urgency all at once. She marveled at the firm lines of his shoulders, the warmth radiating from his skin.

He nudged her gently onto the bed, following her down in a tangle of limbs. She let out a soft moan when his lips trailed over her collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses that made her toes curl. It was overwhelming, this culmination of half a year’s worth of tease and denial.

His breath hitched as she slipped her fingers through his hair, guiding him up to meet her eyes. “You like to lead me on, but trust me,” he said, voice husky. “Tonight, I’m the one in control.”

She smirked at the newfound edge in his tone. “Prove it.”

That challenge was all he needed. With a low growl, he leaned in, pressing a series of heated, possessive kisses along her throat. “I’m going to make you beg,” he rasped into her ear. “And you won’t be rejecting me this time.”

Her heart stuttered. She’d never seen him this way—intense, almost predatory in the best sense. It ignited a fire in her she hadn’t known existed. “Show me,” she whispered, arching against him.

His hands slid lower, and she gasped at the sensation of his touch, every nerve in her body singing with tension. She tangled her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, fueling the friction that built with every heated breath. The months of frustration erupted into a raw, almost desperate passion, making them both reckless.

Lando’s hands were firm on her hips, his lips trailing down her neck with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her breath hitch. Y/N’s back arched instinctively, her fingers gripping the sheets as he hovered above her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there was a new edge to him—a sharpness that hadn’t been there before.

“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “But now it’s my turn.”

Before she could respond, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, cutting off any protest. His tongue swiped against hers, demanding, claiming, and she felt herself melting into him, her body betraying the control she’d so carefully maintained for months. His hands moved to her wrists, pinning them above her head with ease. She let out a soft whimper, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he deepened the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, she was breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He smirked down at her, his expression a mix of satisfaction and something far more dangerous. “You’ve been teasing me for months, love,” he said, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Do you have any idea what that’s done to me?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he silenced her with another kiss, this one brief but no less intense. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to control this. I’m in charge now.”

Her stomach flipped at the command in his tone, a wave of heat pooling low in her core. She nodded, her eyes wide, and he smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Good girl,” he purred, the words sending a jolt of electricity through her.

His grip on her wrists tightened as he leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You’ve driven me wild for months,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “Now it’s my turn to make you lose control.” His free hand trailed teasingly down her body, fingers skimming over her ribs, her waist, her hips, making her squirm beneath him. “Stay still,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Or I’ll stop.”

She whimpered, her body trembling with restraint as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration. His hand moved back up her side, fingers brushing the underside of her bra. “So beautiful,” he whispered, his gaze locked on hers as his fingers found the clasp. God, he’s doing this with one hand, she thought, her breath hitching as she watched him. How is this so fucking hot?

With practiced ease, he undid the clasp, the material loosening against her skin. He slid the straps down her arms, his eyes never leaving hers, a smirk playing on his lips as the bra fell away, exposing her breasts. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to get my hands on these.” His palm cupped her breast, his fingers fitting perfectly around the soft curve. He squeezed gently at first, then more possessively, his grip firm as his thumb brushed over her nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from her.

He unpinned her wrists, but she didn’t move, as if waiting for permission. He didn’t give her any, too focused on her breasts, his hands now free to explore every inch. He cupped them both, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he squeezed them together, his eyes filled with hunger. “Fuck, baby, they fit perfectly in my hands,” he said, his voice rough. “Like they were made for me to touch.”

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above her skin. “They’re even better than I imagined,” he murmured, his breath hot against her as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. She gasped, her hands finally finding his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he lavished attention on her breasts, alternating between them with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His mouth was relentless, kissing, licking, and sucking as if he couldn’t get enough. “God, baby, they’re so soft,” he groaned against her skin, his voice trembling with need. “So fucking perfect. I could spend hours right here.” He buried his face between them, his hands still kneading her breasts, squeezing them together as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to her skin.

She arched into his touch, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he worshipped her body. Every flick of his tongue, every squeeze of his hands sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, and she couldn’t help but moan his name. “Lando…”

He looked up at her, his lips swollen, his eyes burning with desire. “You’re mine now,” he said, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

She nodded, her body trembling with anticipation as he returned to her breasts, his hands and mouth working in perfect harmony to drive her wild. She’d never felt so wanted, so completely claimed, and she loved every second of it.

Lando’s lips left her breasts with one last, lingering kiss, and she whimpered at the loss of contact. But he wasn’t done—not even close. His mouth trailed down her body, leaving a scorching path of kisses along her skin. He kissed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, each press of his lips deliberate, maddeningly slow. Every inch of her felt like it was on fire, and she could barely keep herself still as he moved lower, his lips brushing the top of her hip bone.

Her breath hitched as he reached the hem of her underwear, his hands skimming over the fabric as if he were memorizing every curve. “So soft,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending shivers through her. He kissed just above the waistband, his breath hot against her skin, and she let out a desperate whimper. “Patience, sweetheart,” he said, smirking up at her. “You made me wait for months. You can wait a little longer.”

She groaned, her hips lifting off the bed as if begging for him to touch her where she needed it most. But he didn’t. Instead, his lips moved to her inner thighs, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wider, and she felt exposed, utterly at his mercy. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “So desperate already. What happened to all that teasing confidence, love?”

She could feel the dampness pooling between her legs, her underwear clinging to her in the most embarrassing way. The fabric was soaked, a dark patch spreading across the front, and she knew he could see it, could smell how turned on she was. He kissed her thigh again, his lips brushing so close to where she needed him that she thought she might scream. “Every time you told me no,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, “I pictured this exact moment—how I’d have you writhing, begging for me.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She was writhing, her hips moving restlessly as he continued his torment. “Lando, please,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers hooking under the waistband of her underwear. “You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “And I’ve barely even touched you properly. How bad do you need it?” She whimpered in response, and he smirked, slowly sliding the soaked fabric down her legs and tossing it aside.

He spread her thighs wide, his hands firm on her hips as he leaned in to inspect her. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his voice trembling with awe. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” The evidence of her arousal was impossible to ignore, her pussy glistening, her folds swollen and needy. He kissed her inner thigh again, his lips brushing so close to her clit that she nearly came undone. She gasped, her hips lifting off the bed, but he held her down firmly. “Keep still,” he warned, his voice low and commanding. “Or I’ll stop completely. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

She shook her head frantically, her hands gripping the sheets as he leaned in, his tongue finally dragging through her folds in one long, slow lick. She moaned, the sound desperate and broken, and he groaned against her. “You’re clenching around nothing,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You poor thing. Maybe I should just leave you like this.”

“No!” she cried, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please, Lando, I need you.”

He smirked, his breath hot against her sensitive skin. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you beg,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Go on, let me hear you.”

She whined, her hips lifting off the bed again, but he pressed her down firmly. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, his grip on her thighs unyielding. “You’re gonna let me see how much you need this.”

And then he dove in, his tongue lapping at her pussy with relentless precision. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair as he swirled his tongue around her clit, sucking lightly before pulling back, leaving her trembling on the edge. “Oh, you want to come?” he teased, his voice smug. “After making me wait all this time? Not yet, sweetheart.”

He pinned her hips to the bed, his tongue working her over with slow, maddening strokes. Every time she felt herself close to the edge, he pulled away, leaving her gasping and desperate. “Lando, please,” she begged, her voice breaking.

He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her skin. “Shh, love. No whining. You teased me for eight months—this is only fair.”

And then he returned to her pussy, his tongue flicking over her clit with just the right amount of pressure to drive her wild. She was close, so close, but he pulled away again, leaving her trembling and desperate, utterly at his mercy.

Lando pulled away from her pussy, leaving her trembling and desperate, her body arched off the bed in search of more. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “But you’re not getting off that easy.” He stood, stripping off his boxers in one fluid motion, and her breath caught at the sight of him. His cock was thick, fully erect, and glistening with precum, a testament to how badly he wanted her. She couldn’t help but salivate at the sight, her pussy clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill her.

He climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. She instinctively tried to close them, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation, but he grabbed her thighs, pinning them apart with a firm grip. “No, baby,” he said, his voice dark and commanding. “You don’t get to hide from me anymore. You wanted this. Now take it.”

He aligned himself with her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick folds, and she whimpered, her hips lifting in a silent plea. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. He pushed into her slowly, inch by torturous inch, his eyes locked on hers as he stretched her open. She gasped, her back arching off the bed as he filled her, the sensation overwhelming and euphoric all at once. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire. “Feel that? That’s me, stretching you open, making you mine.”

He bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, and paused, letting her adjust to the sheer size of him. Her pussy fluttered around his cock, gripping him like a vice, and he groaned, his head falling back in ecstasy. “You feel that?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How you’re wrapped around me? This is where you belong now—taking every fucking inch of me.”

Y/N was already a mess, her hands gripping the sheets as she struggled to stay still. Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation, and she could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as he moved inside her. It was too much and not enough all at once. “Lando, please—please move faster,” she begged, her voice breaking.

But he just smirked, his grip on her thighs tightening. “Oh, no, love. I decide how you take me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in with the same slow, deliberate pace, drawing a desperate whimper from her. “You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “You made me wait for months, love. Now it’s your turn to suffer.” He thrust into her again, deep and slow, his hips rolling in a way that had her toes curling. Her pussy throbbed around him, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through her, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed him to go harder, faster, to give her the release she was hovering on the edge of. “Lando, I swear to god, if you don’t move faster—” she started, but her words were cut off by a moan as he slammed into her again, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

Her pussy was soaking wet, the slickness making every thrust smoother, every movement more intense. For Lando, the sensation was indescribable. Her walls clenched around him like a fist, hot and tight, and every time he pushed into her, he felt like he was losing his mind. She was perfect, perfect, and the way she moaned his name only drove him wild. “You love the way I fill you up, don’t you?” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “Look at you—already so fucking wrecked.”

She nodded frantically, her hips lifting to meet his, but he stopped her, his hands gripping her waist to keep her still. “No, love,” he said, his tone firm. “You stay right there and take it. Don’t move.” She whined, her body trembling beneath him, but she obeyed, her hands gripping the sheets as he continued to fuck her with the same slow, maddening pace. “Stop holding back,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “You’ve wanted this for months, so take me.”

He chuckled, leaning down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “Oh, I’m taking you, sweetheart,” he murmured against her mouth. “Every. Single. Inch.” Each word was punctuated by a deep, controlled thrust, and she moaned, her body writhing beneath him. But he kept her still, his hands firm on her hips, his pace unrelenting. “Fuck, Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “I’m begging—please, just give it to me.”

He smirked, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “Maybe I will,” he said, his voice teasing. “But not until I’m done with you.” He shifted slightly, angling his hips so that each thrust brushed against her clit, and she cried out, her body trembling on the edge. “That’s it, love,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Let me ruin you properly.”

His cock felt like heaven inside her, stretching her open in the most delicious way, and she could feel every inch of him as he moved, slow and deep, his pace maddeningly controlled. For him, the sensation was almost too much. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, and every time she clenched around him, he felt like he was going to lose it. But he wasn’t going to give in—not yet. He was going to make her suffer, just like she’d made him. “You’re mine now,” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

She moaned, her body trembling beneath him, her pussy gripping him tighter with each thrust. She was close, so close, but he wasn’t going to let her come—not yet. He was going to draw this out, make her beg for it, make her feel every second of the torment she’d put him through. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice dark. “Say you love the way I fuck you.”

She hesitated, her eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure crashed over her, but he tightened his grip on her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Say it properly,” he growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Or I stop right now.” She whimpered, her body trembling beneath him, and finally, she said it, her voice trembling with need. “I… I love the way you fuck me.”

He smirked, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good girl,” he purred, leaning down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “Now let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.” And with that, he finally picked up the pace, his thrusts deep and relentless, driving her closer and closer to the edge. She was a mess, her body writhing beneath him, her moans filling the room as he fucked her exactly how he’d promised—deep, slow, and completely in control.

And she loved every second of it.

Lando’s hands moved to her hips, his grip firm and unyielding as he lifted her effortlessly, flipping her in one fluid motion. Her breath caught in her throat as she found herself straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside her. Her tits bounced with the sudden movement, and he didn’t miss the opportunity, his hands immediately reaching up to cup them, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he squeezed possessively. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “Now let me see you ride me, but don’t you dare move faster than I let you.”

His hands were like iron, gripping her hips and holding her steady as he thrust up into her, his cock sliding in and out of her slick pussy with maddening precision. She tried to lift herself, to take control of the rhythm, but he held her down firmly, making her take every inch of him at his pace. “No, love,” he said, his voice dark and commanding. “You don’t get to set the pace. I do. And I want to take my time with you.”

His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he fucked up into her, his hips driving with a steady, relentless rhythm. Every thrust made her pussy clench around him, her body trembling with the effort of staying still. “Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Let me move.” She could feel every inch of his cock inside her, stretching her open, filling her in the most delicious way. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, and she could feel every ridge, every vein as he slid in and out of her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands holding her down as he thrust into her again, deeper this time, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

“God, you feel so good,” she moaned, her head falling back as he continued to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, controlling every movement. “Fuckin’ perfect around me,” he growled, his voice rough. “You take me so well, like you were made for me.” She could feel his cock twitching inside her, his control slipping just slightly, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clinging to him like a vice, greedy for more. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and it was driving her mad.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Trying to squirm away. You’re not going anywhere, love.” His hands gripped her tighter, holding her down as his cock plunged deeper into her, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her moan his name. Fuck, he’s so big, she thought, her body trembling on top of him. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she loved it. His cock was thick, hot, and hard, and every time he thrust into her, she felt like she was losing her mind. Her pussy was so wet, so slick, and every movement felt like pure bliss. She could feel the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, and she knew he could feel it too.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to let me use you exactly how I want.” His hands were like iron, gripping her hips and holding her steady as he thrust up into her, his cock sliding in and out of her slick pussy with maddening precision. She tried to lift herself, to take control of the rhythm, but he held her down firmly, making her take every inch of him at his pace. “No running, no hiding,” he growled, his voice dark and possessive. “You wanted to tease me for months? Now you’re going to feel what that did to me.”

Her pussy was on fire, every nerve in her body alight with sensation as he continued to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, controlling every movement. She could feel his cock twitching inside her, his control slipping just slightly, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clinging to him like a fist, greedy for more. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and it was driving her mad.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” His hands gripped her tighter, holding her down as his cock plunged deeper into her, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her moan his name. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she loved it. Her pussy was so wet, so slick, and every movement felt like pure bliss. She could feel the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, and she knew he could feel it too.

“You like this, don’t you?” he teased, his voice smug, the satisfaction evident in his tone. “You like me holding you down, making you take every inch.” He kept his pace steady, his hands holding her in place, not letting her move as he fucked her exactly how he wanted. She was a moaning mess, her hips lifting slightly, trying to meet his thrusts, but he wasn’t giving her an inch. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her down, making her take everything he gave her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough. “You’re going to take everything I give you, and you’re going to love every fucking second of it.”

“Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling with need. “I need more. Please.” His hands gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh as he thrust into her again, deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot that made her cry out. “Beg me properly,” he said, his voice dark. “Show me how much you need it.” She bit her lip, her body trembling beneath him, and finally, she said it, her voice trembling with need. “Please, Lando. Please fuck me harder. I need it. Please.”

"Good girl," he purred, his fingers threading into her hair as he guided her head down, tilting her face down to meet his. Then, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, possessive and deep.

“Now let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.” With a growl, Lando flipped her onto her back again in one fluid motion, his cock still buried deep inside her. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wide as he loomed over her, his eyes blazing with hunger. He didn’t give her a moment to adjust before he started fucking her again—hard, fast, and without mercy. His hips driving into her with a savage rhythm, his cock slamming into her pussy with such force that the bed shook beneath them.

His cock was thick, rigid, and unyielding, every vein pulsing with the sheer intensity of his arousal. It was hot, almost searing, as it stretched her open, the girth of it filling her to the brim. Every thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through her, the friction of his cock sliding in and out of her slick walls making her toes curl. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, and every time he pushed into her, she could feel every inch of him—the way he stretched her, the way he filled her completely, the way he hit that spot deep inside that made her see stars.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire. “Feel that? That’s me, fucking you just the way I’ve wanted to for months.” His hands moved to her hips, gripping her hard enough to leave marks as he pulled her down onto his cock with every thrust. “You take me so fucking well, love. Like you were made for me.” His words were low and possessive, dripping with a primal need that sent shivers down her spine.

She could feel his cock twitching inside her, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every time he thrust into her, she felt a wave of pleasure crash over her, her pussy clenching around him, desperate for more. “Lando, please,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “I need you. Don’t stop.”

He smirked, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “You think I’d stop now?” he growled, his hips slamming into her with even more force. “Not a fucking chance, love.” His cock was relentless, pumping into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and euphoric. She could feel the way her walls clung to him, gripping him tight, as if begging him never to leave. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation as he continued to fuck her with a ferocity that left her breathless. She could feel the tension building inside her, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. “Lando, I’m close,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Please, let me come.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. “Go ahead, baby,” he whispered, his voice dark and teasing. “Come for me. Let me feel you.” His hands moved to her breasts, squeezing them roughly as he continued to thrust into her, his cock hitting that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her body convulsed as the orgasm ripped through her, her pussy clamping down on his cock as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She cried out, her voice trembling with ecstasy as she came apart beneath him.

Lando groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt her walls clench around him, milking his cock for every drop. “Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “I can’t hold back anymore.” With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, his cock pulsing as he came, filling her with his release. The sensation was overwhelming, the heat of his cum spilling deep inside her, marking her as his.

They came together, their bodies trembling with the force of their orgasms. She could feel every pulse of his cock inside her, the way his cum filled her, the way his body shuddered with pleasure. It was intoxicating, the way they fit together, the way they moved as one. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “That was… fucking incredible.”

She could barely speak, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her pussy felt so full, so satisfied, and she could still feel the way his cock twitched inside her, as if he wasn’t ready to pull away just yet. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice soft and trembling. “That was… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. “I told you I’d make you mine,” he murmured, his voice low and possessive. “And I meant it.” He stayed inside her, their bodies still connected, as they caught their breath together. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the air thick with the scent of their passion. And in that moment, she knew she was his—completely and utterly his.

They lay entangled in the aftermath, the sheets tangled around sweat-slick skin. The room was quiet save for their ragged breathing. After a moment, Lando turned to gaze at her, still looking slightly astonished. “You’re real,” he murmured. “I’ve waited so long to have you here, like this.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her hand resting on his chest. “Didn’t think I’d give in, did you?”

He brushed a thumb over her lower lip. “I hoped you would. No matter how much you pushed me away, I couldn’t imagine stopping.”

She met his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re everything.” His voice was soft, laced with sincerity. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for months. I can’t even remember what it was like not wanting you.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she allowed herself a rare moment of honesty. “You made it hard for me, you know,” she admitted quietly. “Staying away when you’re so… persistent.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, clearly remembering every time she’d laughed off his attempts or walked away. “You’re a damn expert at playing hard to get, though. You had me by the throat. I was basically begging.”

She smirked, eyes gleaming in the low light. “Still are,” she teased gently. “You’ll keep begging for more, right?”

His laugh turned into a low, contented hum. “Oh, definitely. But don’t worry.” He shifted, rolling partly on top of her again, the warmth of his body reminding her just how good it felt. “I’m not letting you slip away this time.”

She didn’t resist as he captured her lips once more. The tension was different now—still electric, but edged with relief. They no longer had to pretend or play a cat-and-mouse game. The slow burn had finally exploded into a full-blown blaze, and there was no going back to careful distance.

Eventually, they drifted into a comfortable silence, bodies exhausted from the release of so many months of pent-up desire. She nestled into the crook of his arm, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Lando, seemingly unable to stop touching her, lazily traced patterns on her arm with his fingertips. Each brush of his skin still sent a small thrill through her, a reminder of what had finally happened between them.

In a half-drowsy state, she heard him murmur, “I can’t believe this is real.”

She let out a soft laugh, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I guess I teased you long enough.”

He sighed contentedly. “Too long,” he teased back, though his tone was affectionate. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

Warmth spread through her at his words. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone, ignoring the tiny voice inside her that warned of complexities and future uncertainties. For now, all that mattered was that the months of dancing around each other had led them here, to a tangled bed in a London flat, hearts still racing from the aftershock of passion.

The game they’d played was over, the final move sealing a mutual surrender. But as she looked up and met his eyes, she realized something else: a new chapter had begun. One where neither of them had to hide their attraction or maintain a careful distance. One where he didn’t have to pine and she didn’t have to tease—unless, of course, they both wanted to for the fun of it.

She gave him a sly smile. “I’m guessing you don’t regret staying in London this weekend.”

His quiet laugh rumbled in his chest. “Not even a little bit.” Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to her ear. “But don’t think I’m done yet. After all these months? We’ve only just started.”

Her breath caught, a new wave of heat coursing through her. “So show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. With a wicked grin, he drew her closer, tangling their limbs again under the dim glow of early morning light. Their laughter faded into soft groans and murmured confessions, and everything else—every worry, every reason she’d ever had to say no—melted away.

In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the closeness they’d finally earned, and the thrilling promise that this was just the beginning.

[madamechrissy]

Meddle About

Choso art is from @aransmind omg all their art is so delicious 😩😩😭 go follow themm

pairings- Tattoo Artist Choso x F! Reader

summary- After a bad breakup, on a whim you decide to go get a tattoo!! You remember Choso from college, he was so hot and mysterious but the two of you never talked. Now, he just happens to be the artist of the shop you randomly walk into. And you quickly learn- tattoos make you horny. Whoopsie!!

warnings- this chap- fingering, talking you through it, soft dom Choso, he's tasting you and telling you to be a good girl, mentions of past crushes in college hehe, why can't I do anything without plot?

Gonna be drabble style chaps 🫶🫶🖤

part one - part three

part two

Touch me, Choso - Did you just say that!?

Choso's leaning over you now, fingers brushing down your cheek, down to the curve of your neck, watching your eyes dilate, your breasts rising and falling with each quickened breath. "Touch you, hmm? Where, here?"

His fingers dance across your collarbone, thumb slipping along the delicate bones there, lips a breath from yours - you taste his breath, sweet like some sugary concoction, mixed with a hint of weed, intoxicating as his violet eyes study you. You bite your lower lip, a hand slipping to grip his wrist.

"Maybe a little lower?" You murmur, and he smiles just a bit - lips quirking at the corners.

"Lower, hmm?" Choso stands then, and you curse internally, eyes shutting, before gasping as you feel him clean the tattoo in progress. He's delicate as he wipes away the excess ink, before coating it and wrapping it.

"Oh, it's stinging a bit." You say softly, leaning up on your elbows and looking down at your thigh.

"Let it sit for a while," he says softly, and you think maybe you've lost it, the tattooed part of your thigh stinging just a bit as he presses the plastic wrap, eyeing you under long lashes, before slipping his fingertips along your inner thigh, watching it tremble. "Did you want me to touch you here?"

You nod, he chuckles at you, one arm braced on the side of your head, the other hand slipping higher, your heart is pounding in your ears as the anticipation of his slow hand teases you. "Higher."

"Higher? What do we say when we want something, hmm?" He is not exactly the shy boy you remember, he's self assured in his assumption, when his thumb tugs just a bit on the elastic of your panties, soaked already. "You're not answering... what do we say?"

"Please?" He moans softly, while your hand slips up his chest, feeling the strong muscles under the soft black band tee, when his thumb brushes your clit over your panties, making you cry out. "Mnh!"

"Here, pretty?" You nod quickly, he acts as if he doesn't wanna slide right inside your cunt, feeling it's heat, the sticky damp fabric coating his fingers again, pressing harder until he finds your clit over that fabric, feeling it twitch for him as your eyes dart to his lips.

"Please, m-more," your little breathy whisper almost ends his resolve, he slips under the waistband of them now, teasing your slit bare, feeling even more wetness pouring, your eyes get lidded as you look so pretty for him. "Ngh! there, please,"

"You're such a good girl now, why couldn't you be good while I was working, hmm?" He murmurs, running circles on your clit as the sounds of your soppy cunt echo in his quiet tattoo shop, scattered with art all over the walls, you errantly wonder if it's his, but all thoughts are forced from your brain when his lips nearly brush yours. "This what you wanted?"

"Want more," you say, kissing him then, when he hitches a thigh up so he can sink a finger in your soppy little hole, groaning as he feels your gummy walls gripping him. "Ah!"

"Fuck... do you taste that good all over?" He asks gently, kissing your lips, cool metal of his black lip ring pressing into the plush of yours, he pulls back and runs his tongue along the seam of your lips, moaning now. "You do."

"Hmm..." You're kissing him deeper, his tongue ring clicks your teeth as his finger curls just fucking right, tapping that spongy spot in your walls, making you gasp. "Oh!"

"There it is," he whispers, kissing across your neck, littering your throat with bites, soft enough not to mark you, but tearing just enough to leave a sweet ache. "You're so tight, hmm honey? Can you take two?"

"Y-yes, I can - mnh!"

"So wet, that all from the tattoo?" He teases, string of saliva evaporating between your lips as he swirls his finger around your entrance, tugging your underwear down then. He slips them to your ankles, two fingers now stretching you out, and your only answer is a moan, your hips arching up. "Asked a question honey."

"Not just the tattoo, but... mnh... part of it being... this wet..." you hear it, the squelching as his two long fingers insert themselves, and your cunt is drooling down all his black rings, dripping to the black leather seat you're laying on, your words trail off, pathetic from those fingers stretching you out.

"You're making a mess," he tuts his tongue, leaning over you and kissing your lips again, your hands slip around under his shirt, feeling the strong muscles of his back. "You're gonna have to clean this up, honey."

"Huh? Mnh!" You're cut off by him slipping his two fingers out, leaving you wanting, blinking and whining at the emptiness, when he slips his two fingers in your mouth.

"Suck," his order is firm, everything about Choso you thought in these moments have proven false, it's a sexy, dominating tone, so husky and deep. His eyes go black as he watches you sucking his tattooed fingers, the sight of your cheeks hollowing far too much for him. "Good girl, you can listen."

"Please, more," you're whining, desperately, and he smiles just a bit, kissing your sweet arousal off your lips, dying to bury his face between your thighs. But, not just yet. "Choso..."

"Do I need to make you cum so we can finish the outline?" He whispers, fingers brushing up and down your slit, your nipples press against your top, making him throb for you. He'd always thought you were pretty but fuck, he's teasing you and watching your eyes roll back, your cunt grips his two fingers so tight, when he curls back up at the spot that has you arching. "Will you stay still after?"

"Mm-hmm," he chuckles a bit at how cute you are. "Promise."

"Mmm, then go ahead," he leans forward, veins bulging out of his forearm as he angles it just so, and his other hand enwraps at the nape of your neck. "Cum for me, pretty."

You're done when he scissors his fingers in and out of your cunt, truly making a mess, while he just watches you, intently - so much behind the gaze you're as intrigued as you are dizzy, he curls them just so and presses the heel of his hand on your clit as he does, and all the pressure in your tummy builds until it releases. You're not quiet when you cum, he watches it all avidly, lips parted as you cling to him, nails leaving crescents along the strong muscles of his back.

"That's it, you're doing so good for me," he whispers, urging you on, when your cries are drank into his mouth, he's trembling just a bit as he feels your cunt just spasming around his fingers, gushing down, when he eases them out with a suctioned pop. He sucks you off his fingers, groaning as you watch him, face fucked out from that.

"Holy fuck..." you've surely lost it, watching him suck your cunt off him, pussy aching from just his fingers stretching you out. Your thighs are shaky, breaths coming in little pants, when he tilts your chin up, lips glossy from your cunt.

"Now, can we get the outline done? If you sit still I'll let you cum again, all right?" You're blinking - you're dumb from him right now, your breakup that's had you completely fucked up is far back, all you can think of is cumming for him again. "Messy," he slips your soaking panties back up, and goes back to acting professional, grabbing your thigh again. "You gonna be a good girl?"

"Maybe." He chuckles, as your disoriented mind runs - is this like normal for him!? Is he fine, unaffected? You're quiet, thigh burning with that pleasant pain, making the tensing in your tummy come back as he works the needle over you, you try to calm your breaths down, wondering then.

"Feel good?" He asks softly, and you nod, hands resting over your lap as you try not to move, to shift your hips and whine for more.

"Choso... college. Why didn't we ever..."

"We did kiss, once. But... you never remembered I guess." He murmurs suddenly, a pink along his cheeks like he hadn't just fingered you and tasted you.

"What!? We kissed! When?" He sighs, eyeing you for a moment, before going back to the black outline, angling his wrist just so to follow the curve of your thigh.

"It was a party one night, you were... god you were smashed, and you just... kissed me. I took you home thanks to your friend telling me where your dorm was, and put you to bed." You wrack your brain for the memory then, and he sighs. "It was a good kiss, for you being sloppy drunk."

"Tell me the story?" You lay back down, staying still for him, and he brushes his fingers across your inner thigh, remembering.

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