#with the hair tied on the back back of the head

[spcherryygirl]

𝓜𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝓐𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 — 𝓙. 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒅

𝓢 YNOPSIS : : you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love, love, love you.

𝓒ONTENTS : : yearner!jason todd. yearner!reader. female!reader. injuries( his scars. not detailed, the fic is sfw ). mentions of the lazarus pit. povs are separated ( still in second person. jason's first, then reader's ). ooc(?) jason feeling underserving woah woah woah. fluff. angst (?). mentions of sex. some parts are inspired by lyrics. ( new ) established relationship. no beta read, we die like bruce's parents. wc : 2.4k

BOOKS — DC BOOK

REQUESTED ; SUGGESTED : : @yeoniverseee && @laufeysgoddess

ᨦ𓏲 ، ݃♟❜ : : this is kind of,, a remake of this,,, if u squint.. layout slightly inspired by @laufeysgoddess ' carrd mwah mwah.,, ig it can be gn!reader, ithinkitjinkiithink also. i made hannie & ellie pick a fic to remake & they picked this !! & i was feeling very most ardently these days lolzsk. i am a STRONG believer that jay cried the first time he has sex with someone he really, really loves. like my "my love, mine all mine" fic,, JAY DED CRIED THERE SHUT UP. okay, now im really just recycling the pictures and layouts hehehehe. also,, 800???? YOU GUYS?????? ARE???? 800??? EIGHT HUNDRED ?????? EIGHT FUCKING HUNDRED ???? IM MAKING BABIES W U ALL. some parts here are actually what i said to @fromdove 😋( this is also dedicated to her btw. all of my works r prolly dedicated to her, hannie & ellie ) i love her ( including my cherries ) as much as i love jay, btw !! i tried to be poetic, guys. i really did🥀. idk if i hate this or love THEM. also... @yintous jinxed the crying part........ yin, you freak. this took me a whole week gng #writersblockslanderer. probably not ur taste in fics bc it's more focused on how they love

every time. every single time he finds himself staring at you too long, he hears it in his head like a fucking prayer. not that he's still into that kind of thing, but anyway. there's something sacred about the way you smile at him. something that gives him the sense that he has god's favorite secret beside him on the couch, his hoodie wrapped around your with her hair tied up in a bun and your toes against his thigh.

he thinks you're unreal. and maybe a little unfair. because you're soft with him. too soft. you're gentle in ways he doesn't think he deserves, like you were made to prove him wrong just by existing in his space. just by existing on this planet, actually.

it's a new relationship. not new in the way that it's uncomfortable or awkward. just new enough that he still feels the flutter in his belly when you kiss him first. just new enough that anything little you do still surprises him.

like how you touch his scars.

not with pity. not with horror. and obviously, not even with that unattached interest people sometimes get. no. you touch them like they're part of a map you're memorizing. like your fingers are tracing out every inch of what made him and you don't want to miss a single marker.

"this one," you said once, tracing over the raised scar near his ribs, "looks like a half moon."

and he looked at you like you'd said something ridiculous. because who the hell gazes at a scar━━a remnant of a knife that nearly killed him( not really )━━and thinks of the fucking moon?

you do. apparently.

he wants to write that down somewhere. with a permanent marker. place it into the back of his head so he'll never forget the way you looked at him that way. like you saw something lovely in all the spaces he thought were destroyed. maybe a tattoo would do.

sleeping beside you is its own kind of pain. he doesn't sleep much, usually. his body doesn't find stillness comfortable. but when you're in his arms, curled into his chest, breathing slow and steady and trusting him with your entire heart, he sleeps like the dead. it's dangerous. it's silly( not to you ). it's addictive. he wakes with his arm around your waist and his nose pressed to the back of your neck and wonders if perhaps this is what peace feels like.

god, not once in his life. even when bruce wayne took him in, thought he'd get to feel that.

and when you kiss him━━god, when you kiss him━━it's like you can feel what he wants before he can. you kiss him slow. careful. sometimes sloppy, sometimes quick. but always as if he belongs to you. as if there is another place in the entire world you'd rather be. and he breaks down. melt. dissolves for it every time. he leans into it with his entire body, as if the only thing holding him to reality is your lips on his.

having sex with you isn't forgetting. not with him. not anymore.

it's not an escape. or temporary. it's a return. a coming home. it's permanent.

you're kind to him. not only in kisses. but in the way you look at him when he undresses in front of you. in the way you stroke his back like it's holy. in the way you whisper his name like it's fragile.

he recalls the first time you had sex. the day he first cried while having sex with you. recalls how he attempted to hide it. bury his face in your shoulder and try to convince himself that it was merely sweat. but you were aware. of course, you were aware. and you kissed his temple and whispered, "i've got you," as if he wasn't shattering in your hands.

you make him believe that he is worth the gentleness. worth, this.

and perhaps he is. perhaps, with you, he is.

because you stay. even when he's not speaking. even when he's being grumpy or distant or two steps away from breaking. you stay. you wrap yourself around him and fetch him tea and refuse to ask him questions he doesn't want to respond to. and somehow, that gets him to speak. not everything. but enough. enough for you to understand.

he spoke to you about the pit. once. and only once. you didn't flinch. just gripped his hand. and said he was here. now. with you.

he trusts you.

and that shit scares him.

love was never simple for him. even before the pit. it was always rough. always a distance. but with you, it is. still. not in the boring sense. in the safe sense. in the "i can finally breathe again" sense. it's rough. but no longer a distance.

sometimes you're singing in the kitchen. poorly. on purpose. or not. and he leans in the doorframe and listens to you spin around in your socks, spatula clutched like a microphone, and he thinks, i could die right now and it would be enough.

he doesn't say anything. not yet. but he thinks about it all the time.

and he loves you. most ardently. passionately. in every possible way that a person can love.

in the way he remembers your coffee order and has a hair tie wrapped around his wrist for you.

in the way he allows you to see him when he's at his worst.

in the way he handles you like you're fragile. like you're not. like you're his.

in the way he sleeps more soundly when you're breathing next to him.

in the way he wishes to believe again in the future.

he loves you. hurtfully. shamelessly. completely. perfectly.

and if he could cut that into the sky, he would.

he loves you in the "let's run barefoot across the universe together" sort of way.

to saturn and back and then beyond.

to the spaces between stars where time loses track of how to move.

and jason todd━━jason peter fucking todd━━doesn't want to be rescued anymore. the child. the second robin. red hood. jason todd.

they all just want to stay.

with you.

he has no idea what he looks like when he is in love. but you do.

you've committed it to memory. tattooed it( at least, in your mind you did ) near your heart. the gentle droop of his eyelids when he gazes at you as if you're a dream. the slight opening of his lips, as if there is something he would like to say but can't. how his hand lingers in mid air before it settles on the small of your back, as if requesting permission still, even now, despite all that has happened.

he stares at you as if you're the last sacred thing in a world of tombs.

and you feel it. every ounce of the burden he bears. not because he loads it onto you, but because he never does. he bears it all as though he was meant to endure it alone, and you have to press yourself into the crack just to make him remember that he doesn't have to. not anymore.

you love him like breathing. all the time, without thinking, with no effort at all. it's just there. like his name on your tongue. like his shirts in your drawer. like the way your heart slows when you hear the front door open and it's him. again. and god, you never felt more real.

you remember the first time he told you about the pit. how his voice sounded like it was scraping the edge of something sharp. how he didn’t look at you, didn’t blink, just stared at the floor like it held the truth and the punishment and the apology all at once.

he said it like it was a confession. like it would be the thing that finally pushed you away. that will make you want to not stay.

it didn't.

you simply leaned over, wrapped your fingers around his, and told him, "you're here now."

he blinked then. just once. as if he was trying to process your words. as if he had no idea that something so simple could mean so much.

sometimes, you wonder if jason todd doesn't know that he's still alive.

not just breathing. but alive.

in the way his eyebrow creases when you laugh too loudly. in the way he rolls his eyes when you steal fries from his plate but pushes the rest up towards you anyway. in the way he allows you to sit on his lap with a book in your hand, not saying a word, just,, existing.

his scars don't frighten you. they never have.

he showed them to you as if he was getting ready to be turned down. again. god. it's like he expects you to just vanish. as if he was showing you the remains of a city he didn't think anyone would want to live in.

you touched them all. one by one. kissed the one under his rib. trailed your fingers over the one that curves into his shoulder. learned the mosaics of him with devotion. patience.

"you're not broken," you told him. "you're written."

he didn't say a word for a long time afterward. just gazed at you like you'd reached into your pocket and pulled out the sun and given it to him.

he tries━━no━━he does his best. every day. every time.

that's what bothers you the most. the way he's doing so hard. not to be good. not to be complete. but to be gentle with you. to be with you. even when it hurts. even when he's afraid.

you notice it the way he cradles your face like you'll disappear. the way he asks you "this okay?" even when it's just your limbs knotted up on the couch. the way he wears your keys around his neck( just to make sure he won't lose it, he told you once. ) like they're where they're supposed to be.

you recall the first time you had sex.

how he touched you like prayer. how his lips shook against yours. how his voice cracked when he said your name.

you knew. immediately. when his breath caught and his chest faltered and he tried to hide his face in your neck, you knew.

and so you cradled him. gently and slowly. allowed him to rest in your arms as if he were something fragile. kissed his temple and said, "i've got you," repeatedly until he accepted it. until he relaxed.

you don't realize that no one's ever made him feel little before. like that. little as in the safe kind.

he clung to you as if he thought he'd lose you if he relaxed his hold.

he didn't have anything to say then. just sat there. still. for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

he looks at you as if you're cut out of finer stuff. but you look at him and observe someone who has been to hell and is still willing to be kind. still tries. still wakes up every morning and makes coffee and leans his head on your chest as if he's found home.

you'd adore him in all the iterations of this life. even the ones in which you never get to hold him.

but you do. and that's the part that takes your breath away.

when he kisses you, it's all. everything. like he's famished and you're the only thing that ever satisfied him. he kisses you like nothing else exists. like if he died the instant after, it'd be alright. because he got to have this.

when you kiss him back, you kiss him with the same desperation. the same longing.

he once held your face in his hands, he didn't say it. i don't think he needed to. you don't either. the words, "you feel like home." was a line the author made solely for him. to recite it to you, the love interest. his love interest.

and you smiled as though your heart was breaking.

because that's what he is. to you. every hurting bit of him. every bruise and sigh and quiet stare and kisses. he is home. he is the place you come back to. the one you'd wait for lifetimes. the one you'd fall in love with all over again.

he can't say it in words, so he says it in everything else.

he gives you flowers wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper. leaves you little notes in your pockets. sits with you through thunderstorms just because you hate the sound.

he stays.

even when he's exhausted. even when he thinks he shouldn't.

and you do, too.

you stay when he's quiet. when he's distant. when he's hurting and doesn't talk until you're kissing his bruised knuckles.

you stay when he's laughing and when he's too far gone to remember why and how.

you stay because there's not a piece of him you'd want to leave.

you love him in the gentlest ways. in the harshest ones. in all the ways he doesn't believe he's worthy of being loved.

you love him when he's in your bed, breath warm against you, arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline.

you love him when he's disappeared for hours and returns with your favorite pastry because he "just happened to pass by."

you love him when he refuses to say he's hurting but lays his head in your lap like a silent surrender.

you love him because you do.

because something in you saw something in him and chose him anyway.

and you think━━no, you know━━that he is the great love of your life.

he doesn't think in miracles. but you do.

and you think he could be one.

because somehow, some way, despite it all, despite the blood and the grave and the fucked up environment, he's here.

with you.

and if you could have him write that in the stars, you would.

because you love him in the way the sky turns soft pink when the sun forgets how to hide, disappear, go down.

because you love him in the pauses between words, in the spaces between stars, in every what if, could be, maybe, probably, really, statistically speaking, almost, & someday.

he has bewitched you. body and soul.

and you never want it to shatter.

© spcherryygirl

[darkbluekies]

In your head

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: finally took the upper hand of Silas, tying him to a chair, should give you the power ... or does it?

Warnings: yandere, reader is unstable, power dynamics, manipulation, fear, mentions of traumatic experiences in the basement, a little darker oneshot, Silas getting slapped and having his hair tugged, condescending behaviour,

A/N: my phone's keyboard is acting up, replacing words with complete nonsense and words that aren't even similar so if you see something I've missed while editing please excuse that!!

Word count: 1.7k

Maybe you shouldn’t have taken advantage of him when he was knocked out cold, exhausted after a mission and slightly intoxicated from whatever booze he had gotten his hands on when stumbling home. Maybe it was wrong. 

But you couldn’t help but take the opportunity. When has he ever cared if you were too tired to fight back? You’ve always been the underdog, always the one being taken from, never the one taking … and oh how you want to take from him. Just the slightest. You know you’d never get away with it, if you do something that leaves permanent marks. Truth be told, you don’t even want to give him physical damage. You want him to feel humiliated. Just as he makes you feel day in and day out. 

And so, somehow, you’ve managed to tie him to a chair. He has fallen asleep there. The rope you got from the basement wall. Not a single cell in your body wanted to go down there, but you did, and no one questioned you. Why should they? If they offend you and you tell Silas …

You stand back, watching him with a guilty look. You shouldn't become like him. This is something he'd done. But it's too late to back out now. His eyes are opening.

“What … what are you doing?” his voice hoarsely asks, affected by alcohol and sleep.

And then his eyes come to sharpen, sober up. He tugs his arms and the darkness in his eyes settles into a calm.

“You're into some freaky shit, Y/N”, he says, almost sounding amused. “Now what? I'm at your mercy, what are you planning?”

He leans back in the chair, raising his chin in the air, looking far too pleased for someone tied to a chair.

“Are you enjoying this?” you ask.

“Depends on what you'll do to me”, Silas smirks.

“Is this how you're to your enemies too? Flirting with them and hoping they'll fall for your charm and let you go?”

Silas chuckles. Chuckles.

“You're no enemy”, he responds. “You're a naive little girl/boy who'll be very sorry when I'm free … because you know it'll happen one way or another, don’t you?” He chuckles again. “Or are you planning to kill me here?”

No, not kill. I'm not going to actively hurt you. But you don't need to know that.

You look around his office. Wondering if there are any tools you can use to scare him with. If only you were in the basement.

No, I'd never wish I was there. Been there once today and I'd rather not go down again.

Silas looks at you with those eyes again. Those that know that he's still in control. Your hand shoots out before you can stop it, grabbing hold of his face. His eyes twitch slightly. You caught him by surprise. One thing done right. 

You turn his face to the side, turning his register however you want. You've been close to him before, but never like this. Never in control. You can touch his face and he won't be able to rip your hands away. With that in mind, you move closer, unsure why. Maybe you want to see him the way he sees you—beneath show hands, not knowing what comes next. Want to know why he likes it.

“You look pretty dumb like this”, you say. “You were too drunk to notice me doing this. Aren't you supposed to be the leader? What if it wasn't me? You'd be dead.”

“What are you saying?” he asks. “You want me to be more careful? Do you suddenly care about me?”

“I want to hit you. I want to hit you for every time you've put me in that God awful basement. I want you to feel how fucking humiliating it is to be at the mercy of someone else, to be played with like you don’t matter. I didn't do this for you. I did it to you.”

“I'd be careful about hurting me, Y/N. I'd think both once and twice … and I'm saying that to be nice.”

“You can't go anywhere, why would I care?”

“Okay, then. I did warn you. If you, despite that, feel like hurting me, do it.”

Your hand makes contact with his face again, but this time it doesn't linger to hold. It slaps his cheek, forcing his head to the side. The sound echoes in the office. He let his head hang for a second, as if taking in the hit, and when he looks back at you his eyes are burning.

“Happy?” he asks, voice tight and laced with anger. “You've done something others get killed for.”

His cheek stings red. You should feel happy, shouldn't you? But you feel guilt, dirty. Fear. Despite that, you grab onto his hair, forcing his head backwards, exposing his neck. You can't look him in the eyes, can't let him see the fear in yours. 

You can see him swallow, although with trouble since you've bent his throat backwards. You give him one last shove before stumbling backwards, locking your eyes on something to the side to hide your face from him. 

A sound is heard, a slight creaking and you look back, seeing to your horror that Silas is rising from the chair, his hands free. His black eyes lock onto you, burning with rage and an animalistic glow you've seen too many times before. Predatory.

He sees how your face falls. Can practically tell how your entire body goes numb, and it fills him with such a pride. You stumble backwards. He knows exactly what you’re thinking. You’ve hit him. You’ve grabbed his face like a dog and tugged his hair. You’ve gone straight to the basement for lesser things. And now, you want to run, but your pitiful legs barely function. He’d never kill you, but that fact doesn’t comfort. He can make you wish he killed you instead. 

“Si–Silas …”, you stutter, gasping, practically choking on your own fear. 

“Your poor hands must have shook like crazy when you tied me”, he says, voice a low purring. “Must have been so scared that I would wake up and catch you in the act that you didn’t check how tight you tied me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean it!”

He backs you up against the wall. He moves even closer, caging you in with one hand by your head, towering over you like a predator. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, eyes filling with tears. His hand moves over, taking your jaw in his hand, just like you had done to him, but gentler. He turns your face around in a slow, almost mockingly tender, way. Taking his time, enjoying your tears. 

He sighs, long, drawn out. “What do I do with you?”

“I’m sor—sorry”, you hiccup. 

He has you where he wants you, pathetic and beneath him in all senses. 

“Sorry?” Silas repeats. “Were you sorry when you slapped me? Or when you grabbed my hair and forced my head back? Or when you grabbed my face like I do to you now? Or even when you tied me?”

“I’m sorry, Silas, I-I didn’t actually want to hurt you … that wasn’t my plan.”

“Then what was your plan, little thing?”

Your sobs come uncontrollably. He places the hand resting on your jaw over your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“I just wan—wanted to make you feel small”, you answer, not looking at him. “Wanted you to feel how I do. I-I didn’t mean to slap or grab your hair. You provoked me …”

He hums a small chuckle, leaning into your ear, lowering his voice. “I can get into your pretty little head quite easily, can’t I?”

“Silas, I’m sorry—”

He pulls back to look at you, but you don’t look at him. 

“Tell me”, he says gently. “What are you most scared of right now?”

“The basement …”, you whisper, barely audibly. 

“Louder. I can’t hear you.”

“The basement. Please don’t send me down there, please …”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you down there.”

You don’t find any. Not any he’d agree to. 

“No?” he asks. 

“No”, you whisper. 

He searches your face for any malice, anything suggesting that you did like it, but there are none. He had seen your expression before you managed to rip his head back. None of what he’d seen expressed anything remotely to enjoying it. It almost looked like you had been dared to do it and now had to go through with it. He had gotten into your head with his comments.

He contemplates it, really contemplates it. Should you think you can do these kinds of things to him and not get any punishment for it?

He looks at your face again and feels a tug at his heart. Had you done this out of malice or been so dumb to not know the consequences, then yes, he’d have taught you how to respect him. But this … this isn’t malice or stupidity. This is pure fear. Desperation. He can’t punish that. Not without making it worse. 

“I don’t ever want you to do this again”, he says firmly. “I do not want to be made a fool. If you’re pissed with me, talk to me. Don’t resort to methods that you aren’t comfortable with. You saw how easily I could get into your head and make you do something you didn’t want to do. Imagine how far I could have made you go. I could have ruined your life, but I didn’t. Next time I won’t be as nice.”

He notices how you’re shaking and sighs once more, pulling you into his embrace. You sob against his shoulder. Silas wants to rest his head on yours, nuzzle you close until you're one, but he can't give in to the satisfaction. He needs you to believe he's actually angry, because how haven't you figured it out yet? Silas smiles for himself. He had gotten out of the ropes on that first tug. 

[faiiryseong]

_ _ // ヤ . . . . so sweet — p.sh 18+ ◟ ⨯

[ smut drabble , word count : 500+ ]

[ tags : softdom! sunghoon x subfem! reader, oral (m. recieving), really it’s more face fucking than anything, reader cries a little, reader’s hands are tied up, lots of praise, petnames, brief mention of recording during sex, sunghoon is a little bit of a perv idk ]

this is smut, meaning minors and ageless blogs shouldn’t be interacting with it or they will be blocked. also this is not proofread so sorry if there are any mistakes

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your knees hurt. it sends an extra wave of arousal down your spine as you feel the hard wood digging into your skin, even through the thigh high socks you’re wearing, and you know you’re gonna wake up with pretty bruises tomorrow. it’s not the first time you’re sucking sunghoon off, far from it. but it’s the first time he’s dragging it out this long. it’s not quite cockwarming, but he’s agonazingly slow in his movement. making you feel the drag of his cock between your lips and down your throat, as your spit pools below and drips onto the floor.

“always so good for me, baby. look so pretty like this.” his voice is surprisingly soft given the circumstance, and it makes your heart swell with the knowledge that this is affecting him emotionally too.

his tip catches the back of your throat and you gag, sending another wave of tears down your cheeks. your makeup must be ruined by now, but he looks down at you like you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. instinctively, you go to move your arms so you can push away from the intrusion, only to be reminded of the pretty ribbon tying your hands together behind your back. for a second he stills, checking if you dropped the little ball you’re holding in your hand, so as to signal for a break. he smirks when he finds you’re still holding on tightly, and effortlessly switches back into his role.

“oh sweet little bunny, did you forget again? i haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already so gone, huh?” he asks, as he tightens his grip on your hair, holding your head still as he suddenly pulls out, making you cough and gasp for air.

“that was a question so you’d better answer me, darling. don’t make me wait.”

“h- hoonie…” you manage to bring out. “just feels so good, love it so much. love you so much!” your voice is hoarse, and your throat hurts from stretching to fit his cock.

“fuck. i wish i could take a picture of you right now, baby.”

he laughs in disbelief when your breathing noticeably gets heavier and your thighs rub together at the thought. “i see.” he says, amused. “we’ll keep that in mind for next time, yeah?”

and then he pulls your head back again, his grip still tight in your hair. “as for right now… if you make me cum i’ll give you a reward, hmmm? how’s that sound?”

“yes, please- please! i’ve been good!” and you have. you’ve been trying your best to ignore the ache between your legs, focusing on pleasuring your boyfriend as your heat has been slowly soaking through your panties, effectively ruining them. you know sunghoon will buy you new ones, he always does. but you also know he will be keeping your ruined ones in a secret box in the back of his wardrobe, as a reminder of how many times he’s made you his already.

he moans openly as you take him in again, and the sound goes straight to your core. he’s beautiful as he loses himself a little in the pleasure, his thrusts speeding up and becoming sloppier as he draws closer to his orgasm.

his eyes close as he suddenly spills down your throat without warning, holding your head still as he gives one final thrust. you gag as you attempt to swallow as much of his cum as you can, whining a little when some of it spills out and onto the wooden floor, pooling together with your spit.

he pulls out slowly, kneeling down and wiping the tears off your cheeks as you try to catch your breath.

“did so well for me, baby. i think it’s time i give you your reward now, hmm?”

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

party on you, part of you knew (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 8k

Summary: Mattheo had been losing his belongings, forgetting things, and feeling uneasy about that random girl who was always staring at him. His solution? Blame Theodore. It's always that damn astronomy tower.

A/N: I'm so ass at summaries 😭 lowkey i kinda hate this

When Mattheo woke up, he was unbearably groggy—dragging himself around the dorm with zero fucks to give while his friends hooted and hollered with far too much morning energy.

He sighed, heavy with the weight of a dream he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it started happy—blissfully, achingly so—but by the time he opened his eyes, he felt hollow. The fog in his head made it impossible to grasp.

He barely managed to throw on his shirt, only half-buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly around his neck as he stumbled around looking for his belt. He ruffled through his drawer, groaning when he pulled something unexpected from the back.

With a frustrated grunt, he hurled a cheap bottle of perfume across the room.

It smacked Theo in the back of the head.

“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” Mattheo growled, “Tell your useless fucks to stop leaving their shit in my drawer. My boxers smell like Victoria’s Secret now. What are they, perverts?”

Theo only laughed, ducking Mattheo’s middle finger with the practiced ease of someone far too used to this scenario. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

To be fair, it really was on Theo for being a shameless pervert who’d flirt his way into any skirt with a pulse. Mattheo wasn’t a stranger to finding souvenirs left behind after Theo’s conquests—underwear, school ties, even flowers that Theo had given them. Gifts Theo handed out to play the nice guy before inevitably ruining their lives.

Asshole.

But Theo was completely unbothered.

He ruffled Mattheo’s already-messy hair before yanking him into a headlock and dragging him out of the dorm toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Maybe, just maybe, after some tea and food, Mattheo would start feeling like a functional human being again.

Mattheo doubted it.

Still, he knew better than to show up to McGonagall’s first thing in the morning on an empty stomach—unless he wanted to snap and earn himself a detention for cussing someone out. Which, on mornings like this, was always a strong possibility.

He walked into the Great Hall like a stormcloud, shoulders tense, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Without saying a word to anyone, he dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.

Your eyes followed him the moment he entered.

He looked... wrecked. Moving sluggishly, like he hadn’t slept a wink. His mood practically radiated off him. Still, you watched as he poured himself a cup of tea—black, no milk, no sugar—and sipped it with his whole hand clutched around the rim, like the warmth might anchor him. A stark contrast to his polished friends, who had all been raised to drink tea like little lords—fingers lifted, saucers in hand, painfully dainty.

But Mattheo drank tea like a man dragged out of war.

You weren’t one to fall for toxic masculinity tropes, but Merlin help you—there was something a little charming about his ruggedness.

“(Y/N)? Hello?” Your friend whispered, snapping her fingers near your face. You blinked, startled, not realizing how long you’d been staring. She arched a brow, her expression tilting toward concern, “You good?”

Your gaze flicked back to Mattheo instinctively, just as he brought the mug to his lips again, the shadows beneath his eyes catching in the candlelight.

Your friend leaned in and hissed, “Don’t tell me you have a crush on Mattheo Riddle.”

Thank Merlin she had the sense to whisper. If Lavender—just two seats down—had heard, the entire castle would’ve known by lunch.

You gave a quiet huff and a crooked smile, “Me? Like Mattheo Riddle?”

But even as you said it, your eyes drifted back to him—just in time to see a Ravenclaw girl saunter up to his side. Her tone was too soft, her smile too wide, and Mattheo... smirked.

You couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. She returned to her table tittering like a first-year after her first Butterbeer, and Mattheo’s friends clapped him on the back like frat boys cheering over a win.

Your stomach twisted.

“Fat chance.” You muttered under your breath.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

***

Mattheo slumped into his usual seat at the back of Transfiguration, his head pounding like someone had hexed a war drum into his skull. The classroom was too bright. Too loud. The voices around him felt like nails against his already frayed nerves.

All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep through the day. But McGonagall had already given him a formal warning for skipping too many classes, and he had no desire to sit through another one of her lectures about wasted potential and “throwing your life away, Mr. Riddle.”

So here he was. Half-awake. Half-dressed. Fully over it.

He sprawled in his chair like he hadn’t been raised to sit like a human being. The boys were already talking shit around him. Something about some girl. Someone’s sister. Or cousin. Or ex. Mattheo couldn’t be arsed to care.

And then—

Eyes.

He felt it before he saw it.

A stare. Steady. Intent. Not curious like the usual ones. Not flirty or appraising. This was something else.

He tilted his head lazily, scanning the classroom, and there you were.

Sitting with your friends at the front of the room, quill dangling from your fingers, your books open in front of you but untouched. You weren’t focused on your parchment or your notes or even your friends.

You were watching him.

And not like most girls did. Not like he was a prize or a challenge.

There was something in your eyes. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

For a second, Mattheo just stared back, caught in the intensity of your gaze.

Then:

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo leaned over with a grin far too smug for this early in the morning and jabbed him in the arm with his wand, “You’ve got a fan.”

Mattheo blinked, the moment snapping. His friends were all looking now, following Theo’s nod toward the front row.

“Who is she?” Blaise asked, already smirking.

Mattheo shrugged, leaning back in his chair with practiced indifference, “No clue.”

“You sure?” Draco drawled, giving him a pointed look, “She’s staring at you like you broke her heart.”

“Probably did,” Theo snorted, “Another one of Riddle’s charm-and-ditch girls. What’s this—lucky number fifty?”

Mattheo let a crooked grin spread across his face, “I don’t count past three. After that, it’s just a blur of names and disappointment.”

Lorenzo chuckled, “You’re sick.”

“Don’t blame me,” Mattheo said, “If they confuse good dick with love, that’s on them.”

The boys howled, loud enough to earn a sharp look from a Ravenclaw at the next table over.

Mattheo smirked, brushing his fingers back through his mess of curls. He let his gaze drift back to you again—just for a second.

But this time, your attention had turned. You were laughing at something your friend whispered to you, cheeks flushed, head bowed. The look from earlier was gone. And whatever he thought he saw? It probably never existed to begin with.

Good.

***

It wasn’t rare for Mattheo Riddle to wake up in the middle of the night—heart racing, skin clammy, breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls like he was drowning in his own lungs.

What was rare was not being able to go back to sleep after.

His chest burned. His head was spinning. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs like a vice. He needed a cigarette. Now.

He reached for the pack tucked in his blazer, fingers trembling as he searched the pockets for his lighter—his lighter, the scratched metal Zippo with the chipped corner and the warm, familiar clink that grounded him.

Nothing.

“God-fucking-dammit, Theo.” He hissed, dragging his drawer open with a harsh scrape. No lighter. Of course. His roommate probably nicked it—again—for one of his stress-smoking episodes. Mattheo could’ve used his wand, sure, but that lighter was his. That sharp click when it flipped open was the only thing that made his fidgeting tolerable.

He scratched roughly at his wrist, fingers twitching for something to hold as he climbed the stairs to his usual spot. The cigarette was already between his lips before he’d even reached the top, wand-lighting it with a muttered “Incendio.” He took the first drag, feeling the smoke scrape down his throat and spread like static in his chest.

The cold air helped. A little.

Until he realized he wasn’t alone.

His eyes narrowed when they landed on you, sitting at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling over the stone ledge like it was nothing. You were leaning lazily against the railing, illuminated by moonlight—and you looked just as surprised to see him.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, accusatory.

You blinked at him, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Mattheo scoffed, taking another long drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out through his nose like a warning sign.

Great.

“Night terrors, huh?” You asked quietly.

He froze mid-drag, lips parting, “…How did you know that?”

“I get them too.”

That shut him up.

It went quiet. For a while, neither of you spoke. He leaned against the opposite railing, cigarette burning slowly to the filter, eyes fixed on the moonlit sky while the silence thickened.

Then he noticed your hands.

You were holding something—clutching it, almost. A stem of small, blue flowers. Mattheo stared, trying to place them. He knew he’d seen them somewhere before, probably in Herbology, but the name wouldn’t come to him.

He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like being watched, not when he was like this. Raw. Frayed. Sleepless. Unmasked.

“…Can you stop fucking staring at me?” He muttered, side-eyeing you.

Your cheeks flushed. You dropped your gaze quickly, fingers curling protectively around the petals.

Mattheo exhaled sharply, hating the stab of guilt that followed.

He felt bad. For you.

How Hufflepuff of him.

Mattheo threw the cigarette down with more force than necessary, the end flaring before he crushed it beneath his shoe, muttering another curse under his breath.

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t look back.

Just turned, hands once again scratching at his wrist for something to play with, jaw clenched like he was holding something back—words, or maybe the scream in his chest—and disappeared down the stairs.

Leaving you alone again.

The cold crept in as soon as he left, biting at your skin and wrapping around your ribs like a hollow ache.

You stared at the spot where he'd been, at the faint trail of smoke still curling from the squashed cigarette. Then, slowly, your gaze dropped back to the Forget-Me-Not's in your lap.

You sighed.

***

Mattheo was pissed off again.

Theo swore up and down that he hadn’t taken the lighter, which only made Mattheo tear through the dorm in a fury—rummaging through drawers, knocking over books, slamming open cabinets like the thing he was looking for might vanish if he didn’t get to it fast enough.

His wrist was already red and irritated, covered in faint scratches from how often he scratched at it now. Some nervous habit that had crept in without him noticing. It didn’t help. It never helped. Every time his fingers twitched toward that spot on his skin, it felt like he was supposed to find something there. Like something used to be there. Something that mattered.

But it was always nothing.

He yanked open his nightstand drawer again, rifling through clutter and broken quills and the chaos of his own impatience—and paused.

There, wedged between a tattered book and a scrap of parchment, was a small, flattened flower.

A faded blue. Edges browned and curled. Limp, like it had been forgotten for ages.

Mattheo blinked at it, confusion flickering briefly across his features—before his expression twisted into irritation.

“Bloody hell, Theo,” He muttered, snatching it up, “Tell your latest girl to keep her sappy crap out of my things.”

He didn’t know why it made him so angry. Maybe it was the idea of someone else’s sentimental leftovers tucked between his stuff. Maybe it was how… familiar it looked. But that only annoyed him more.

He crushed the flower in his fist and stormed over to the trash, dropping it in without ceremony. Wiped his hand on his trousers like it’d left something behind.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

Hours later, he was still restless. Still scratching at his wrist. Still glancing, without meaning to, toward the drawer where it had come from. Toward the bin where it lay now.

The feeling wouldn’t go away. The unease stayed curled around his ribs like a secret. That damn flower—it was nothing. So why did it feel like everything?

He stood up.

Crossed the room.

And dug through the bin.

There it was—crumpled, soft, and broken now. He lifted it carefully, petals cracking under his fingers.

Something inside him shifted. Just slightly. Like a door creaking open somewhere in the distance.

But nothing came through.

No memory. No explanation.

Only that feeling.

He shoved the flower back into the drawer, slammed it shut like it could bury whatever was clawing at the edge of his mind.

But it lingered.

Gnawing. Heavy. A strange, aching knowing:

He was missing something.

Something important.

***

The dorm was loud when they got back from Hogsmeade—Theo and Draco bickering over whether Honeydukes or Zonko’s was the superior stop, Blaise tossing his coat onto Mattheo’s bed without a care, and Lorenzo humming some obnoxious tune he must’ve picked up at the Three Broomsticks.

Mattheo didn’t say much.

He was still on edge—still fidgeting, still scratching at the inside of his wrist like his skin could give him answers. The chill in his bones hadn’t faded, and neither had the strange weight that had settled in his chest days ago.

Ever since that flower.

Ever since he lost his lighter.

He dropped his bag onto the bed and started to unpack: Chocolate Frogs. Licorice Wands. Cockroach Clusters—Theo’s, obviously. A new pack of cigarettes.

And then—

“Oi, Riddle,” Theo called from across the room, “Since when do you eat Sugar Quills?”

Mattheo frowned, “I don’t.”

Theo held up the pink-and-blue striped box like he was unveiling a crime scene, “Then what’s this doing in your bag?”

The moment Mattheo laid eyes on it, something echoed in his head. You’ll like it eventually.

He blinked.

Crossing the room, he took the box, turning it over in his hands like maybe it would offer some kind of explanation.

“I didn’t buy this.” He said, voice firm.

“You sure?” Blaise asked, brows raised, “You didn’t go into Honeydukes and black out in a sugar trance, you big back? You’ve got, like, twelve of these. Mate, what the hell—you’re gonna get diabetes.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, “I’d never buy these. I hate them. Too sweet. They make my teeth feel like they’re rotting out of my skull.”

Draco smirked, “Aww, are the cigarettes finally rotting your brain too?”

Mattheo didn’t laugh.

He just stared at the box.

He didn’t remember buying it.

But his hands did.

The same way they reached for his wrist like something used to be there.

Like someone used to be there.

He sat down heavily on his bed, still holding the sweets.

His jaw clenched.

“I didn’t buy this.” He repeated, quieter this time. Almost like he was trying to convince himself.

But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.

***

He hadn’t meant to go up to the Astronomy Tower.

Not really.

His legs just carried him there, like they always fucking did lately. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like his body was trying to remember something his mind couldn’t.

He kept doing things he didn’t mean to do—walking into places without knowing why, reaching for things he didn’t remember losing. It felt like his own body was betraying him. His mind was slipping, fading at the edges, and it was starting to scare him.

He couldn’t remember things.

He scratched at his wrist until it burned—red, raw, relentless. He felt wrong every night when he lay down to sleep, like he was somewhere he didn’t belong. And every morning he woke up with a hollow in his chest, like he’d just lost something—someone—in a dream he could never quite remember.

And this tower.

This fucking tower.

It made his skin itch. Made his hands shake. Made him want to scream and break things and disappear into its stone walls, all at once. It offered a kind of comfort he didn’t understand—a familiarity he couldn’t explain—which angered him more.

But tonight—it was different.

Because when he stepped onto the final stair, he saw you.

And the air was punched from his lungs.

You were sitting cross-legged in your usual spot, the stars painting silver on your skin, your hair spilling down your back like ink across parchment. You didn’t see him. You were too focused on something resting in your hands.

Then it clicked.

Flick. Clink.

That sound.

He stopped cold.

The lighter.

His lighter.

You were flipping it open and closed, spinning it through your fingers with a rhythm that was too natural—like it was yours. Like it had always been yours.

Mattheo’s stomach twisted hard.

He couldn’t breathe.

He knew that lighter. He’d turned the entire dorm upside down searching for it. Tore open every drawer, snapped at Theo, cursed until his throat was raw. He scratched at his wrist for weeks—like something had been ripped from it.

And there it was.

Right there.

In your hands.

And then—everything hit him.

.

“You’ll like it eventually.” You giggled, chewing on the Sugar Quill Mattheo had reluctantly picked up for you at Honeydukes earlier that day.

He grimaced, visibly cringing as you crunched through the overly sweet treat. The sound alone made his teeth hurt. He could practically feel the sugar coating his molars just by watching you. It was going to get stuck between your teeth—he knew it—and while he wasn’t exactly a stickler for dental hygiene like Granger (he smoked, for Merlin’s sake), Sugar Quills were where he drew the line.

Still, you tore into the next package with such delight, he couldn’t find it in himself to berate you. He simply gagged—dramatically, of course—when you offered him a bite.

“I’m gonna Pavlov you into liking these.” You teased, that mischievous glint sparking in your eyes.

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, “What’s tha—?”

He didn’t get to finish.

You grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him—open-mouthed, unrelenting, sweet as sin. He froze for half a second before melting into it, letting your sugar-coated tongue slip past his defenses and press the sickeningly sweet taste right onto his own.

When you pulled away, his lips were sticky, glistening with syrup.

He swallowed, stunned.

“So?” You asked, clearly too pleased with yourself.

Mattheo blinked, then licked his lips, “They’re... not that bad.”

You laughed—bright, triumphant, and a little breathless.

.

It was another late night at the Astronomy Tower.

The stars were out, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled glitter over velvet, and the air had that sharp, biting chill that clung to your skin no matter how many layers you wore.

Mattheo leaned against the metal railing, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You want one?” He asked, offering it to you with a lazy smirk, smoke curling from his lips.

You wrinkled your nose, “I'm not kissing you if you smoke that.”

He chuckled, teeth flashing, “Is that a challenge?”

You shot him a look and snatched the lighter from his hand instead—silver, scratched, familiar. It was always warm, always had just the right amount of heft to it.

“Oi,” He said, eyebrows lifting, “That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” You replied, holding it up like a trophy, “Finders, keepers.”

Mattheo pushed off the rail, slow and predatory, “You think stealing my lighter’s gonna get me to stop?”

“No,” You said innocently, slipping it into your robes, the metal cool against your chest, “Just… now I have something that reminds me of you.”

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, “You really need a souvenir to remember me by?”

You tried to sound casual, breezy, unaffected—even though your heart was thudding like mad, “Maybe I just like collecting little pieces of you.”

His smirk softened into something quieter. Gentler.

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing just under your eye. “You already have me,” He said, voice low. “Completely.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know,” You whispered.

And you did.

But you still kept the lighter.

Just in case.

.

One evening, he pulled a fast one on you.

You were sitting alone in the library, curled into the corner of your favorite window seat with a book in your lap, half-lost in the pages. Your hair was pulled back loosely, strands a bit wild from the wind that afternoon, but held together by your trusty hair tie.

Mattheo had been there a moment ago—pretending to study, but mostly just watching you with that unreadable expression he wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

And then suddenly— Fingers. Gentle and quick.

He slipped behind you like a shadow, and before you could even register his presence, he plucked the hair tie from your ponytail in one smooth, practiced motion.

Your hair tumbled down around your shoulders, soft waves cascading freely as you gasped and whipped around.

But he was already gone.

All that remained was the faint sound of his laughter disappearing down the corridor.

You found him two floors down, strolling like he hadn’t just committed a crime of war against your scalp.

“Mattheo!” You called, breathless and irritated—more flustered than anything else.

He spun around with that devilish grin that made you want to slap and kiss him all at once. “What?” He said, all faux innocence, “I’m sentimental.”

You shot him a look—equal parts annoyance and barely hidden affection—that made his heart stutter. It was the kind of look that made him want to drop to his knees just to hear you laugh.

“You’re a kleptomaniac.” You said, marching up to him.

Mattheo held up the hair tie, lazily looping it around his fingers before slipping it around his wrist like a bracelet. “It’s not stealing if it’s love,” He quipped, “Now I’ve got something of yours, too.”

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” He murmured, stepping close enough for his breath to tickle your skin, “You still love me.”

You rolled your eyes but let him steal a quick kiss anyway. Just a brush of his lips against yours. Then you turned on your heel and walked away before he could get even more smug.

But later, at breakfast, you noticed.

He sat with his chin resting in his hand, pretending to listen to Theo ramble about god-knows-what, while the fingers of his other hand fidgeted absently with your black hair tie. Twisting it. Letting it snap against his wrist like a grounding tether.

You saw how he kept it during exams. How he twisted it when he was anxious. How his shoulders always relaxed a little more with it there.

You never asked for it back.

.

It was early spring, the air fresh with promise and the world just beginning to wake. You and Mattheo had slipped away from the noisy halls of Hogwarts, finding a quiet spot near the edge of the Forbidden Forest where wildflowers grew in soft clusters.

You spotted the tiny blue blossoms first—forget-me-nots, fragile and delicate, like little pieces of the sky nestled in the grass. Their soft petals seemed to glow faintly in the dappled sunlight.

Without a word, you bent down and carefully picked one, holding it between your fingers like a secret—its slender stem cool against your skin.

Mattheo watched you with that rare softness in his eyes, his usual guarded expression melting away just enough to let you see the boy beneath the bravado.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the dark curls at his temple as you tucked the forget-me-not behind his ear. The vivid blue popped beautifully against the deep shade of his hair.

“You look pretty good in blue, Matty,” You teased, voice warm and a little breathless, “Pity you weren’t smart enough to get into Ravenclaw.”

He smirked, one brow arching, “Smart enough to land you, thank you very much. Besides, I prefer being underestimated.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up like a melody he wanted to bottle and carry with him forever, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

And then, to your surprise, he didn’t brush the flower away. He just stood there, letting you lean in again—tucking more blossoms into his hair, weaving them gently between his curls. Blue and lavender and a soft yellow bloom, until he looked like something half-wild, half-divine. He only rolled his eyes once, but never told you to stop.

“They’ll think I’ve gone soft.” He muttered, not bothering to hide the fond smile twitching at his lips.

You tilted your head, mock-serious, “They’ll think you’ve finally gotten taste.”

He didn’t take the flowers down. Not when you walked back together. Not when you kissed him goodbye just outside the castle, fingers brushing over his hand like you didn’t want to let go.

But as the stone walls of Hogwarts came back into view, and the sounds of students filtered into the air again, reality sank in.

Your relationship was still a secret — something held in the quiet, in shadows and stolen spaces. Not because you were ashamed, but because the world wouldn’t understand. Because in the daylight, things were louder, crueler, more complicated.

So Mattheo paused, just before you stepped into view of the courtyard. His fingers reached up slowly, brushing through his curls, dislodging the little blooms one by one.

He didn’t look at you as he did it — maybe because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

By the time you reached the castle steps, his hair was bare again. No trace of the wildflowers you’d threaded there with so much affection. Just the same dark, unruly curls — and the carefully unreadable expression he wore so well.

But the forget-me-not? That one he kept. The first one you tucked behind his ear — soft, sky-blue, and still warm from your touch.

He palmed it quietly, slipping it into his jacket pocket like something far more precious than it looked.

Later that night, once the castle had gone quiet and his dorm was dark, he pulled it out again. Held it in the moonlight. Turned it gently between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.

Then, like a secret he meant to keep safe forever, he slid it between the pages of a book and tucked it into the drawer beside his bed.

.

The first time you knew something was wrong, Mattheo flinched when you touched his arm.

It was late — one of your usual hidden meetups by the Black Lake. The sky was an ink spill overhead, stars scattered and silent. He’d been jittery the entire night. Pacing. Checking behind trees. Lighting a cigarette only to toss it into the water before even taking a drag.

You reached for him, “Mattheo, what’s going on?”

He looked at you like he wasn’t really seeing you — his eyes wide and distant, jaw clenched like he was holding something in his mouth that tasted like blood.

“My father’s coming to Hogwarts,” He said quietly, “Not officially. But… he’s been asking questions.”

You felt the cold seep into your chest like water through fabric.

“About you?” You asked, voice hollow, “About us?”

Mattheo hesitated — just long enough to make the answer obvious.

“He can’t know anything,” He said, “But he’s… suspicious. He doesn’t like when I get distracted. When I get soft.”

Your breath hitched, “You’re not soft, Mattheo. You’re—”

“I am with you,” He said, voice breaking, “And that’s the problem.”

After that, things changed.

He didn’t say he was pulling away — he just did. His touches grew shorter, his presence tighter, like he was wound up and couldn’t afford to unravel. He still showed up, but his eyes darted constantly — over your shoulder, into the shadows, like he was always expecting someone else to be there.

Then one night, he didn’t come at all.

You waited at your usual place for over two hours, fingers frozen and heart pacing.

When he finally appeared, it was nearly morning. You were curled on the stone steps of the Owlery, eyes red from cold and fear and something worse.

“You can’t just vanish on me.” You hissed, standing up the moment you saw him.

“I was in detention—”

“You’re lying.”

And his silence confirmed it.

Then, suddenly — he did something he hadn’t done in weeks.

He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last time. Like the world was ending and you were the only thing left worth saving. It was desperate, deep, a confession poured through parted lips.

When he pulled away, his shoulders were shaking.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“No,” You said immediately, because your heart already knew where this was going, “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Please,” He whispered, “You’re the only person I trust. The only one I—”

He stopped himself. Swallowed. Opened his eyes again — and this time, you saw it. Pure terror.

You backed away, “So your solution is to make me forget?”

“Not you,” He said quickly, desperate, “Me.”

You stared at him, stunned, “Mattheo—”

“If my father reads my mind—if he sees you—he’ll come for you. He won’t ask questions. He won’t give you time. He’ll just… take you.”

Your voice cracked, “You know how to protect your mind—Occlumency, you’ve been practicing—”

“It’s not enough,” He said, quietly, “Not against him. Not forever.”

“You know how to do it,” He added, “You’re brilliant. You always have been.”

“That’s not the point!” You cried, “You won’t remember me. Us. Anything.”

“I’d rather forget you than bury you.” He said.

And that was when the tears came.

“I don’t want to,” He choked, “But it’s the only way. You know it is.”

And deep down… you did.

You waited. Waited for him to change his mind. To reach for you and say never mind, say run away with me, say I’ll figure it out.

But he didn’t.

He just closed his eyes.

And nodded.

Your wand trembled in your hand.

He reached forward, gently brushing your hair back behind your ear — his touch unbearably tender.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “If things were different—”

“Don’t,” You said, stepping back, your voice a broken whisper, “Please don’t.”

And with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, with your throat tight and your chest split open, you raised your wand.

You didn’t even need to say it loud.

“Obliviate.”

The moment the light faded, you knew you’d made the wrong choice.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

And then… his eyes didn’t settle on you. They moved right past you, like you weren’t even there. Like you were just another shadow in the morning fog, barely even looking at you as he walked away, not saying another word to you.

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

You dropped your wand and cupped a hand over your mouth, falling to your knees before your legs could even register it. The sob tore out of you like a wound — raw and keening and endless.

Why had you listened to him?

Why hadn’t you fought harder?

Why hadn’t you told him you loved him one last time?

Why hadn’t you heard him out — really heard him — when he tried to tell you about his dreams of a different life?

Now you were all alone, doubled over on the stone floor, sobbing into the fabric of your robes, fingers clutching the last thing you had left of him—

His lighter.

Still warm from his pocket.

Still heavy with everything he forgot.

.

Mattheo staggered back a step, like he’d been hit.

You looked up at him, panic flaring in your eyes as you noticed the way he stared — wide-eyed, horrified, stunned. You immediately closed the lighter in your palm, like the damage hadn’t already been done.

"Mattheo..." You whispered, voice barely audible.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might stop entirely.

"You," He said, voice cracking, trembling with something raw, "You—"

You stood quickly, as if trying to close the space between you might somehow take it all back, “It’s not what you think—”

"Don’t," He cut you off sharply, eyes bright with something too painful to name, “Don’t lie to me right now. Please.”

You glanced down at the lighter still clutched in your hand — tarnished silver, the initials worn smooth, familiar in a way you could never explain away. Your throat burned. Your heart twisted. The thought of letting it go felt like tearing your soul from your body.

But your fingers moved anyway.

You held it out to him, your hand shaking slightly, silently begging — don’t take it. Don’t make me give this up.

"I found it in one of the classrooms," You said softly, voice paper-thin, not meeting his eyes, "If it’s yours... you can have it back."

Mattheo’s expression crumpled. His gaze flicked from the lighter to your face — and stayed there.

Something cracked inside him.

Because now that he really looked at you—he saw everything. The faint glassiness in your eyes. The twitch of your mouth as you tried to keep it from trembling. The hollowness in your expression that matched the ache inside his chest.

Salazar. How had he not seen you?

He'd looked right past you in that classroom. Days ago. Sat barely feet away and missed the way you blinked too fast. Missed the way your shoulders curled inward like you were trying not to fall apart. Missed every detail of the face he used to know better than his own.

How the fuck could he have forgotten you?

The realization hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Had he really let you go without a fight?

Now you were standing here, holding his lighter out like it weighed more than it should, like giving it up might tear you in half. And he could see the way your other hand was clenched behind your back, knuckles white, like you were physically holding yourself back from something—from reaching for him, maybe, or from falling to pieces.

He didn’t take the lighter.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

“I want it back.” He said quietly, voice cracking.

Your hand flinched.

But he wasn’t looking at the lighter anymore.

His eyes dropped to his wrist. Empty.

He remembered now. The hair tie. Black and fraying from how often he used to play with it.

“I want the hair tie back.” He whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mattheo took a step forward. Slowly, carefully, like you might disappear again.

And your hand began to shake.

Your eyes flickered all over his face—his brows, his lips, the curve of his jaw—as if searching for proof, for something to hold onto. And when you finally found it, that flicker of recognition in his eyes, your breath hitched. Your heart began to thump wildly against your ribcage, like it knew what was coming before your mind could catch up.

“Y-You… do you remember—?” Your voice cracked, brittle with hope and fear.

Mattheo's eyes didn’t waver.

“Remember that I’m in love with you?” He said softly, “I could never forget that.”

Your lips parted in a soundless gasp as the words landed. Your eyes filled with tears so fast they spilled over before you could stop them, hot and stinging as they traced down your cheeks. A sob escaped your throat as you closed the distance and threw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder like the world might fall away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

And then your fist hit his back. Not hard—but enough to make him feel it. Again. And again.

“You horrible man,” You choked out between sobs, “You awful man. You left me alone for so long. You left me alone with all the memories of you. You let me watch as you moved past me without even acknowledging me—while I waited and prayed and begged for you to look at me just once.”

Mattheo clutched you tighter, his own throat thick with emotion, his arms trembling around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m so sorry.”

And he meant it—meant it with everything he was. Because now he could feel what he’d been missing all this time. Not just the memories. Not just the pain. But you—your arms, your scent, the way your voice broke when you cried, the weight of everything you’d carried alone.

Mattheo clutched you tighter like he was scared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His voice trembled as the dam inside him cracked open, everything he’d locked away pouring out with it.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so—so sorry,” He murmured against your hair, the words shaky and breathless, “I’m sorry for leaving you alone. For making you carry it all by yourself.”

You hiccuped through another sob, your hands bunching the fabric of his shirt, your face still buried in his shoulder as if you were terrified this moment might end.

“I never could forget you,” He continued, voice raw, “Even when I didn’t remember… it was like the essence of you had been interwoven with the very fabric of my soul.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, jaw tight like he was barely holding himself together.

“I was looking for you, even when I didn’t know who I was looking for,” He said, “I saw you in my dreams, I heard your voice in the empty echoes of a room—I felt you there with me. Like my heart remembered you even when my mind couldn’t.”

Your tears came harder at that—relief, grief, love, and anger colliding inside your chest so violently it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“I thought I was losing my mind,” He whispered, cupping your face like you were the most delicate, precious thing in the world, “Because everything felt wrong without you. Everything.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.

You were trembling, sobbing quietly as you leaned into his touch, hands clutching his wrists now like you needed to anchor yourself to him.

"Tell me." You whispered, voice trembling, raw. Vulnerable.

Mattheo paused, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tell me what you would do if things were different," You continued, "I asked you to stop that day... but I’ve regretted nothing more."

His features softened—pain flickering across his expression like a ghost. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering there, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“If things were different,” He said, voice hoarse, “I’d announce to the entire world that I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”

Your breath hitched as his thumb grazed your skin again, so gently it made you ache.

“I’d tie myself to you with an unbreakable vow without a second thought,” He added, his throat tightening painfully around the words, “I wouldn’t hesitate—not for a single second.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely. Hot streaks down your cheeks. But Mattheo was already there, wiping them away as fast as they came, like he could undo the hurt if he just tried hard enough.

“We’d graduate together,” He murmured, “and move into some tiny flat close to your work—something small, maybe a little messy, but cozy. Ours.”

You laughed softly through the tears, already imagining it. He smiled faintly too, the kind of smile that was equal parts love and heartbreak.

“And we’d argue about furniture,” He added, eyes glinting, “Because obviously I’d want dark wood—rich and elegant, fits the whole brooding Slytherin vibe—”

“—and I’d want something light,” You interrupted, a wobbly grin forming, “Warm and soft. Welcoming.”

“Exactly,” He said, voice thick but fond, “We’d compromise. Or maybe I’d just let you win, because seeing you happy would be worth more than being right.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’d support you completely as you started your career,” He whispered, “being the househusband of your dreams—your very own doting malewife.”

You laughed again, really laughed this time, and his heart nearly cracked open at the sound. He cupped your face, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I’d keep the place spotless, cook you dinner, be there every night when you got home—just to hug you and tell you how proud I am.”

You were crying again. He didn’t try to stop you this time.

“Then once you were settled, really settled... I’d ask you to marry me,” He whispered, “And you’d say yes.”

Your breath caught, and he leaned in closer.

“We’d move far away from here. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere by the sea. And we’d build a life—peaceful, messy, ours.”

He paused, his voice faltering with emotion.

“Maybe we’d have a kid. Or two,” He said, his hand moving to rest gently over your heart, “And we’d raise them right. With kindness. With patience. With love.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking fast.

“We’d give them everything we never had,” He whispered, “We’d give them a home. A real one. One where they never have to question if they’re wanted. Or loved.”

Silence stretched between you—thick with longing and mourning and love that had never really gone away.

And in that quiet, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his once more, tears mixing with his.

“I love you, Mattheo.”

The silence that followed was soft, reverent—like the universe had paused just long enough to let the words sink into the spaces they belonged. Mattheo’s chest rose and fell, his jaw trembling as he took your face in both hands.

“I love you, (Y/N).” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was raw, certain, “More than I can express. More than even I understand.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your eyes searching his. “What now?” You whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment—his gaze steady, intense, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then he shook his head with a small, breathless laugh that sounded half broken, half amazed.

“I don’t know,” He admitted honestly, his eyes searching yours, “I really don’t. I thought this plan of mine was foolproof. Now I realize that no magic on Earth could keep me from you.”

His thumb brushed softly along your cheekbone, grounding you in the moment, like he needed you to feel every word.

“But we’ll figure it out,” He murmured, “Together.”

His voice dropped, fierce and tender all at once, “There’s no way I’m ever leaving you alone again.”

And you believed him.

The silence between you was thick with everything unsaid, everything still fragile and aching and hopeful.

You sniffled, tears drying on your cheeks as your lips curled into the ghost of a smile, “You really didn’t get sorted into Ravenclaw, huh?”

He blinked, “What?”

“If you had just thought of all this months ago, we could’ve avoided… well, all of this.”

Mattheo let out a breath of laughter, warm and hoarse. His eyes shone—not just with relief, but with something softer, something that looked a lot like joy. “Brilliant timing’s never been my strong suit,” He said, cupping the back of your head and pulling you gently toward him.

“And yet,” He added, brushing his forehead to yours, “You still love me.”

Then he kissed you—slow and reverent, like a promise being made without words. And you kissed him back, like a vow being answered.

Not perfect. Not finished.

But finally, finally starting again.

***

Bonus (3 years later):

It had taken them months.

Theo had stormed through libraries and pubs, interrogated shopkeepers and old Hogwarts portraits. Draco had used every Ministry connection he had, even bribed a goblin or two. Enzo swore up and down he’d seen Mattheo in Paris (he hadn’t). Blaise exhausted every last connection in his effort to find him.

They were chasing a ghost.

Mattheo had vanished the moment he turned seventeen. No note. No warning. Just gone.

You stayed behind. Finished the year. Graduated. And then disappeared too, vanishing without a trace.

Now, with the war finally over—Voldemort gone, the dust settled—they were left sorting through the wreckage. And only now had the truth surfaced. Mattheo Riddle, the Dark Lord’s son, had been funneling secrets to Dumbledore the entire time. A double agent. A traitor to his bloodline. A hero, some dared to say.

But no one had seen him since.

Until now.

After following a trail of half-clues and rumors, here they were—standing in front of a sun-washed cottage perched on a cliffside in Greece, the Aegean sparkling behind them like a dream.

Theo knocked.

Draco crossed his arms.

“This is ridiculous,” Enzo muttered, “We should still be checking those shady pubs in Transylvania. That prat always wanted to go drag racing there.”

The door creaked open—and there you were.

Their jaws collectively dropped.

“Hi,” You said, startled but steady. A little older, a little different—but still unmistakably you, “Can I help you?”

“I know you,” Draco said, snapping his fingers, “You’re that Gryffindor girl—the one who used to creepily stare at Riddle.”

Your mouth fell open. Creepily? Really?

Then, from deeper inside the house:

“Love? Who’s at the door?”

Mattheo’s voice.

Their hearts stopped.

Before anyone could react, he stepped into view—shirtless, barefoot, hair messy and eyes half-lidded from sleep. He froze when he saw them.

Theo blinked like his brain wasn’t catching up. Blaise muttered something about hallucinations. Draco looked ready to demand blood. Enzo just pointed, wide-eyed.

“Mate,” He said slowly, “what the actual fuck.”

Mattheo ran a hand through his hair and exhaled like he’d just been hit by a Bludger, “Wow. Okay. This is... unexpected.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” You whispered, nudging him, “Invite them in!”

“…Right. Uh—come in. I guess.”

The four of them stepped inside cautiously, like crossing the threshold of something sacred. The living room was cozy and sunlit, scattered with books, candles, and—

“Hold up,” Enzo blurted, pointing at a pastel blue baby onesie draped over the arm of the couch, “What the hell is that?!”

Mattheo’s mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again.

Before he could say anything—

A soft, high-pitched wail echoed down the hallway.

And it hit them all like a Bludger to the head.

Theo staggered back. Blaise grabbed the bookshelf for support. Enzo looked like he was about to pass out. Draco let out a strangled “No fucking way.”

You sighed, unfazed, and brushed past them all toward the hallway, “I’ve got him, don’t worry.”

Mattheo watched you go, rubbing the back of his neck, caught somewhere between pride and panic.

The room was silent for a beat before Theo finally broke it, voice rough:

“Mattheo. Riddle.”

He turned slowly, lips twitching with a smirk.

“You have a baby?!”

“HOW?!” Enzo yelled.

Mattheo deadpanned, “Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Draco and Blaise snapped in perfect unison.

Before anyone could add another word, you reappeared—cradling a sleepy, blinking infant in your arms.

His dark curls were mussed from sleep, one tiny fist clutched near his face, eyes fluttering as he took in the unfamiliar faces. He had Mattheo’s wild hair, the same furrowed brow, and—when his lashes finally lifted—the same stormy, soul-piercing eyes as his father.

“This is Leo.” You said gently.

Draco went rigid, color draining from his face. He pointed an unsteady finger between you and Mattheo.

“I think—I’m—oh Merlin—I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to sit down.”

Blaise put his head in his hands and groaned, “I can’t believe I crossed international borders for this.”

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[banditcoyote]

He moved to recline against the seat and kept her tight as they raced back through the woods, the bells of the sleigh the music for their evening. Echo kept Sasuga close against him, tucked under his arm, every once in a while leaning his head down to kiss the top of her head before he would turn his face back up to face the stars and the cool night air.

They arrived at the Chateau and Echo stood first, exiting the sleigh before offering his hand up to Sasuga, helping her down and into his waiting arms. "Goodnight sir." Christopher said with a little nod of his head.

"Goodnight Christopher." He bid the wolf before climbing the steps to the Chateau. He placed Sasuga down once inside and took her coat from her first before once again taking a knee to assist her in changing her shoes back while she helped with his buttons. His black hair still tied back in a low ponytail dotted with melting snowflakesHe shed his own coat and hung it in the closet before turning his smoldering gaze back to hers. "Should we grab another bottle of wine for our room?"

Blood and Moonlight

Sasuga woke in what was at first an unfamiliar area but as she blinked fully awake she realized it was their closet that Coyote had decorated for them. She smiled and took a careful kiss from her mate who was still sound asleep next to her. It really had been an amazing night with the family and then with her husband. As she slipped from his arms, she took a moment to look at her reflection in the mirror, her fingers dancing over the fresh marks on her neck and hips. She couldn't have asked for anything more from the night and it was with some reluctance that she dressed. She picked out a pair of warm leggings and a short little skirt to pull over them with some knee high boots and a thick sweater. She slipped from the closet and moved to the bathroom to comb her hair and brush her teeth and get ready for the big day ahead. She gave a stretch and headed downstairs only to find a familiar face waiting for her. "Raphael..." she smiled and moved to greet him with a hug. "I see you are still alive." she smirked. "Want some tea? Coffee?"

@banditcoyote

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, neighbors to lovers, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), reader first orgasm, soft dom Han Jisung, emotional vulnerability, praise kink, mention of toxic relationship, slight exhibitionism (thin walls), slight degradation of ex-boyfriend, aftercare, fluff, soft angst (parental neglect), mdni

notes: in which han jisung hears you faking your orgasms through the walls of your apartment--and things spiral from there.

The walls in this building are a joke.

Half an inch of drywall. That’s all that separates his shitty one-bedroom from yours. He’s counted.

It’s not like he meant to know so much about you. He’s not trying to eavesdrop on every late-night argument, every hungover FaceTime call, every time you drag your heavy Econ textbook across the floor.

He just lives here.

And unfortunately, so do you.

Jisung never asked for the proximity. He never asked to know the way your voice rises when you're tipsy or how you only sing when you thinks no one can hear. But he does. He knows. He knows you eat too many frozen waffles and tha tyour microwave beeps twice before you remember to take shit out. He knows the name of your boyfriend, the sound of your laugh when you’re trying too hard, and worse—

The exact pitch of your moans when you’re faking it.

Because you fake it. Every damn time.

And he would know. He’s had the misfortune of being hard at 2AM with your paper-thin walls pressed against his back and that sorry excuse for sex filtering through his second-hand studio monitors like a mockery of porn.

It’s always the same: breathy gasps, your boyfriend’s awkward grunting, the bed springs squeaking like hell, and then—

“Oh my god, yeah, just like that...”

Flat. Perfunctory. The kind of moan that sounds practiced. Rehearsed. Completely unconvincing.

Jisung rolls his eyes and turns the volume up on his mix.

Not because it bothers him. Not because he cares.

It’s just distracting.

He’s got better things to do than think about the pretty girl next door faking orgasms like it’s a part-time job.

Like finish this track. Like land an actual gig. Like figure out how the fuck he’s going to keep affording rent in a city that eats people alive and doesn’t even burp after.

He’s not interested.

He���s not.

Except—

Sometimes he wonders what it would sound like if you meant it.

What you’d sound like if someone took their time. If someone made you come for real, dragged it out of your with fingers in your hair and lips on your neck and the kind of steady, brutal rhythm that doesn’t stop until you’re shaking.

What you’d sound like if it were him.

Jisung curses under his breath and drags his headphones off.

His eyes are dry. His dick’s half-hard. His track’s going nowhere.

Cool.

Maybe he just needs to… do something. Anything. Something mundane. Something that reminds him he’s a functioning adult with a trash bin and a spine and better things to focus on than the soft moans of the girl next door and the way they don’t sound quite right.

He grabs the overstuffed trash bag by the door, ties it with too much force, and makes a beeline for the hallway before he can talk himself out of it.

The fluorescent lights hum. The elevator’s broken again. Everything smells vaguely like burnt toast and someone’s fruity shampoo.

This building is hell.

He loves it.

Jisung drops the bag down the chute, lingers a second too long just to feel the rush of cold air against his face, then heads back.

He’s barely two doors away from home when he sees you.

You’re standing outside your apartment, arms crossed over your chest, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder like it’s been a long night. Your boyfriend—Jason? Jared? Justin?—is leaning in too close, his mouth moving fast. Jisung can’t make out the words, but the tone’s familiar. Sharp. Defensive.

The boyfriend tries to kiss you.

You turn your face away.

Jisung doesn’t mean to stop walking. His feet just… do.

“I said I’m tired,” you mutter.

“Oh, you’re tired?” the guy snaps, way too loud for this dingy little hallway. “You weren’t tired twenty minutes ago when you were riding my dick, were you?”

Jesus.

Jisung should keep walking. Should disappear into his apartment and mind his business like he always does.

But instead, he just—

“Hey.”

His voice comes out cracked around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Which is accurate. He hasn’t really spoken to anyone in three days. Not unless you count the talking he does into the mic when he’s laying down verses at 3AM.

You both turn to look at him.

Jisung tries to smile.

It’s more of a grimace.

“You, uh…” he clears his throat, glancing at you instead of the walking ego next to you. “You okay?”

You hesitate.

The boyfriend doesn’t.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Jisung shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “Neighbor.”

The guy blinks, then laughs. “Oh. So you’re the one blasting that emo SoundCloud shit through the wall every night?”

Jisung winces. A breath stutters out of him like he’s been lightly slapped.

Then he notices it—you wince, too. The tiniest flicker of guilt flashing across your face, so fast he almost misses it.

And yeah. Okay.

That stings more than it should.

“I didn’t say it was shit,”you mumble under your breath, clearly meant only for your own conscience.

“Don’t worry,” Jisung says quickly, forcing a light tone as he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Totally fair. Some of my stuff is… uh. Kinda dogshit.”

The boyfriend grins like he’s just won something.

“Glad we agree. Thought I was gonna have to explain how sound works to a wannabe DJ.”

Jisung opens his mouth—then closes it again.

Not worth it.

Definitely not worth it.

Except you’re still looking at him. Still standing there with your arms folded tight, sweatshirt slipping down further. And your face—

There’s something in it. Not pity. Not sympathy.

More like… regret.

He hates that it softens him.

The boyfriend, oblivious, barrels on. “Anyway, next time you feel like giving a concert at four in the morning, maybe wait until someone asks.”

“Next time you feel like giving headboard percussion lessons at two,” Jisung mutters, “maybe make sure you actually comes.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain catches up.

Instant silence.

You gasp. Cover it with your hand, like you’re trying not to laugh—or scream.

The boyfriend just stares at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Jisung shrugs, already stepping toward his apartment door. His hands are shaking a little, but he keeps his voice light.

“I mean, the moaning’s impressive. Real Oscar-worthy shit. But you’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

“You little—”

“Hey, man.” Jisung turns back for half a second, nodding at him with a crooked, tired smile. “If I can tell through the wall that she’s faking it, that’s not on her. That’s on you.”

He shuts the door behind him before the guy can even finish winding up his insult.

Click.

Deadbolt.

Silence.

Except for the thundering in his chest.

Jisung exhales hard, forehead thunking against the door. “What the fuck did I just do?”

He sinks down to the floor like his legs have given up. Which, to be fair, they kind of have.

This isn’t him. This isn’t what he does.

He doesn't talk back. Doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t insert himself into other people’s messy lives—especially not yours. He barely speaks to delivery guys. Half his social life happens through a pop filter.

And yet.

“You’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

God. It was kind of funny.

But still—Jesus.

Jisung scrubs both hands over his face, embarrassment curling in his gut like a hangover.

Across the wall, he hears footsteps. Muffled shouting. The boyfriend’s voice, sharp with wounded ego. And then—

The unmistakable slam of a door.

Silence.

No more voices. No more fake moans. No more anything.

Jisung doesn’t move.

Eventually, when the silence stays long enough to feel safe, he hauls himself up off the floor. Brushes dust from his sweats. Tries not to replay what he said out loud like a greatest hits compilation of shit he absolutely should not have said out loud.

____________________________________________________________________________

He sleeps like shit.

Of course he does.

And when morning comes, it hits in a wave of cheap sunlight and neighborly noise.

He hears your usual routine unfold with near-perfect familiarity: fridge door opening, kettle clicking on, cabinet slam (twice—you always forget which one holds the instant coffee). Muffled cursing. Zipper. Then keys jingling against the lock.

He listens as you step out, lets the door fall shut behind you, and walks down the hall toward the stairs.

Everything is the same.

And none of it is.

Because this time, when you leave,your footsteps pause right outside his door.

Just for a second. A breath.

Then gone.

He groans and pulls the blanket over his face.

The rest of the day moves in its usual haze. Jisung does what he always does: noodles with a half-finished beat, eats instant ramen over the sink, ignores three texts from Chan asking for an update on the mix. His headphones stay around his neck most of the day, never quite getting used.

By sunset, the hallway is quiet again.

The beat he’s working on is shit. He knows it’s shit. He keeps tweaking it anyway.

It’s not even music anymore. Just sound. A bunch of clunky, disjointed loops that won’t glue together no matter how many times he messes with the tempo.

He’s just about to scrap the whole thing when—

Knock knock.

He freezes.

It’s soft. Measured. Hesitant.

He doesn't move right away—just sits there in his desk chair like someone just rang the doorbell in a horror movie. Then he leans back slightly, just far enough to peek over the edge of his laptop.

Another knock.

His heart does something stupid.

He stands. Pads barefoot to the door. Checks the peephole.

Of course it’s you.

You’re standing there in leggings and an oversized hoodie, arms cradling a plastic container like its armor. Your hair's pulled back, face bare. You look—

Small.

Unsure.

You lift one hand and knock again, even softer this time.

He hesitates a second longer, then opens the door.

Not all the way. Just a crack.

Your head jerks up. You blink. “Hi.”

He blinks back. “Uh. Hey.”

You shift your weight. “Can I—uh, are you busy?”

He opens the door a little wider, eyes flicking down to the container you’re holding. “No. I mean. Just… failing at music.”

That gets the faintest smile out of you.

“Right. Yeah. I, um…” You hold out the container. “These are for you.”

He stares. “Cookies?”

“Apology cookies.”

There’s a beat.

Then:

“I didn’t bake them,” You admit. “But I did walk two blocks to the overpriced organic place to get them. So. Effort was made.”

He blinks down at the container again, like it might disappear if he stares hard enough.

“Effort noted,” he mumbles.

You shift again, hugging your arms tighter. “You don’t have to eat them. I just—felt weird not saying thank you. Or sorry. You didn’t have to do what you did last night.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Felt weird not saying something. So.”

You stand there in the doorway for a second, both of you clearly unsure of what to do now that the thing you came to say has been said. He should probably invite you in. Or take the cookies. Or smile, or make a joke, or something.

Instead, he clears his throat.

You jump in to fill the silence. “Also, just so we’re clear—I didn’t actually mean the SoundCloud thing. That was… low-hanging fruit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve listened?”

That earns him a flush, bright and instant. “Not on purpose.”

“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “What a glowing endorsement.”

“I’m just saying—I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. That wasn’t fair.” Your gaze softens. “Your stuff is good. Better than good, actually. The one with the—uh—strings and that lo-fi beat underneath?”

His eyebrows raise. “Track twelve?”

She nods.

His stomach flips. It’s ridiculous. But that track had been sitting unfinished for weeks, like something he wasn’t sure anyone but him would ever care about. And now she’s standing here—face bare, voice quiet—quoting it back to him like it meant something.

He doesn’t know what to say.

For someone who spends hours arranging syllables and syncopation for fun, it’s laughable how words immediately bail on him when they might actually matter.

“You, uh…” He shifts the container to one hand. “You’ve got a good ear.”

You smile. It’s small. A little sheepish. “I’ve got shit walls.”

That makes him laugh—quiet and surprised.

“I should let you hear more sometime,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it.

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. I just thought…”

He trails off, scratching at the seam of his sleeve.

“I’d like that,” You say.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest. It’s not huge. It’s not loud. But it’s there—steady and unexpected, curling under his ribs.

“Cool,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll, uh. Let you know next time I make something new.”

You nod, then shift your weight backward—just enough to start retreating. But not before your eyes flick to his again, briefly, like you want to say something else.

He thinks might.

But all you do is smile—small and real—and take one step back towards your door.

“Goodnight, Han.”

His name on your lips feels like something it shouldn’t. Like a secret.

He nods. “Night.”

And then you turn. Cross the narrow hallway back to your apartment, keys already in hand. you hesitate at the door for half a second—he notices that, because of course he notices that—then slides the key in, disappears inside, and lets the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

He watches the empty hallway for a beat longer.

He stares at his own door for a moment after he closes it, forehead pressed against the wood like the words you left behind are still floating in the air.

Goodnight, Han.

He hadn’t realized how nice his name could sound until you said it like that.

It echoes in his chest. Warms something that’s been cold for a while.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. He sets the cookies on the kitchen counter, grabs a pen, and flips open the nearest notebook—one he’s barely touched in weeks.

And he writes:

Track idea: starts quiet. Voice sample, maybe hers? Lo-fi beat behind it, soft keys. Let it build. Don’t let it rush. Let it breathe.

He underlines let it breathe three times.

Then he puts his headphones on.

And for the first time in a long time—

The music comes easy.

______________________________________________________________

You never planned on being friends with Han.

The boy next door with the quiet mouth and loud headphones. The recluse who only seemed to exist in studio beats and half-heard melodies through the wall. You knew his name before you knew his face—Han, printed on a mailbox slot too narrow.

Now he nods at you in the hallway. Smiles, even. You’ve learned that they’re rare, his smiles—crooked and shy, like they’re still trying to figure themselves out. You’ve started waiting for them.

Some mornings, you catch him in the elevator, hoodie pulled over messy hair, a takeout coffee in one hand and sleep in his eyes. You say hi. He says hey. He always holds the door for you.

It’s nothing. But it’s not nothing.

And then, one night—it’s something.

It starts with your friend’s voice, high and nervous. “I swear I had your keys. I swear they were just—fuck, okay, check your bag again—”

You’re too drunk to care. Or think. Or stand up straight

Your bag is wide open on the hallway floor, a war zone of receipts, gum wrappers, lip glosses with no caps, and an unopened pack of hot sauce packets you swear you didn’t steal from Taco Bell. Your friend is crouched beside it, frantically digging like she’s searching for buried treasure.

And that’s when the elevator dings.

You don’t even bother turning around. You’re too busy trying to balance one heel on top of a rogue pack of gum like it’s a tightrope.

Your friend, however, freezes. Then straightens sharply, whisper-hissing, “Oh shit—it’s your neighbor.”

You blink. “Which one?”

“The hot one.”

That gets your attention.

You turn—wobble—and there he is: Han. Grocery bag in one hand, hood halfway off, hair a little windblown. His eyes flick from your friend to you, then to the scene at your feet: your life in full chaotic display.

He pauses. Then says, with the softest little blink of disbelief,

“Uh… everything okay?”

You blink right back at him.

Then lean toward your friend—not subtly, not gracefully, and definitely not quietly—and whisper at full volume:

“You’re right, he is hot.”

It echoes.

Down the hall. Into the vents. Probably into the next dimension.

Your friend claps a hand over her mouth.

Han stares at you, frozen mid-step, grocery bag dangling like it no longer belongs to him.

You sway slightly. Flash him a winning, drunken grin. “Hi.”

His ears go pink.

He recovers with a cough and a quiet, “Hey.”

Your friend steps in, trying to salvage the moment. “She, um… lost her keys. And maybe her filter. And maybe also her last three brain cells.”

“I have at least five brain cells,” you argue, eyes still locked on Han like you’ve just spotted the last bottle of tequila on Earth. “Maybe six.”

“Okay,” your friend says sharply, grabbing your arm before you can say anything worse. “She’s drunk. She needs to sleep. You’re right next door. I trust you, I think. Will you—can you—?”

“I’ve got her,” Han says, voice gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s trying not to laugh but also trying not to die of second-hand embaressment.

He steps forward, freeing his hand long enough to steady you when you stumble again. His grip is warm, careful. You immediately lean into it like he’s a weighted blanket.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Strong and polite. A dangerous combo.”

He just smiles—shy and crooked, the way he always does when he doesn’t know where to put his face. “You good to walk?”

“No promises.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’” he says, easing your arm over his shoulder.

Your friend sighs, already backing toward the stairs. “If she tries to seduce you, just tell her she cries at Disney movies and once got drunk and tried to fistfight a traffic cone.”

“I won, though,” you shout after her.

Han chuckles.

Your friend throws one last suspicious look over her shoulder, mouthing to Han, text me from her phone if she throws up, before disappearing down the stairwell.

And now it’s just you and Han.

And the heat of your skin pressed to his side.

And the wild, buzzing thought in your brain that you’ve never been this close to him before.

He shifts his weight. Glances down at you.

“You seriously okay?”

You nod. “I feel great.”

“You say that while using me as a crutch.”

“Yeah. But like—a sexy crutch.”

He laughs, head ducking slightly like he’s embarrassed for both of you.

But he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t stop smiling.

Han’s arm stays steady around you as he unlocks his door, grocery bag still dangling awkwardly from one wrist. He guides you inside carefully, flicking on the lights with his elbow and nudging the door shut behind you.

You blink, taking it in through a haze: tiny apartment, warm lighting, a bunch of wires and gear by the desk, no couch in sight.

He catches you swaying and steers you toward a plain padded chair by the wall. “Here, sit for a sec.”

You plop down like a ragdoll.

Han crouches in front of you instantly, gently tugging your heels off one at a time like he’s afraid you’ll tip over trying. “You good?” he murmurs, setting your shoes aside neatly. “Anything feel weird? Dizzy?”

You grin at him. “You’re so worried.”

He flushes instantly. “I just—yeah. I mean. You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah, but like, in a fun way.”

“Still,” he mutters, already handing you a bottle of water from the counter. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You take it. “You’re like a… a boyfriend. But like, a really responsible one. Like—tax-paying, call-my-mom-for-me energy.”

Han snorts and gets up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, you’re done talking now.”

“I’m not!” you call after him as he sets the grocery bag down. “I’m very interesting!”

He just shakes his head, trying (and failing) to hide his smile.

When you blink again, he’s in front of you, holding out a hand. “C’mon. Bed’s this way.”

You pause. “You only have one bed.”

His ears go pink. “You can take it.”

You squint. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He shrugs, awkward. “Floor. I’ve got blankets.”

“That’s tragic.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You pout but don’t argue as he pulls you gently to your feet again. You’re warm, wobbly, still clutching the water bottle like a security blanket, and when he steers you toward the bed, you barely resist at all.

He helps you sit, then hands you a second pillow and adjusts the blanket like he’s not trying to combust over how soft you look there. He’s halfway to standing up again when you tug the edge of the blanket higher and murmur:

“Thanks, Han.”

He’s still standing near the edge of the bed, half in the dark, blinking at you like you’ve just short-circuited every single brain cell in his head.

His voice is a little uneven when he says, “Y-Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You smile at him, all cozy and soft, limbs draped across his sheets like you belong there.

He doesn’t even know where to put his hands.

“I, uh—” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I still have a bit of work to do. Just mixing something. I’ll, um. Be over here.”

You blink up at him. “What kinda work?”

“Music stuff.” His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat immediately. “I won’t bother you. You can—yeah, you can just pass out. All good.”

“You don’t mind me on your bed?”

Han stares at you for a second too long.

Then jerks his gaze away. “No. I—I mean. No, definitely not. Like, at all.”

He fumbles over to his desk, nearly knocking over a pair of headphones, and drops into the chair like his legs have forgotten how to bend properly.

You snuggle deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket over your legs with a dramatic sigh. “This is comfy. You have good taste in sheets.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, clicking around on his laptop even though the track’s already loaded. 

You giggle.

He pretends not to notice.

You don’t see it—but his eyes flick to you constantly. Quick little glances when you shift, or sigh, or tuck your face into the pillow like it’s your new favorite thing. He can’t not look.

You yawn, cheek squished into his pillow. “You smell nice.”

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a quiet plea for mercy. “You should, uh. Try to sleep.”

“Mhm.”

You don’t move.

Just keep lying there. All sweet and sleepy and tangled up in his blankets, on his bed, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And even though he should be focusing—he really, really should—

Han can’t stop smiling.

He turns back to his screen and presses play, the familiar beat fills his headphones, looping low and steady.

It’s not done—not even close. The layers are uneven, the bass too soft, the melody still fighting to find its place. But it’s something. And tonight, it’s the only thing keeping his hands busy while his mind refuses to stop thinking about you in his bed.

You’re quiet for a while.

He thinks maybe you’ve finally fallen asleep. You haven’t said anything in minutes, and your breathing’s slow, almost even. He lets himself glance over his shoulder.

You’re still awake.

Eyes open. Watching him.

You shift slightly under the blanket, cheek still pressed into his pillow. Your voice is soft, drowsy. “Can I hear it?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The track you’re working on,” you murmur. “Can I listen?”

Han’s heart does a somersault. Or maybe a backflip. Hard to tell through the static in his chest.

He turns fully in his chair. “Now?”

You nod, slow and lazy. “You promised. You said I could listen next time you made something new.”

Right. He had said that.

But not this one.

Not track twelve.

He fidgets with the headphone wire. “It’s not that one.”

You blink at him, confused.

“The one with the lo-fi strings,” he explains, voice quieter now. “Track twelve. I still haven’t finished it.”

“Oh.”

You don’t sound disappointed. Just curious.

He rubs a hand over his face, then offers a crooked little smile. “But you can hear this one. If you want.”

You nod again, eyes fluttering half-shut like the night is finally catching up to you.

He hesitates.

Then gently unplugs the headphones from the jack, letting the soft sound of the track fill the room.

It’s quiet. Dreamy. Bare bones but beautiful—slow, pulsing synth layered under a simple piano loop. There’s a vocal sample buried under the mix, something wordless and airy, like a breath that never ends.

You close your eyes fully this time, listening.

And Han watches you—watches the way your body relaxes into the sound, how your lips part just slightly, like the music is pulling something from you even in sleep.

He turns back to the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

You speak again, barely above a whisper.

���It’s sad,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

“Not in a bad way,” you add quickly. “Just… it sounds like it’s missing something. Like it’s looking for something.”

Han swallows.

Yeah.

That’s exactly what it is.

He stares at the waveform on his screen and says, very softly, “I think it’s trying to say something I don’t know how to say yet.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

When you do, your voice is already trailing off into sleep. “You don’t have to say it. It’s already in the music.”

And then you're still.

Breathing even. Eyes shut.

Han doesn’t move for a long time.

Just sits in the soft blue glow of his screen, heartbeat slowing down to match yours, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to finish a song when the thing it’s missing is falling asleep five feet away.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been months since that first night.

Since the couchless sleepover, since the drunken key fiasco, since you fell asleep to the sound of his unfinished song.

And in that time, Han has come out of his shell in the slowest, sweetest way possible.

At first, he was shy. Still the hoodie-wearing recluse with his eyes glued to Ableton and his words tucked somewhere behind clenched teeth.

But then he started showing up more. At your door with takeout. With headphones and half-finished demos. With quiet, tentative smiles that stretched wider the more you smiled back.

You got to know him.

He told you about Malaysia—about sticky summers and midnight noodles and the way his parents still call twice a week even though they’re oceans apart. He told you how he moved to Korea for college, studied for a year, and then dropped out when he realized his brain was wired for sound, not textbooks.

You told him about your life, too—your parents and their ever-shifting conditions for love, the apartment they still pay for, the degree you’re grinding out just to prove something. To who, you’re not even sure.

And Han—turns out he’s kind of a chatterbox. Once he’s comfortable, the boy talks. About anything. About everything. With his hands, with his whole face. About samples and synths and the absolute travesty that is powdered parmesan.

Now, it’s like this: casual, constant, inevitable.

You crash at his place sometimes—not because you're locked out, but just because. Sometimes you bring your laptop and do homework on his floor. Sometimes you nap in his bed while he works. You keep a toothbrush there now. A hoodie of his has quietly migrated to your closet.

You even invited him to your graduation this spring. “It’s not like my parents are coming,” you’d shrugged, and Han had just blinked at you, then said okay, like it wasn’t the biggest fucking deal.

He still blushes when you call him hot. Still won’t take the bed when you stay over. Still treats you like you might disappear if he lets himself want too much.

And today, you’re at your place—your couch this time, legs tangled together on either end, killing time the way only two people who are too comfortable with each other can.

Lazy game of truth or dare. No real stakes. Just soft laughter and shared snacks and the kind of questions that teeter between teasing and tender.

Han’s fingers are brushing against your ankle, casual and unthinking. The popcorn bowl is somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. You’re both half-reclined, cozy and loose, a tangle of limbs and friendship that’s been threatening to become something else for weeks now.

You’ve already dared him to do his worst celebrity impression, and he’d made you sing a jingle from one of your old childhood commercials. The kind of dumb, lazy game that only works when you trust someone enough not to twist the blade when things get close.

Now it’s his turn.

“Truth,” you say, yawning, stretching like a cat in the sun. “I’m feeling vulnerable.”

He gives you a look. One brow raised, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his thigh. “Okay. What was your best orgasm?”

You blink.

Then laugh.

He flushes instantly. “Shit—was that too far? I thought we were in the spicy round.”

“No, no,” you say, waving a hand, trying to keep your smile light. “It’s fair.”

But you don’t answer right away.

You sit there for a second, fiddling with the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His question settles somewhere low in your stomach—not uncomfortable, just… exposed. Like a truth you’ve learned to laugh off before anyone can look too closely.

You glance at him, then say it—half-teasing, like a joke you’ve told a few times before.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Han blinks. “You wouldn’t—?”

You shrug. “Never had one. Not a good one. Not any, actually.”

There’s a pause. His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but you beat him to it with a raised hand and a crooked grin.

“I know, I know. Tragic. I’m either defective or cursed. It’s a toss-up.”

He doesn’t laugh.

You thought he might—just to lighten the mood. Maybe roll with the joke, keep it casual.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

“That’s not funny,” he says, voice quiet. Barely a wrinkle of sound between you.

You blink. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it’s not.” He leans in a little, eyes searching yours. “And it’s definitely not true.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than you mean to. “Tell that to every guy I’ve slept with.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just says, soft but certain, “They don’t count.”

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You sit back, let out a soft exhale through your nose. Try again, lighter this time. “I mean, at some point, you start to wonder if it’s just you, right? Like maybe I missed a biological memo.”

“You didn’t,” he says, firm now. “You just haven’t been with someone who cared enough to figure you out.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping to his lips before flicking back up. “What, and you do?”

His breath catches, just slightly. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he says. Simple. Sure. “I do.”

You go quiet.

It’s not the answer that surprises you—it’s how steady he is when he says it. Like it’s not even a question in his mind. Like he’s already imagined it, already decided what he’d do if you ever let him.

That steadiness makes your throat go tight.

“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. “Then what would you do?”

Han shifts slightly, eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. Focused.

“I’d start slow,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a line—it sounds like a plan. “Let you get used to being touched in a way that’s not… performative.”

You blink.

He leans in, just a little. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.

“I’d watch your face,” he continues, softer now, “and actually pay attention. I’d figure out what makes you squirm. What makes your breath catch. What makes you ask for more.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

“I’d talk to you,” he murmurs. “Tell you what I’m doing. Tell you how fucking good you look while I’m doing it. Make sure you know every second that it’s about you.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Because Han is looking at you like he already has you spread out in his mind. Like he’s memorizing every microreaction, storing them away like he might need them later. Like he’s already tasting the sound you’ll make when he finally breaks you open.

Your voice comes out low. Barely there.

“That’s a lot of attention for one orgasm.”

Han’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite yet.

“I’m not aiming for one.”

You feel it in your chest—in your spine—the way his voice sinks into you. Low. Purposeful. Like he’s already in your skin, like the words themselves are a touch.

You can’t breathe.

He’s so close now, and still—still—not touching you. He could. He should. Your body is already leaning into the heat of him, legs still curled beneath you, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing high on your thighs. But he doesn’t move.

“Have you… done this before?”

He blinks. “Made someone come?”

You nod, quick, almost shy.

“Yeah.” His mouth lifts at one corner. “Why?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking over his face. “I… thought you were a virgin.”

Han blinks. Then he laughs—a soft, breathy thing that curls low in his throat.

“Wow,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks already going red. “That’s, uh… new.”

You’re not teasing anymore. Not really. Not with the way your eyes keep flicking over him—his mouth, his hands, the pink creeping up the slope of his neck. Not with how you’re sitting up straighter, how your thighs squeeze just slightly together without meaning to.

He notices.

And it flusters him, of course it does—he’s Han, after all. All nervous energy and soft-spoken charm. But there’s something else underneath it too. Something steady. Something you didn’t see before.

“You really think I’ve spent this much time listening to you fake it through the walls and didn’t fantasize about doing it better?”

Your breath catches. Hard.

His gaze doesn’t drop. Doesn’t falter.

And suddenly, you’re seeing him for what he is—really seeing him.

The slightly older boy next door. The dropout with big hands and bigger dreams. The quiet music producer who hides behind humor but notices everything. The same Han who always opened his door, always gave you the bed, always walked on the street side of the sidewalk—but now you realize he’s been wanting you the whole time.

And you missed it.

You look at him now—and you feel it.

The shift.

Because he’s still Han. Still hoodie-clad and sweet and overly cautious.

But he’s also a man.

And god, it’s hitting you all at once.

The way his eyes haven’t left your mouth. The way he says things like I’m not aiming for one with such quiet, devastating confidence. The way he can be so careful with you and still make your skin burn like he’s already touched you everywhere.

You swallow hard.

“So,” you murmur, voice dipping low, “you’ve done this before.”

His fingers twitch where they rest against his thigh. “Yeah.”

“How many girls?”

He blushes harder at that. Clears his throat. “I mean, not a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not—” he fumbles, flustered now, voice high-pitched with embarrassment, “—like, I’m not some sex god, okay?”

You giggle. Can’t help it.

He glares, weakly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You lean in. Let your voice soften. “Like what?”

He shifts under your gaze, eyes flicking down again before returning to yours. “Like you’re surprised.”

“I am,” you whisper.

And you are.

Surprised by the heat in your belly. Surprised by the tension in his jaw, the way he’s not looking away now. Surprised by the fact that the Han you thought you knew—the one who panicked over burnt rice and once apologized to a houseplant—is sitting in front of you, cheeks flushed, voice low, practically thrumming with restraint.

And the restraint is unraveling. You can see it. You can feel it.

His hand is still resting on his thigh. Tense. Useless.

You want it on you.

He must know, must feel the shift in the air, because he breathes out through his nose—shaky, controlled—and finally moves.

Not to kiss you.

Not yet.

Just slides closer, knees brushing yours. Hands braced on either side of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from climbing into your lap. Like if he gets too close, he won’t be able to stop.

His voice is soft when it comes. Careful.

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, eyes darting between yours. “You. Us.”

Your heart kicks.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “If you want me to stop, I will. Even if I’ve already started. Even if you change your mind in the middle. I need you to know that.”

You just look at him.

At his flushed cheeks, his trembling fingers gripping the couch cushion, the way his eyes won’t stay still—darting to your mouth, your thighs, your eyes again.

You don’t know how to say what’s clawing up your throat. Don’t know how to explain that you’ve never felt like this. Like you could fall apart and not have to put yourself back together alone.

So instead, you reach for him.

You thread your fingers through his, bring his hand to your thigh—bare skin under the edge of your sleep shirt—and press it there, warm and waiting.

His breath stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His breath stutters.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers flex against your thigh—just a twitch, nothing urgent. But the heat of them sinks in deep. You can feel how careful he’s being, how tightly he’s holding the leash on himself, like he doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he moves too fast.

You tilt your hips slightly. Just enough.

He moves.

Slides his hand higher, beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. Knuckles grazing soft skin, the inside of your thigh, and you’re already trembling. The anticipation is thick—so much thicker than anything that’s come before it. Your body’s aching and he hasn’t even touched you where you need it yet.

Han breathes out slowly. You can hear the effort it takes not to rush.

His fingers reach your panties.

They’re soaked. Clinging to you. And he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he feels it—somewhere between a sigh and a groan, like it’s hurting him, how wet you already are.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying not to.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You can just let me take care of it.”

And you do.

You sink into the cushions and let his hand keep climbing. Let it trail over skin that’s already too hot, too tight, too aware. The hem of your shirt rides up over your hips as he moves, exposing soft skin and damp fabric.

He touches you through your panties first. Just a single stroke—up and down, slow, deliberate.

You jolt.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips tilt into his hand before you even mean to.

His fingers are steady. Gentle. No fumbling, no testing limits just to say he did. He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

When he does, it’s with a breathless little sound—almost like awe.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low and tight. “You’re so wet already.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t ask permission again. He doesn’t need to. Your legs fall open on instinct, your body already offering itself up like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

He dips his fingers into you with quiet care—just the first two, slow and unhurried, and it’s so much. Not just the stretch, not just the slick slide of it—it’s the way he groans like he can feel how good you feel around him. Like your body is turning him on just by existing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “How has no one made you cum?”

You whimper.

“Seriously,” he says, fingers curling slightly inside you, rubbing against that spot that makes your toes curl. “You’ve got the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Wet and warm and just—fuck, baby.”

Your hips jolt when he says it—baby—and he notices. His mouth quirks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face like it’s giving him instructions. “You like that. Being talked to while I fuck you with my fingers?”

You moan—helpless, high-pitched—and your hand shoots down to grab his wrist.

He stills immediately. “Too much?”

You shake your head. Or maybe you nod. You don’t even know anymore—your brain’s barely holding on, your body dragging you under, soaking up everything he gives like it’s the first drop of water in a drought.

He watches your reaction like it’s gospel. Like every twitch and gasp is holy.

“Thought so,” he says, and starts to move again—slow, controlled pumps of his fingers, careful not to lose that rhythm now that he’s found what works. The way your walls clench when he curls. The way your hips chase him when he retreats. The way your breath hitches when his palm drags across your clit just a little too hard.

And god, he uses it all.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes glued to where he’s working you open. “If this pussy was mine, I wouldn’t be able to leave you alone.”

You gasp.

“I’d keep you like this every night,” he says, voice thick now. “Stuffed, dripping, begging for it. Just like this.”

You keen, head falling back against the cushions, thighs straining around his wrist. Another twist of his fingers, another filthy curl, and you’re spiraling again—clenching, grinding, chasing something you’ve never actually caught before.

But it’s still not enough.

Close, so close. You can feel it in your gut, in the burn behind your eyes, in the way your whole body draws tight like a wire about to snap. But then it slips, slithers away like it always does, leaving you aching and wrung out and panting like you’ve been running in circles.

Han doesn’t stop.

He slows, sure. Eases off that pressure like he knows—like he felt the way you were peaking and watched it fall apart all over again.

Your breath stutters. Your hands tremble where they’re gripping the couch cushions. Your whole body shakes with the frustration of it.

Han looks fucking thrilled.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes glued to the slick mess between your legs. “You’re gonna be a fucking problem, huh?

You whimper—shaky, half-desperate—and try to pull your legs closed, but his free hand slides up your thigh and keeps them open. He’s still panting, still hard in his sweats, and yet somehow entirely focused on you.

Your voice comes out broken. “I can’t—fuck, Han, I was so close—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over you. His fingers finally slip free, soaked and shining, and he brings them to his mouth like it’s nothing. Like tasting you is just a thing he does between breaths. “You’re so fucking pretty can’t believe no one’s ever made you come.”

He sucks one finger between his lips, humming low in his throat, and your entire body jerks.

He grins around his knuckle. Blushy. Sweet. Still Han, somehow—except his eyes are dark now, slow-burning, locked onto you with intent.

And when he speaks, it’s not teasing. It’s reverent.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down your thigh again. “Didn’t think you’d ruin me this fast, though.”

You squirm, still reeling from the touch of his fingers, still aching from how close you came—how it slipped just out of reach. Your panties are somewhere around your knees now, tangled and damp, and your thighs are trembling despite the warmth of the room.

But Han doesn’t give you time to settle.

He drops back down between your legs like it’s instinct.

Like he belongs there.

You brace for it—his mouth, his tongue—but nothing prepares you for how intentional it is.

Because when he licks you, it’s not just lust. It’s devotion.

The first press of his tongue is slow, hot, drawn out like he’s tasting something forbidden. It drags through your folds, slick and maddening, before he pulls back just slightly and exhales a shaky breath against your cunt like it’s worship.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking sweet. So wet—dripping for me, baby.”

Your hips jerk. A soft moan tears from your throat, helpless and startled.

He hums at the sound. And then his tongue is on you again—lapping, curling, sliding in lazy circles around your clit, not rushed, not rough. Patient.

But it’s overwhelming.

Too much and somehow still not enough.

You gasp, spine arching. Your thighs twitch against his shoulders again and he presses his hands there—holding you open, keeping you still. His grip is firm, grounding. Gentle only in contrast to the way he eats you.

He groans low when your hips roll, when your slick coats his lips and chin. Like it turns him on more than anything else. Like this is the part he needs.

He devours you like he’s starved for it.

Like he’s been thinking about this—you—for longer than he’s willing to admit. Tongue slow but deliberate, savoring every stroke, every gasp you give him. He doesn’t speak now, doesn’t need to. The sounds alone—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the way your breath stutters every time he flattens his tongue against your clit—say enough.

But it’s your reactions that do it. The way your body jumps every time he moves just right. The way your hands scramble for the couch cushions, for him, like you don’t know what else to hold onto. The way your thighs clamp around his head when he groans into your cunt.

That’s when he realizes.

You’ve never been eaten out before.

It hits him all at once—in the way you shiver, in the way your body doesn’t quite know how to take the pleasure he’s giving. There’s something raw about it. Uncharted. Holy.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease. Just lets the knowledge settle deep in his chest like a vow.

So he slows down. Not to drag it out—to care. To guide you through it.

He pulls back just slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another one, lower, softer. You can feel his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven, like you are unraveling him just by letting him do this.

He kisses down, worshipful, open-mouthed presses of tongue and lips trailing toward where you’re slick and trembling—until he’s back on you, groaning deep in his chest like he needs this to survive.

He laps at your cunt like a man obsessed. Messy, wet, obscene.

His tongue flicks fast over your clit, sloppy and relentless, and when you whimper—high and panicked—his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging them wider, pushing you open like he can’t get enough. His nose presses into the soft swell of you and his mouth won’t stop.

And god—god, the noises.

The slick suck of his mouth, the soft wet licks between your folds, the broken, wanton moans he keeps letting out like your taste is fucking euphoric.

Your thighs are trembling against his cheeks, toes curling against the cushions, hands fisting in the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane of existence. Every time you start to come down, he drags you right back up—tongue flicking, then flattening, then sucking.

You’re soaking him. You know it. Can feel the slick mess coating his lips, his chin, now—but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even flinch. Just dives in deeper, grinds his mouth against you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And maybe it is.

You’ve never made sounds like this before. Never felt anything like this. It’s a full-body unraveling—pleasure so raw and high-pitched it’s almost unbearable. You can’t even find words anymore. You try—gasp out his name, maybe a plea, maybe a warning—but it’s just breath. Just noise.

He hears it anyway.

Groans in response, and the vibration shoots through you—tightens every nerve, every muscle. You feel it everywhere. In your spine, in your belly, in your fucking teeth.

He licks through your folds like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, tongue dragging over your clit in slow, hard laps now—intentional, devastating. One hand lets go of your thigh to slide underneath you, to lift your hips, tilt you toward his mouth like an offering.

Like you’re his altar and he’s ready to worship.

You don’t even realize you're crying until the tears hit your cheeks—silent and sudden, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, the depth of it, the relentlessness of him.

Jisung doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does and just thinks it’s holy.

Because he’s still moaning against your cunt like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like this is salvation. Like this is his first time, too.

The warmth is unbearable. Sharp and sweet and all-consuming, climbing up your spine in thick, molten waves that won’t stop—won’t let you go. Your muscles are locking up, your breath catching in your throat, your fingers cramping from how tight you're clenching the cushions.

You’re going to break.

You know it.

You want to.

And he just keeps going—tongue pressed flat and firm against your clit now, dragging in slow, filthy circles while his lips suck softly, reverently, like he’s trying to love you apart piece by piece.

You feel it snap somewhere deep inside you.

The heat—the ache—the need—it peaks.

And then it bursts..

Your thighs clamp around his head, your hips jerk off the couch, your moan rips loose from your throat like you’ve been silenced your whole life and this is the only language your body ever needed to speak.

You’re cumming. Hard. Helpless.

Everything pulses—your cunt, your chest, your fingers. Every nerve is alight, every inch of you clenched and shaking, your whole body seized in the grip of something so big you can’t name it.

And Jisung doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitch.

Not when your body tries to squirm away.

Not even when you sob his name, high and wrecked, too sensitive to breathe.

He eats it up. Literally.

Groaning low in his throat, nose pressed to your mound, tongue still working your clit like he wants to wring another orgasm out of you before this one’s even ended. You try to stop him, legs trembling, fingers pushing at his hair with barely any strength behind them.

But he just moans again, long and loud and ruined, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“H-Han—” you gasp, voice cracked and teary.

But he can’t stop. He won’t.

You’ve broken open for him—shattered for him—and it’s like something inside him snapped too. His mouth keeps moving, lapping through your folds like he’s addicted, like he needs the taste of you to live, sucking every drop from your body like he’s trying to memorize it.

You try again to push him off. This time with real effort. A desperate shove, your fingers fisting in his hair and yanking—not hard, not mean, but urgent.

“Han, please—”

He finally pulls back.

Gasps.

His chest is heaving. His mouth is slick and swollen, the lower half of his face soaked in your release, and he blinks up at you like he forgot where he is.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, I—” he pants, voice wrecked, dazed.

Then he looks down.

And groans.

Because you’re still dripping.

Slick pooling out of you, slow and obscene, catching the light as it runs in glistening streaks down the curve of your pussy and the swell of your ass, soaking the couch beneath you.

And he can’t help himself.

His hands slide up your thighs again—possessive, reverent—and before you can stop him, he leans back in.

One long, filthy lick—from your entrance to your clit—slurping up everything you spilled. He moans as it hits his tongue, deep and satisfied, and swirls it around like he’s tasting honey.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you.

Face flushed, lips swollen and slick, chin glossy with your release. His eyes are glassy—fucked-out and starving and soft in a way that shouldn’t match the filth of what he just did to you. But somehow it does.

Somehow, it makes it worse.

He’s panting like he just ran miles. Sweat dampens his curls, his hoodie clings to his chest, and his cock is still straining hard against his sweats—visibly aching. But he doesn’t even look at himself. Doesn’t even care.

He’s still looking at you.

At the mess he made.

At your cunt—pink and soaked and fluttering with aftershocks, spread open on the couch like he carved you out just for him.

And he fucking smiles.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dragging his thumb along your inner thigh, slow and lazy, eyes still locked on the slick between your legs. “You’re unreal.”

You’re still trembling—wrung out, flushed, completely silent now except for the shattered sound of your breath.

But he isn’t done.

Not really.

Because then his thumb moves—trails closer, closer, until it’s swiping through the slick seam of you, collecting it, spreading it.

You flinch, hips twitching, breath hitching on a wrecked little gasp.

He freezes.

“Sorry—shit, sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone soft in the edges. “You’re probably so fucking sensitive right now.”

You nod, dazed. Barely. You’re not even sure you meant to.

But his eyes drop back down—and the sight of your cunt twitching under his touch, the way slick is still dripping out of you, slow and shiny, pooling where your thighs meet—

It short-circuits whatever restraint he had left.

“Can I…” he starts, already leaning in again, lips parted, breath ragged. “Just—one more taste, baby. Please.”

And before you can answer, he’s there again.

Licking into you.

Tongue flat and greedy, slow and deep, sliding through the wreckage he left behind like he needs it to breathe. He moans—loud—when it coats his tongue, when it drips down his chin, when he presses another kiss to your clit like he’s thanking it for everything.

You can’t stop shaking.

From how tender he’s being while still devouring you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. From how overwhelmed your body feels—stretched between too much and not enough, oversensitive but still wanting.

He doesn’t rush now. Doesn’t try to make you cum again.

This is different.

It’s reverent. Like he’s cleaning you up with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every slick drop, pressing soft kisses into the mess like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your thighs.

You whimper, just once—raw and hoarse.

That’s when he stops for real.

You sigh into his mouth, quiet and trembling, the kind of sound that only comes when everything inside you is raw—peeled back, exposed, open. He swallows it like it’s precious. Like it matters.

His hand at your waist shifts, pulling you gently forward until your chest brushes his. You’re still bare from the waist down—thighs sticky, breath uneven—and he’s still clothed, still hard, still aching beneath his sweats.

But he doesn’t grind against you.

Doesn’t ask for anything.

He just holds you.

Your knees fall around his hips, lazy and loose, and his thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw—slow, absent, like he needs the contact to stay calm.

The kiss deepens. Not with hunger. With heat. With reverence. His lips move against yours like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, your breath, the taste of your tongue mixed with your own arousal.

You break first—pulling back just a fraction to breathe, eyes fluttering open.

He’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something stunned. Struck. Soft.

He whispers, “You okay?”

You nod. Maybe too fast. You feel stripped down to something small and shaking, something new—but his hand doesn’t leave you. His thumb still brushes your cheek. His chest still rises and falls like he’s feeling everything with you.

You whisper back, “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Jisung exhales a laugh—wrecked and wrecking.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he kisses it. Presses his lips right there, at the corner of your mouth, so gentle it makes your eyes sting all over again.

There’s a beat of silence—thick and golden, warm between the ruined rhythm of your breathing.

Then he asks, quieter this time, “Can I hold you for a while?”

And god. You’ve never wanted anything more.

______________________________________________________________

The crowd pours out of the auditorium like a tide—caps slightly askew, diplomas clutched tight, families gathered in little clusters of congratulations and cameras. Laughter. Shouts. The click of heels and the flutter of gowns. You scan the crowd, heart racing, eyes darting.

And then you see him.

Leaning awkwardly against a tree, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of grocery store flowers and dressed in the nicest outfit you’ve ever seen him wear. Still a hoodie—because he’s him—but it’s black and clean and zipped halfway up over a plain white tee. His hair’s been pushed back, curls tamed, face soft in the sunlight.

Like he wanted to look good.

For you.

You run.

Full sprint, no hesitation. Laughing, radiant, the hem of your gown flying behind you. And Jisung barely has time to react before you crash into his arms—legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in his neck.

He catches you without thinking. Arms locked tight around your back, holding you like the whole world could fall away and he’d still have you.

“Jesus—hi,” he breathes, stunned, grinning into your shoulder. 

“You came,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and sunlit.

“Of course I came,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

You swallow, smile trembling just a little. You’re still holding your cap too tightly. Still searching the crowd behind him, over his shoulder, behind trees and between cars—hoping.

And Jisung sees it.

Sees the flicker in your expression when you realize no one else is coming. No familiar voices calling your name. No parents weaving through the crowd, late and disheveled but here. Nothing.

Just him.

You try to play it off—force a smile, tilt your head.

But Jisung just exhales, jaw tight, eyes warm and sharp.

“Hey,” he says softly, tipping your chin up. “Fuck ‘em.”

Your breath hitches—more from the way he says it than what he says. No apology. No pity. Just truth, blunt and biting and yours.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says again, firmer this time. “They don’t get to take this from you.”

And something in you cracks. Not the kind that breaks—the kind that lets light in.

Your cap slips from your hand to the pavement. You don’t even notice. You just lean forward and let your forehead rest against his, eyes fluttering shut as the noise of the world fades away.

“I thought it wouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “That I didn’t care.”

He nods like he already knew. Lets his hand fall to the small of your back, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of your gown.

“But it does,” you admit.

“Of course it does,” he murmurs. “You deserved more than this.”

You pull in a shaky breath. Exhale. Nod against him.

And then you laugh—quiet, almost startled. “God, you look nice.”

He pulls back just enough to give you a crooked smile. “You noticed?”

You sniffle, wiping under your eyes. “You did your hair.”

“I used product and everything,” he says solemnly, and that makes you laugh for real this time. His face lights up at the sound. Then, like he remembers something, his eyes go wide and he fumbles for something in his pocket.

“Wait—here. Got you something.”

You raise a brow as he pulls out a pair of slightly beat-up white AirPods and holds them out like they’re wrapped in silk.

“Your... earwax?” you tease, voice still thick, but lighter now.

Jisung groans, face going red. “Just put them in, smartass.”

You give him a look, lips twitching like you’re holding back another laugh, but you take them. Slip them in with practiced ease, still smirking, still sniffling a little.

And then—

You hear it.

Soft at first. A low, warm hum of synth. That familiar piano progression you’ve heard a hundred times echoing from his bedroom speakers, half-finished and always evolving. A quiet heartbeat of static underneath, the sound of something personal, unfinished—

But not this time.

Now it’s whole.

The bass comes in slow. The melody rises. The rhythm finds its footing like it’s been waiting for you.

Then his voice.

His voice.

Low. Raw. Stripped back and unfiltered, like he recorded it in the middle of the night, barefaced and half asleep. It’s not polished. It’s intimate. Each lyric laid out like a confession, like he’s pressing it directly into your chest.

You freeze.

Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You just stare at him—eyes wide, breath caught, the world suddenly nothing but him and the song in your ears.

Jisung watches you closely, fidgeting, clearly trying to read your face.

“I, uh… I finally finished it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Track 12. I—kind of stayed up all night working on it. Wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

You swallow hard. “You—wrote this… for me?”

He nods, sheepish. “Well, yeah. Who the fuck else would it be for?”

You blink at him, still stunned, still half-floating somewhere between the melody and his smile.

The music wraps around you like a secret, like sunlight through a window. His voice in your ears. His eyes on your face. His hands fidgeting at his sides, picking at the edge of his hoodie sleeve, suddenly nervous like he didn’t just lay his heart bare in a three-minute track.

And then he says it.

Quiet. Almost like it slips out.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath stutters.

He panics a little, eyes going wide, hands gesturing now like he’s trying to physically catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.

“I mean—not in like, a weird, ‘I wrote you a song and now you have to marry me’ way. I just—I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I didn’t know how to say it. And then I kept not saying it, and then you let me eat you out on your couch and I was like, oh cool, guess I’m definitely in love with her—”

You stare at him.

Mouth slightly open. Ears still ringing with his voice from the track. Face flushed from the heat of him and the way he’s unraveling in front of you, hands flailing, words tumbling out too fast, too honest, too him.

“And now I’m saying it,” he rushes on, breath hitching. “And maybe it’s too soon or maybe it’s stupid but—fuck, I don’t care. I love you. And I don’t just mean in the afterglow, post-head, 'wow-she’s-so-pretty-when-she’s-cumming' kind of way—which, like, you are—but I mean in the real way. In the way where I think about you all the time and you’re in my music and my coffee and my fucking laundry detergent because you smell like it now—”

You cut him off with a laugh—soft and stunned, the kind that comes from something blooming too fast in your chest. Your hands reach for him instinctively, palms pressed to his chest like you’re trying to slow his heart down, or maybe match yours to it.

Then lean up and kiss him.

He melts into it—hands landing on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float off if he doesn’t hold you down. His mouth is soft, a little shaky, like he still can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s kissing you with both hands behind his back, offering up his heart like a truce.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

You’re smiling. He is too, in that breathless, stunned way—like you’ve both finally exhaled.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whisper.

He chokes out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No shit?”

You nod. “No shit.”

Jisung blinks, then grins—slow and wide and boyish.

He just stands there, still holding you, like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened.

Like he's trying to memorize this moment—your smile, your closeness, the soft heat of your hands resting over his heart.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. Closes it again.

Then settles for a quiet, breathless, “...Okay.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Okay?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Just… okay. Everything’s okay now.”

You lean into his chest, let your head fall to his shoulder. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms wrap around your waist again, this time more certain. More steady.

And for a moment, neither of you says anything.

The crowd is still bustling in the background. Cameras flashing. Tassels swinging. Parents calling names that don’t belong to you. The sound of it used to sting—but not now. Not with him holding you like this. Not with the song still echoing in your ears, a private chorus written just for you.

You glance up. “So what now?”

He looks down at you, still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“We go home,” he says. “Order too much food. Fall asleep on the couch. Pretend we’re not both crying during The Office reruns.”

You snort. “That’s your big plan?”

He leans in, nudges your nose with his. “No,” he murmurs, softer now. “My big plan is to love you for a really, really long time.”

Your heart stutters.

And it’s so simple—so quiet, so uncomplicated—but it wraps around you like warmth, settles deep in your bones like something you forgot you were allowed to want.

You tip forward and kiss him again, just once. Just enough.

“Sounds like a good plan,” you whisper.

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eventually, your fingers find his, threading together as the crowd begins to thin. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, grounding and sure.

You glance down at the flowers, still clutched in your other hand—slightly crushed, petals soft and folding in from the heat. But they’re yours. Someone showed up. Someone stayed.

You’re walking away with his hand in yours, the sun dipping low behind you, the final track still playing softly in your head.

It ends the way all good songs do.

Quiet.

Certain.

Yours.

[zorosgirlfriend]

Hellooooo, good day to youu! I hope you're doing well

can we get monster trio x long hair!reader🥹 imagine them just playing with your hair

tyty!!! have a good one <3

monster trio ~ !! Strands of Affection.

warnings: none.

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

Monkey D. Luffy

Luffy doesn’t even try to hide how much he loves your hair.

Whether you’re lying in the Sunny’s lounge or sitting next to him during mealtime,

The moment he notices your long hair flowing over your shoulder,

He's in it.

He rests his chin on your shoulder and starts playing with the strands,

Holding them up and saying things like,

“Whoa, it’s like rope! I bet I could swing from this!”

You raise a brow.

“Luffy, no.”

He grins and nuzzles into your hair anyway.

“It smells really nice though…”

Sometimes he randomly gathers it into a high,

Ridiculous ponytail and declares,

“I call this hairstyle: ‘Battle Mode!’”

You can’t help but laugh,

Especially when he sticks one of your hair ties on your head like a crown and says,

“You’re the captain now!”

He’s so soft with it too.

Absently stroking it while holding you close,

Rubbing his cheek against your head with the gentlest,

“Your hair’s warm…”

Roronoa Zoro

Zoro pretends he doesn’t care.

But oh,

The second you sit beside him,

Your long hair cascading down your back or brushing against his shoulder

He notices.

One time during a nap together,

Your hair draped across his chest.

He acted like it was a bother,

Grunting,

“Oi… your hair’s everywhere…”

But his hand?

Running slow and steady through it.

When you caught him braiding a few strands,

He scoffed,

“Tch. I was bored.”

You smiled.

“You did a good job.”

He looked away with the faintest blush.

“...Yeah, whatever.”

Sometimes when you're standing in front of him,

Talking to someone else,

He'll grab a piece of your hair just to feel it run through his fingers.

“Too long,”

He mutters.

“Could trip someone.”

But he keeps touching it.

Quietly,

Secretly enjoying the silkiness.

You once tied a little ribbon in your hair and Zoro tugged on it.

“Cute,”

He said under his breath.

Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji is weak for your long hair.

Full-on heart eyes.

The first time he saw it cascading down your back after a shower?

He forgot how to breathe.

“Mon trésor… do you know what you do to me with hair like this?”

You giggled and turned around just as he gently reached for a lock.

“May I?”

You nodded,

And that was it.

Every chance he gets,

He’s either brushing your hair with the utmost care,

Running his fingers through it,

Or braiding little sections.

“You deserve the royal treatment,”

He says while humming,

Brushing your hair like it’s a sacred ritual.

Sometimes he kisses the top of your head and whispers,

“So soft… you’re so, so lovely.”

He’s obsessed with styling it too.

“One braid? Two? I was thinking maybe a loose bun for dinner, angel.”

He even shows you off proudly to the crew like,

“Look how stunning they are today, have you seen their hair? I did the braid!”

[chrattho1]

nerd!matt x reader

theres a whole list of different things about matt that makes your stomach turn. the way he smells, the way his voice sounds, the way his silver chain dangles off his neck, the way he only really calls you mama. you can go on and on. but theres one specific thing that you notice alot about him.

matt’s glasses are one of the things that makes you feral to say the least. the way he pushes them up the bridge of his nose when they’re sliding down, the way he fiddles with them when he’s focused, the way they sit so perfectly on his features. most of all how he looks so fucking fine with them on. he doesn’t even try to look the way he does, just so effortlessly pretty.

matt’s head currently rests on your lap as you look down at him, admiring his eyelashes as they batt behind the frame of his glasses while he reads through something on his phone. god he’s so pretty.

you’re both enjoying the day off from school, matt surprisingly hasn’t touched a book yet and has been in bed with you all morning.

“look at this, apparently butterflies taste with their feet” he flashes the screen of his phone in your direction, showing you the article on random animal facts that he’s been reading.

“that’s crazy” you mumble, really not giving a fuck about how butterflies taste and more focused on the way his hair falls back to his face every time you push it back his forehead, tangling your fingers in his locks.

“i know right..” his eyes darting between your face and the screen, looking at your reaction carefully. he know’s your mind is elsewhere. he can see the absolute need in your eyes for him.

“ma?” his voice soft, like always.

“mhm?” the small smile on your face never leaving as you admire him.

“can i get a kiss?” his eyebrows tie asking you the question but he also knows you’d never deny him of a kiss.

“ofcourse baby” as soon as those words leave your mouth, matt sits up. pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose scooting closer with the most desperate look on his face. it doesn’t take long for him to get worked up. he was just reading animal facts but when he saw you looking at him like that.. yeah.

he licked his pink lips making them look glossy as he nervously leaned down to place his lips on yours. you and matt have been dating for a while now, but he still gets nervous around you almost like the first time you reached out to him after class about a project.

matt’s lips move against yours, his hands shaky from need when he places them on your lap, slowly stroking your skin. the tip of his fingers toy with the edge of your shorts before reaching under and squeezing your thighs.

the kiss deepens, both your mouths open and tongues tied as matt’s weight pushes to lay you down on the mattress. his lips leave yours to place small and hurried kisses all over your jawline leading to your neck. his hands under your shirt now, rubbing circles on your stomach. matt’s pretty noisy whenever he gets to touch you, he is whimpering, breathing heavy and moaning all while kissing and sucking on your neck. his glasses pressing into his forehead as he digs into your skin.

his hands squeeze your sides and find their way to your hips, fingers hooking onto the waistband of your shorts.

“matt..” you moan out giving him the green signal to pull your shorts down. and he does.

soon both your shorts and panties land on different parts of the room, matt’s hands gripping your thighs and his pretty, pretty face lays between them.

“oh baby…fuck..right there..” your chest heaving, your hips pushing into his face.

his tongue moving rapidly along your folds and your clit, each time he is eating you out he acts like he’s been starving the whole time.

his nose nudges your clit as he puts his face in deeper, his glasses fogged up and pinching your inner thighs. he soon notices and pulls away to look at you— well sorta, his glasses being fogged don’t really help with that. his hair all over the place, his nose and cheeks flushed and his lips— they’re glossier than the models’ on the fenty lip gloss ad.

he lets out a sharp exhale almost like a gasp, feeling your index finger hook onto the bridge of his glasses, pulling them off his face in a swipe and putting it on your own in a way that they’re almost falling off your nose.

matt’s eyes wide, his breathing still heavy. he licks his lips and pulls on your thighs to bring you closer to his face before diving in again.

his tongue works over your wet folds in a practiced way, almost like he knows every nerve ending that makes you squirm, his eyes now darted up at your face watching you moan his name and roll your eyes back behind the frame of his glasses.

he can feel his painfully hard boner press against the mattress, his sweats feeling damp from the release of pre-cum. he ruts his hips along the semi-soft mattress while he lets you fuck his face.

sloppy noises, sheets crinkling under the both of you, moans and whimpers from matt’s end and screams and praises from your end is all that is that surrounds the room.

“baby, fuck..m’gon’ cum okay?” with your ragged breathing you speak and matt nods against your pussy, his hips still fucking the mattress.

matt’s lips envelope your clit, sucking on it while he watched your head fall back and hips buck into his face, cumming undone all over it with a loud screech of his name falling from your mouth.

matt licks you through your orgasm, your thighs shaking vigorously around his face, your legs trapping it there until he pulls away and climbs up to you.

his finger pushing his own glasses up your nose, his chin covered in your juices looking at you with a sheepish grin. his clothed length pressing against your bare thigh.

“can you keep them on?” he asks with a little hesitation, he knows you guys are going to go a few rounds after this and he needs you to have them on the whole time.

a soft and small chuckle passes through your lips.

“fine but will you able to see properly?” you tease causing him to whine and drop his head to your shoulder, absentmindedly pushing his hips into yours.

˗ˏˋ a/n ˎˊ˗ this close to starting my own nerd!matt au, sigh. anyways this isn’t proofread at all. english is not my first language !

🏷️ @espressqe @ginswife @sturnsburna @carolina454 @hope2244 @hotgirlbl0gger @violetstxrniolo777 @riggysworld @verycoolmiyah @fadedstvrn @purpledreamertyphoon @mattsplaything @whore4chris @chris-halleluja @annsx03 @mattsdemi @chrislittleslut @poolover123 @luvvnai @chrissturniolossidehoe @pompomprrin @harmonysturniolo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @soph-loren @ccsturns @lovesturni0l0s @chriss-slutt @wysmols @sturniolosluttt @mattsdillion @alyssa-sturn @bilssturns @sturnobessed @mxnsonn @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @chrissturnioloswife88 @sxphiee3 @purpledreamertyphoon @whoreforchrissturnniolo @slutformatt17 @realuvrrr @sweetxcheeryx @sturnl0ve @estellesdoll @glitterybtch @courta13 @mattsbitchh @slvtf0rchr1s @trevorsgodmother

[softly-faye]

𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐅𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 2 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Dumb!Ditzy!Reader x Rafe Cameron <3

(For @lolabunnyworldss - fyi when I say JJ I mean John B and Sarah named their baby after him he’s not dead in this AU!)

౨ৎ

It started again on a Thursday.

Not a special Thursday. Not a holiday or an anniversary or anything fancy like that. Just a regular, soft, sleepy kind of Thursday. The kind where she wore one of Rafe’s big sweatshirts with nothing underneath and fuzzy pink socks that slipped down her ankles when she walked across the hardwood floor.

She had curled up on the couch with Bemo, her sweet little bunny who smelled like hay and warm laundry, and was watching baby TikToks on mute while absentmindedly eating marshmallows straight from the bag. Not toasted. Not dipped in chocolate. Just the fluffy kind that stuck to her fingers and made her lips glossy.

One video played after another. Chubby-cheeked babies learning to walk. Giggly twins wearing matching overalls. A little girl with a flower crown saying “daddy” for the first time.

Her heart squeezed in her chest like someone had tied a ribbon around it.

“Bemo,” she whispered, holding him closer and pressing her cheek to his tiny head. “I want one. I want a baby so bad.”

Bemo twitched his nose and looked mildly annoyed. He had never been interested in babies, except the time JJ drooled on his ear and he refused to come out from under the couch for two hours afterward.

But she was serious. Her brain might’ve been a little scattered most days, but her heart was big and full and ready. At least that’s what she thought.

So when Rafe came home, all sweaty from the gym with his jaw tight and his t-shirt clinging to his back, she launched herself at him like she had just seen him after a month at sea.

“Rafe,” she said dramatically, clinging to his chest. “I need a baby. I actually might die if I do not get one soon. Like physically die. My body is literally craving one.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You’re back on this again?”

She nodded seriously, curling her fingers into his shirt. “Yes. Like my uterus is crying. I think I’m ovulating. Maybe. Or whatever the thing is when your eggs start screaming.”

He snorted, walked her backward until she flopped onto the bed, then hovered over her with that look he always gave her when she said things that didn’t make sense. Affectionate. Confused. Slightly worried.

“You remember what happened last time you got baby fever?”

She blinked up at him and tilted her head like a puppy.

He stared.

She blinked again.

“…No?”

He exhaled. “Bemo. I got you Bemo.”

She gasped. “Oh my gosh yeah. But that was different! That was starter baby fever. This is like… final boss level. I think I’m nesting. Do you think I’m nesting? I rearranged the snack drawer by color earlier.”

“You put all the pink Starbursts in their own Ziploc bag,” he said flatly. “And called it ‘princess energy.’ That’s not nesting.”

“It could be,” she argued, pouting. “Princesses have babies. Royal ones. I could make us royalty.”

He just looked at her.

She kicked her legs a little. “I just really want one, Rafe. A real baby. A squishy one. That cries and has those little toes that look like tiny corn kernels.”

“I’m not getting you a baby because you’re obsessed with baby toes,” he said slowly.

She rolled over dramatically and buried her face in a pillow. “Fine. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You think I’d be a bad mom.”

“I think you’d lose your keys in the baby’s crib.”

She gasped. “I only lost my keys three times this week and one of them wasn’t even my fault. I thought the microwave was the fridge.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

She popped her head up. Her hair was tangled. There was a tiny smear of marshmallow on her cheek. Her eyes were wide and wet.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just give me a chance.”

Rafe sighed. A long, deep sigh that said I love you but you’re literally out of your mind.

“All right,” he said finally. “You want a baby that bad?”

She nodded, eyes hopeful and shiny.

“Then prove it. You’re on trial, baby girl.”

She sat up, brightening immediately. “Oh my god like a baby test?”

“Exactly,” he said, voice firm. “Starting tomorrow.”

She squealed. Bemo leapt off the couch in terror.

౨ৎ

Trial Day One:

There was a paper on the fridge.

It had been typed. Printed. Taped down.

She stared at it with a cup of milk in her hand and a slice of cold pizza in the other.

TRIAL RULES. FAIL = NO BABY.

By Rafe “This Is Serious” Cameron

1. Take all your meds every morning. No reminders.

2. No drinking. No smoking. No wine. Not even white.

3. Eat real meals. Breakfast is not marshmallows.

4. Bemo must be clean, fed, and not dressed like a doll.

5. Babysit JJ twice a week. No calling me unless someone’s dying.

6. No crying over nothing.

7. Act like a mom. Not like a bunny princess.

She gasped.

“I am a bunny princess though,” she mumbled, half insulted.

But she took it seriously.

She got up early the next day, set five alarms on her phone labeled “PILL TIME OR NO BABY,” and made a sticker chart shaped like a heart.

She found glittery stickers in her drawer and decorated it with little cut-out bunnies and the words Mommy Mode Activated in sparkly pink marker.

She didn’t drink wine. Even when Kiara offered her a cute fizzy one that tasted like watermelon and was in a cup with a tiny umbrella. She just held her lemonade and sipped dramatically.

“I’m in training,” she said proudly. “My womb is in boot camp.”

Rafe just sipped his beer and stared at her like she was some kind of adorable alien.

౨ৎ

Week Two:

She babysat JJ three times because Sarah was exhausted and John B had accidentally put frozen peas in the coffee maker.

The first time, she panicked a little when he pooped mid-diaper change and she screamed so loud that Bemo ran into the laundry room and hid in a basket.

But she figured it out.

She sang songs. She invented lullabies. She read JJ a picture book about frogs and added dramatic sound effects even though JJ mostly just chewed on the corner.

She wore soft sweaters and fuzzy socks and made sure to wash her hands like fifty times. She googled everything. How to burp a baby. How to tell if a baby is too hot. How to entertain a one-year-old without accidentally teaching them swear words.

Rafe came home once to see her dancing around the living room with JJ in a baby sling while holding Bemo in the other arm like a furry handbag.

“What are you doing?” he asked, blinking.

“We’re bonding,” she said seriously. “It’s called multi-momming.”

And honestly, she looked ridiculous. But also… kind of perfect.

౨ৎ

Week Three:

She didn’t miss a single pill.

She didn’t call Rafe for non-emergencies.

She stopped crying when she accidentally burned her toast.

She started eating real food like oatmeal and grilled cheese and cut-up fruit in little bear-shaped bowls.

One day, she caught herself humming while organizing the diaper bag and paused.

She looked down at herself. Hair up. Big hoodie. Baby on her hip. Sticker chart full of hearts.

She was doing it.

She was actually doing it.

౨ৎ

Final Day:

She stood in the kitchen in a soft baby-blue dress that barely brushed her thighs. She had baked muffins. Real ones. With blueberries and everything.

JJ was asleep in the playpen. Bemo was flopped on his pillow with a leaf of lettuce in his mouth. Her sticker chart was complete. Her pill bottle was empty because she had taken every single one.

She had even packed a mini emergency baby kit. Just in case.

Rafe came in, tie loose around his neck, face unreadable.

“Trial’s over,” he said.

She froze. “Did I… pass?”

He walked over to her, grabbed her hands, and looked her in the eye.

“You passed,” he said. “You proved me wrong.”

She gasped.

“You did everything right,” he continued. “You made real choices. You showed up. You didn’t whine or quit or burn down the house.”

“I only almost burned it down once,” she whispered.

“And you handled it,” he said. “You handled everything.”

“So… we can start trying?” she asked softly, hope blooming in her chest like fireworks.

Rafe smiled.

“After the wedding.”

She blinked. “What wedding?”

Then he dropped to one knee.

She squeaked. Literally squeaked.

He pulled out a tiny velvet box.

“This ring belonged to my mother,” he said, opening it to reveal a delicate gold band with a perfect oval diamond. “She told me to give it to someone strong. Someone who’d raise a strong child. Someone who’d never stop loving.”

Her eyes flooded with tears.

“I didn’t think that would be you,” he admitted. “But you proved me wrong.”

She dropped to the floor, mascara running, and wrapped her arms around him so tightly the ring nearly flew out of his hand.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes yes yes yes yes!”

Bemo thumped approvingly.

JJ yawned in his sleep.

౨ৎ

Twelve Months Later

She was lying on her side in bed, cradling her enormous belly, one hand rubbing slow circles over the bump while the other held a half-eaten cupcake.

Rafe walked in, eyes soft, holding a tiny pink onesie that said Daddy’s Little Chaos in sparkly cursive. “She kicked again,” she said sleepily. “I think she likes cupcakes.” “She gets that from you,” he said, smiling.

They curled up together, her head on his chest, his hand on her belly. And just before she fell asleep, she whispered, “I still wanna name her Marshmallow.”

Rafe groaned. But he would say yes. Because she had earned everything. And he would give her the whole world.

[everrinsly]

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

good mouth, pretty lips with suna. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

suna fixes your lipstick for you while being a tease.

more suna here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

You’re not used to dressing up. In fact, you avoid it—always claiming the blouse is too tight or the skirt flows weird. Most days, you’re in an oversized tee and fuzzy socks, hair tied back in a messy bun, and of course, one of Suna’s hoodies (which is rare because he’s strangely territorial about his hoodies even though he never says anything). 

But tonight is different. There’s a work event—something semi-formal but small. You’re just a team assistant, not anyone important, but your supervisor invited you and said it could be a ‘team-bonding’ event. So now, you’re going to a cocktail dinner at a swanky downtown venue that’s a little too expensive and extravagant for your taste. 

You’re dressed up.

Hair done in loose curls and a carefully curated outfit within a normal get-ready time—sort of; it was four hours. 

Now—lipstick. The final step.

You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, phone flashlight precariously balanced on the shelf above it for extra light. You lean in close, flicking your wrists a few times, trying to remain steady and careful. 

The velvet glides on with practiced care. You’ve almost—

Click.

The apartment door opens. Keys jingle. The apartment door closes. Keys clatter in the little bowl on the shoe cabinet. 

You flinch.

And just like that—your hand slips. The lipstick smears slightly past your top lip, ruining the crisp line.

You bite back a groan.

“Yo,” comes a familiar voice, lazy and tired in the way that makes your stomach flip for no good reason. “Why do you look like that?”

You glance over your shoulder. Suna’s standing there, freshly home from practice. Hair still damp from a shower at the gym, duffel bag still slung over one shoulder. His EJP jacket is halfway zipped, clinging slightly to his chest from the humidity. He looks at you, then the mirror. Then you again.

You scoff. “Like what?”

He toes off his shoes lazily. “Like you’re about to break someone’s heart.”

You blink, cheeks warming. That… was not what you were expecting. Not from him. Not from someone who once said you looked ‘fine’ when you were wearing a dress you spent nearly two days picking out.

Suna wanders closer, dropping his bag by the foot of the couch. “What’s the occasion?”

You turn back to the mirror, dabbing gently at your mouth with your middle finger. “Work thing.”

He hums. “Is that why your mouth’s all messed up?”

You pause. Then glare at his reflection. “It smudged when you walked in.”

Suna stops behind you, peering over your shoulder—a soft brush of his chin on your bare skin where the off-shoulder sleeves of the dress dips. The warmth of his body lingers behind yours, close enough to feel even if he’s not fully touching. He leans in, tilting his head, and—god—you can feel his breath against your cheek.

"Messy," he says, like it’s the worst thing in the world.

“I know,” you mutter, embarrassed.

He pulls his head back up, but he doesn’t move away.

“I can fix it,” he says casually, staring at your reflection in the mirror. 

You blink, staring back at him. “What?”

Suna doesn’t answer right away. He just tilts his head slightly, gaze dragging over you again—slower this time, like he’s savoring the view. You feel it travel down your frame, heavy and unhurried, before landing on your mouth again. His brows twitch ever so slightly.

“C’mere. Turn.”

His voice is low; that usual drawl dipped in something soft but direct, something that brushes right up against your spine, something that sends a striking pulse through your body. 

“Rin…” you hesitate and mumble a warning, almost a plea—as if to say 'what are you plotting right now.'

But he already has his hand out, palm open, fingers twitching lazily.

“It’s not that deep, angel,” he says, almost bored.

It kind of is, actually—especially with that pet name. At least, it feels that way when you give in, like you always do, and turn toward him.

Suna's touch is confident and effortless, like he’s done this before (he hasn’t), and he cups your face with one hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath hitches.

His thumb brushes the smudge slowly. Carefully. His ring-clad fingers rest against your jaw, cool and gentle. It should be a ‘nothing’ kind of touch—mundane, brief, maybe less than ten seconds—but it's not, and it makes your heart race a mile.

Suna's eyes flick down to your lips, then up to meet yours. That unreadable, lazy expression is still there, but something about it feels heavier now. You can practically feel the thoughts he’s not saying.

“Color suits you,” he says flatly.

You roll your eyes. “You said that last time I went out for girl’s night.”

“Still true.” His thumb glides across your bottom lip, deliberately slow. “You’ve got a good mouth. Pretty lips.”

Your heart stutters.

“Rin—”

“What?” he murmurs. “I’m just being honest.”

You exhale shakily, looking down at the floor. “You’re being weird.”

Suna shrugs, dropping his hand. “I’m being helpful.”

Your face burns. “You’re being annoying.”

“You say that, but you keep letting me touch your face.” He tilts his head, mouth curling into a lazy smirk. “Wonder what that means.”

You’re silent for a beat too long. 

Perfect time to rope him into buying you some new makeup. 

“It means you owe me a new tube of lipstick and lip gloss. Exact shades please,” you say, teasing. 

He snorts. “You think I don’t know your shade?”

You glance up at him, wary. “You do not.”

He shrugs again, hands slipping into the pocket of his hoodie. “Red with a pop of pink in it. Not glossy. Kinda matte. Smells like vanilla. If you wanna get specific… number 203 for lipstick… 601 for lip gloss. ”

Your jaw drops. “H-how—”

“You leave it on the counter,” he says, like it’s obvious. 

You don’t respond because you’re desperately trying not to combust.

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes trailing across your face, then down your frame, taking in every bit of effort you’d put into tonight. You feel bare under it—stripped down in a way that has nothing to do with the pretty dress you’ve chosen.

And maybe it’s the nerves, the heat prickling at your skin into your chest, the soft burn where his thumb had wiped your lipstick earlier, or simply just the way he’s looking at you like he knows all of you (he does). 

You need something stupid to fill the silence, so before you can stop yourself—before the quiet pulls too taut, before the air folds—you blurt out, “Or do you just like looking at my lips?”

It’s meant to be a joke. A deflection. Some banter to break the tension.

But Suna doesn’t blink.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. It’s immediate.

Just that. No hesitation. No teasing grin. Just the truth, delivered in that same deadpan way he always says things that make your heart lurch.

Your breath catches.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And you?

You melt.

Completely.

[miajooz]

‘Tastes Like Citrus ⋆˚࿔

overview ⟢ Part 2 of this blurb right here! (i really suggest you read it). Ellie is a bartender, her smooth talking and overall charisma has you feeling things in your stomach you hadn’t felt in awhile. When she suggested taking you back to her place, you agreed.

warnings ⟢ Dom!Ellie, hair pulling, slight choking, dirty talk, cursing, strap usage (r!receiving) tribbing, fingering (r!receiving), pussy slapping, degrading + praise, darcyphilia, some panty fixations and play. i don’t know, kinky things!

6.5k words!

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

That’s what Ellie told you after bringing you to her motorcycle and helping you situate yourself. The way she grabbed your arms with a firm grip and pulled them around her neck waist made your head spin. But maybe the way your boobs pressed against your back made her feel something similar.

You couldn’t tell, not with the helmet she had on or by her attitude.

The motorcycle ride back to her place was damn near torturous. Well, at least that’s how it could be described as. You were pressed up against Ellie—the woman you just met—your arms wrapped around your waist. Not to mention how offensively sexy she looked in that helmet, you thought you were gonna cum on the spot from that and the buzz of the motorized thing you were so kindly invited on.

You managed to hold out, the fear of every sharp turn she took keeping your mind in a different place. Though you couldn’t help but be charmed by all this, you wondered how many other girls got this kind of special treatment. Surely her smooth way of talking got her some places—many places.

For some reason, you wanted to be her favorite.

Eventually you pulled up to a small house, it was the kind of house you’d expect any bartender to have. Not that it was bad, it was a good house. The exterior was adorned with various potted plants, along with some planted into the flower beds. The house itself was brown—many shades of brown.

So she was a plant chick, interesting. Motorcycle and plant chick, what a combination!

Ellie took her helmet off, hanging it on the side of one of the handles carelessly. The way small strands of hair stuck to her forehead made something pulse. Her helmet wasn’t her top priority, not when she had a hot girl on her bike. She looked back at you with a smile, that same smile she flashed you with at the bar. The smile that knew what it was doing.

She took your helmet off for you, watching the way you wobbled in your heels to get down. She nodded at you, placing the discarded helmet on the seat before taking your hand. She just reached it out, it was actually really polite. Bare minimum? Maybe, but it was something to you.

“Easy, darling. ‘You gonna fall flat on your ass when we haven’t even done anything?” she asked, though it was more of a condescending thing than anything.

You just smiled, maybe in amusement or maybe to mask your nerves. “Are you gonna let me fall?” you questioned, letting yourself be helped off the bike.

Ellie smiled, “Of course not, especially after what I’m going to do to you. Your legs will be shaking for other reasons.”

What a filthy talker she was. You visibly reacted to her words.

You couldn’t even respond, she was already pulling you towards the door. No matter how confident she acted—she was desperate. It was clear you had a deep attraction for each other, that always made things so much better.

You were latched onto her, kissing the back of her neck softly as this random, hot bartender lead you up her driveway. Ellie smiled and vocalized some sort of scoff, one you ignored. She reached for the door handle, immediately swinging the door open.

Within seconds her lips were on yours, it was a bruising kind of kiss, the kind was relieving but also exhilarating. Ellie was efficient with it, running her tongue over your lip, biting your lip, all of it. Your tongues massaged each other, you could taste the Bourbon from earlier but you were too tongue tied to pull back and make a snarky comment.

Tongue tied, literally. The way she was kissing you made you feel that way, held in place, dizzy, all of it. You could feel her arm reaching around you to find the zipper of your dress, she tugged on it teasingly. But she didn’t get the change to unzip it.

“Ellie? Are you fucking kidding me?”

No way. Somebody was here? She kept kissing you for a moment, but pulled away to look to her left towards the couch. There she was, you really hoped she was a roommate.

“Oh, hey Dina. Didn’t know you were home, just gonna take her to my room.” Ellie replied casually, her arm sliding around your waist to pull you against her.

You were a mess, this was officially the most humiliating moment of your life. You couldn’t even look up from the floor, you just blinked and studied the amazingly simple wood pattern like a legal doctrine.

Dina rubbed her head, clearly not satisfied with Ellie’s plan. “Is this your girlfriend?” she asked, but she seemed to have a friendly tone. Towards you, anyway—she was holding a glass of wine and a book.

You couldn’t even speak up—Ellie did first. “Something like that.” she said, the nonchalance in her tone almost made you nod in agreement.

Something like that? This chick was crazy. This whole situation was starting to make you have some regrets about who you decided to hook up with.

“Well, Ellie. Can you go elsewhere? I want to sleep tonight.” she suggested, her tone firm but still all the same friendly wise. “Jesse is slumped over the toilet also, fucking wasted.”

You could visibly see the way Ellie’s expression contorted into a more irritated one. She drummed her fingers against your waist, stopping to squish the plushness of your skin under that dress you were wearing. “Okay, fine. Not sure I’ll be turned on from the sound of Jesse puking his soul out anyways.”

Ellie turned to you, smiling at you like it was natural. It felt natural, despite the innuendo that came with it—you found yourself missing it when she looked away.

“Can you wait here, baby? I just need to go grab something.” she told you, her voice was almost coaxing. It made you want to listen, so you did.

You nodded, keeping eye contact with her for a moment too long. Her smile grew on one side ever so slightly, then she patted your cheek and walked towards another room.

The room she planned to bring you to, the room she planned to fuck you in. Well, now your house was the only option.

Dina looked you up, admiring your dress with a smile. She took a small sip from her wine, then held it in her hands like it was an accessory. “I like your dress.”

You smiled at the compliment awkwardly, this was the last thing you wanted for tonight. “Thanks!” you responded, trying to keep your voice level hut grateful.

“Are you actually Ellie’s girlfriend?” she questioned, already knowing the answer to that question. She knew Ellie was lying, even if she was typically a really good liar.

Somehow you felt even more embarrassed. You fidgeted with your hands in front of you a bit, trying to come up with a good reason as to why you didn’t immediately deny it. “..No” you managed. Wow, good defense!

Dina smiled and nodded, “thought so.” she said simply, sipping her wine again and picking up her book. Ellie was quick to come back, she had something in a bag.

You had a pretty good idea of what it was.

Ellie gave Dina a small smile before wrapping her arm around your waist and leading you towards the door. You shivered at the feeling, it was all so new but familiar. Once you were out, she didn’t let go of you—just kept leading you to the bike.

“You’re gonna help me with the directions to your place, baby.” she said, it wasn’t even a question. All you could do was nod in response, so utterly hypnotized by her it hurt.

“That’s fine, but you’re gonna help me onto this bike.”

As soon as you led her to your bedroom—Ellie was all over you, carelessly tossing her bag on the floor. She pulled you close to her, not even giving you a chance to process before she roughly kissed you. You took note of how rough of a kisser this woman was, it was tiring but addicting. Who were you to complain?

You kissed her back with equal effort, gasping for all the air you could since she didn’t seem to need it. That was apparent in the way she was kissing you. You wrapped your arms around her neck while she slid her hands all over your body. They went down to the plush of your ass, kneading it and squeezing it favorably.

Maybe she was an ass woman too? Fitting.

Ellie’s hands eventually stopped groping your ass, they moved back up to the zipper like before. But she didn’t have time to play around this time, she almost immediately unzipped it and helped the dress down your body.

With the simplest flick of her wrist, Ellie unclasped your bra. You were shocked by her skill, was this some sort of party trick? Your bra fell to the floor as if it was trash, because she pulled away just to look at your boobs. She pulled you flush against her, loving the way you squirmed when your sensitive nipples pressed against her clothed body.

“God, darling. You taste like citrus.” she rasped, her hands sliding up and down your spine torturously. You tried your best not to gasp, the way her lips grazed your ear made your cunt ache. You could feel the pool in your panties.

“Is that a problem?” you questioned, knowing damn well it wasn’t. Maybe you were trying to distract yourself from the hands wandering to your ass again. More so now that it was only covered by panties.

You could feel Ellie smile against her ear, the small blow of hair from when she exhaled a scoff. “Oh, baby. You can’t act stupid already.” she said bluntly, but how could you react when her hand slid itself up to your throat. “Why would tasting something I made for you be a problem? At least I made the drink good, yeah?”

You didn’t know if your breath hitched from her words or from the hand pressing on your windpipe. All you knew was that you craved it, craved it like a bee craves pollen.

Ellie pulled away from your ear and planted a soft peck on your lips, looking at you with a look in her eye that you didn’t know if you should be scared of or excited for. But she squeezed your throat, relishing the little noise of panic you made. “I can barely taste it now, kissed you too much. At least you still smell heavenly.”

You laughed softly at this, unable to peel your eyes away from here. “Well I can still taste the bourbon and cigarettes on you—and smell it” you commented, trying to have the upper hand for once. But it was ineffective, she just smirked at you.

“Yeah? Is that a problem? Maybe I should’ve known I was going home with somebody.” she teased, finally letting go of your throat and moving to grab one of your tits instead. “Should I apologize? I’m sorry, baby.”

You were so red you thought you’d die. Why did she talk this way? And why did she grab you so casually. She rolled her thumb over your nipple softly, it was so torturous. You needed this, you needed something.

“Ellie, please.” you begged, it was a weak plead but she seemed satisfied. Ellie smiled at you and stopped rubbing your nipple, gently pushing you towards the bed. Your legs hit the back of the mattress, causing you to fall flat on your back. When you propped yourself on your elbows, you saw it.

Ellie unbuttoned her shirt slowly, making sure you saw her do so. She threw it to the side somewhere and reached behind herself to unclasp her bra—clearly she was better at taking it off other people rather than herself. You stared at her chest for a moment too long, mainly entranced by the freckles all over the top of her body.

You wondered where else she had them.

When Ellie unbuttoned her pants, you almost started touching yourself. The sight was so erotic but so effortless, it was unfair. She slipped her pants off and threw it aside. Then she approached the bed and hovered over you.

She placed her panties on the bed, what could she possibly need that for? They were literally right beside you.

Ellie’s eyes wandered south, landing on the panties you still had covering your wet cunt. She smiled and ran her pointer and middle finger up and down the damp spot on the fabric, reveling in the way she could feel the liquid seep onto the the tips.

“You didn’t take them off, waiting for me to do it?” she asked, pressing her thumb firmly against your clothed clit and watching the way you squirmed. “So patient. I like that, just let me take care of you, yeah?”

You just nodded, her thumb still pressed firmly against your aching clit but refusing to move. Ellie pulled two fingers away from your wet panties, only keeping the pointer one there to hook around the waistband before yanking them down.

The cold air immediately hit your pussy, causing you to squirm again after having your wetness pushed against you for so long. Ellie didn’t even look at the pussy in front of her, she looked at your panties instead.

The wet spot, that’s what she was fixated on.

Ellie bit the inside of her lip and smirked, still not looking at your needy cunt. You almost felt offended! She had such a perfect thing on display for her and she wouldn’t look. Something she came home with you to see, to fuck, to admire—you couldn’t even whine because there was no valid reason to. Though, this was probably on purpose.

Of course it was. You knew that as soon as you saw her lick the wetness off the cotton fabric. You watched in absolute awe, what kind of filthy woman did you just bring into your house? And it was a slow, kitty lick—that’s what made it worse.

Ellie grinned at your expression, the way your lips were parted and your eyes were slightly widened. She dangled them by her face. “Mind if I keep these, baby?” she asked, her voice all suggestive.

You just nodded mindlessly, unable to even process what was going on. Your cunt was practically pulsing with need, you never felt so desperate in your life. “Yes, just please—come on.”

Ellie clicked her tongue, a pitying furrow in her eyebrows accompanying her expression. She tossed your panties to the side, right by the bag she left by the door. “Oh, poor thing. Been pulsing since the bar, huh?” she asked, finally looking down at your pussy. You were soaked, she loved it.

You expected her to finger you, circle your clit with purpose finally and give you something—but she didn’t. Ellie practically straddled your hips, holding your thighs firmly and pulling them to the side. That’s when she placed her wet cunt on yours, her head slightly tilted back at the sensation.

You were in shambles, you immediately started squirming and trying to gasp for air that was continuing to be pushed out of your lungs. At least she started rutting her hips against you softly, clits rubbing together in a way that had you dizzy and seeing stars. Your jaw fell open, wanting to say something but silenced by the look on her face and the gasps that were squeezed out of you.

“Oh, god—fuck!” you cried, more dramatic since it was the friction you had been needing for far too long. You could feel your whole body fluttering, like the craving deep inside you had been satisfied. But you knew things could only get better.

Your cunts were practicing kissing each other. Wet, slippery, squelching, strokes were delivered. And you just took it. Ellie eyed you like a piece of meat, it was hungry in the way that made you feel like she had already devoured you. You’d let her.

“Fuck, baby. S’good, huh?” she rasped out, groans leaving her whenever she’d speed up and listen to the way you’d gasp and whine. A thin sheet of sweat covered her forehead, your bodies were so warm, so meant for each other. “So wet, makes it easier to fuck myself on you.”

You were a mess. Weak cries of pleasure crawling out of your throat with each stroke. Every time your clits nudged each other you felt sparks, all the nerves activated at once and it was the best overwhelming feeling possible. You couldn’t take your eyes off her, even when they were fighting to roll back into your skull. She was in the same state—unable to pull her eyes away from you as she forced her head to stay tilted forwards. She forced herself to look at you, look at the way your face fell with every movement—the way you’d squeal from a specific stroke.

It was as if you were being analyzed. And you loved it.

Ellie groaned again, the feeling of you against her was weakening but also replenishing. “Seen you at that bar so many times, would’ve fucked you sooner if I knew you had such a perfect pussy.” she commented bluntly, you just whined in response.

“I’m gonna take you to another planet baby, just like I promised. ‘Make you read the back of your skull like a fucking novel.”

“The stars at night? Nothing compared to what I’m gonna make you see. Just take it.”

That’s what did it, but not for you—Ellie actually came first. But it was probably the hottest thing you’d ever seen. The way her eyes squeezed shut, the way her hips stuttered mid stroke, the way she hesitated to moan—but she did. She moaned low and raspy, like it was forced out of her lungs when she tried to hold it back.

After hearing that, you were done for. You tried to throw your head back—but she didn’t let you. Your jaw fell open, breathing speeding up as the coil inside you snapped free. It was as if something inside you was released, something inside you that sent sparks through your whole body.

Ellie was panting, her mouth in an ‘O’ shape that ultimately curled into a smile. She held your chin tightly, making sure you didn’t look away. “Eyes on me, baby. Atta girl, focus right here.” she coaxed, her voice all breathy and strained. She just kept rutting her sensitive cunt against you, even if she was a bit overstimulated.

You moaned out a string of pants of her name and whatever else escaped you. Your orgasm hit you like a fucking tidal wave—you felt like your whole body reset. Your head stayed in place, but your eyes didn’t. They rolled back so far and aggressively you weren’t sure they’d ever come back, you felt your whole brain empty itself, you felt a strong fluttering in your stomach and cunt that you couldn’t even process—and her voice coaxing you through it.

“That’s it sweetheart, shitt..” she murmured, finally stopping her hips after helping you ride it out—your soaked pussies still pressed firmly together. You were panting and trying to recover from your orgasm, your eyes finally rolling back into place. She adored your expression, so messy but so sweet. “Saw those stars, yeah? Come back to me, sweet girl.” she cooed, gently rubbing your cheek.

A weak whimper left your throat, you didn’t know if you were brain dead from a simple orgasm or by the fact you were so mesmerized by her. Her sexiness was so appealing to you, everything about her was. Especially when she cupped your cheek so tenderly after making you see planets. But she could see awareness in your eyes and smirked again, lopsided but somehow perfect.

“That’s a good girl.” she praised, finally pulling her cunt away from yours. You both groaned at the same time, an exhale leaving you in sync. There were strings of slick connecting you two, they snapped as you parted ways. She observed the way your pussy leaked, the way that was all for her. “Gonna soak your own bed? Now I really wish we were at my place.”

You laughed at that, it was short and breathy but it felt right. “Maybe I should make you lick it up. Go on.” you said, patting her hip casually.

Ellie cocked an eyebrow at you, spreading your thighs apart and seeing the way your face shifted to shock and panic. “Why are you jokingly suggesting something I’m willing to do?” she asked, letting go of one thigh to caress it. That was until she landed a slap on your sensitive clit—you squealed and arched off the bed in response. She just smiled wider and let go of you, letting your limp legs fall. “Such a baby. I just wanna to stretch you out so bad.”

“I’ll remember what you like for next time I come and visit you.”

Fuck, you were wet again.

You panted, trying to think of anything to say. All you knew was that this would be happening again. “I’ll remember that you came first.” you said, smiling at her condescendingly.

Ellie just scoffed, but not in an offended way. It was amusement, there was a spark in her eyes that changed when she looked at you. Like she was planning something, or already about to do something.

And she did. She picked up her panties from the side, bunched them up, and shoved them in your mouth like gauze after getting a tooth pulled. “I need you quiet if you’re gonna be a fucking brat. I’ll make you cum so many times you’ll need an IV bag, do you understand?”

You immediately made some sort of weak noise, face flushing at the prospect of having this girl’s wet panties in your mouth. It was so filthy, so disgusting, but you were a slut for it. Something about the raunchiness made your cunt pulse. Pulse for her, more of her.

Ellie looked satisfied, she smiled down at you, mouth full of something that belonged to her. Your expression is what really got her, the way only weak, muffled noises were all you could manage. “Yeah? I know baby, you can speak when I actually fuck you.”

You clenched around nothing, mouth full and hole empty. With desperation, you tried to buck your hips up—which she obviously noticed. She caressed your thigh again, one hand much closer to your pussy. “You want it? Say please.”

Say please? Was she joking? It was so clearly just to humiliate you.

But you were desperately unfortunately, and gave her what she wanted. A weak “pmmf” was all you could really offer her, but she seemed satisfied. Satisfied by the whininess of your tone and the way you tried for her, the way you were so desperate you tried to talk with a mouth full of wet, arousal covered cotton in your mouth.

This had to be the real meaning of cotton mouth, for sure.

“Good girl, you deserve it.” Ellie murmured, looking at you softly and tenderly—before abruptly shoving a finger inside you. It was obvious she got off on catching you off guard. She pumped her finger in and out slowly, dragging it against your walls and trying her best to open you up. Trying her best to open you like a bee does a flower mid-bloom in search for pollen.

You let out a muffled whine when she slid another finger inside your aching hole, clenching around her and trying your best not to drool all over yourself from the way your mouth was wedged open by panties. Ellie curled her fingers just right, you immediately shuddered and felt a tingling in your pelvis.

Of course Ellie noticed, that’s what made her keep going. “I can’t wait to see you stretched around me, perfect fuckin’ pussy.” she complimented, but it felt like torture for you. “Gonna make your whole brain filtered out—only able to think about being full of me.”

“I hope you can taste my fingers and strap in the back of your throat when i’m done with you. Or maybe the panties.”

“You want it, sweetheart? You want me to make you feel good again?”

You were so overwhelmed—a strangled noise left you and you just cried. The panties in your mouth, the fingers in your cunt, you just felt full. But it was in the best way—you didn’t wanna feel any emptier. Not when you were in the position she wanted you in, the position you both wanted to be in. You just nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks as she slowly fingered you.

Ellie let out a short laugh, her fingers curling with an almost mean precision. The way your muffled whines seemed to go on endlessly made her feel fluttering in her lower abdomen. “Poor girl, so needy you’re crying—is that it? You want me to fuck you?” she asked, her voice condescending and raspy.

More tears forced their way out of your eyes, you nodded feverishly and tried to hum in response. She wiped your tears tenderly. “I’ll make you feel better, just let me take care of you.” she coaxed, caressing your cheek as if she wasn’t knuckle deep inside you. “Making such a pretty girl cry isn’t right. But you’ll forgive me, I promise.”

You just stared at each other for a moment, the only sounds being your heavy breathing and the squelching of her digits working your hole perfectly for her. Then, she just pulled out. You tried to protest, but your mouth was still stuffed with panties. Ellie let go and reached into your mouth, pulling the cotton that belonged to her out. Her eyes fixated on the way your saliva still connected you to them, like you were begging for them back.

The look on your face was slightly hazy, but somehow so aware. Every touch, every breath, every small facial expression—you were acutely aware of all of it.

“Wanna be a good girl and go get my bag for me?” Ellie asked asked, but you knew it wasn’t a question. If you wanted this, you had to listen. But she just slapped your cunt again, making you yelp and whine. You nodded at her, laying there for a moment to catch your breath. She carefully wiped some of the drool hanging off your bottom lip, sucking the other two fingers that were previously inside you.

With her mouth full, she nodded towards the bag by the door. You sat up, legs shaking in mostly anticipation. You quickly stood and walked towards the door, bending down pick up the bag. Your panties were on top of it, how embarrassing. You swore you heard footsteps behind you, but you tried to ignore it.

Before you were even up all the way, Ellie’s hands were on your hips. She pulled you back before pushing you another direction, practically slamming you forwards as she bent you over your vanity.

The mirror. You should’ve known.

Ellie grabbed the bag from you, her front pressed up against your ass—she was getting juices from your pussy all over herself. She had a satisfied smirk on her face, her eyes darting from the bag and your face in the mirror. “You think this things stable enough? I would hate to break such a beautiful antique.” she said, running one hand along the wood—instead of your body.

Your eyebrows furrowed a bit, and you nodded. “It’s fine, promise.” you reassured, but you knew she didn’t actually need it. You could see in the mirror how one of her eyebrows raised—she was still just analyzing you.

Without any further hesitation, Ellie reached into her bag and pulled out what she brought. A strap, of course it was. The harness was black—but so was the dildo part of it. Now it was your turn to raise your eyebrow, to which she immediately picked up on.

“Why black? It suits you, but come on.” you said, though your voice wasn’t judgy. Ellie waved the strap in front of your face, accidentally hitting you with it. She laughed and pulled it away, holding it normally.

“Why black? So I can see your juices on it, obviously. Your pussy will stand out too.” she responded, voice as blunt as ever. “Wanna see crystal clear what your cum looks like on me when I’m done with you, and that fucking wetness every time I thrust.”

Your face fell, which made hers lift. Ellie put one hand on your ass, patting it teasingly. She then worked the harness onto herself securely, making sure it was all ready to go. You just stayed, bent over your own vanity like a whore and trying to avoid your own reflection.

Soon enough, she was all set. Her hand went down to the silicone, aiming it towards your weeping cunt and sliding the tip teasingly through your folds. “Think you can take it, baby?”she asked condescendingly—but you couldn’t deny it was slightly bigger than you were used to.

Your hips bucked back in response, or maybe in need. The tip brushed your clit ever so slightly, making your thighs try snd squeeze together. That was noticed very quickly—earning you a slap on the ass.

Ellie just smiled at you, listening to your weak yelp. “I thought you would’ve learned patience by now, such a princess.” she tutted, rubbing the red mark on your ass, as if she wasn’t the one who put it there in the first place. She then focused back at the task in hand—literally—and teased your entrance with the tip. Your nerves flared, and you let out some sort of weak, impatient noise.

Eventually, she just thrusted in. At first it was slow, but she probably got impatient and just decided to fill you all the way up. And oh, you were full—fucking stuffed. The stretch was definitely there, though it wasn’t painful. She waited a moment before fucking you, her first few thrusts were slow and deep. “Shh, that’s it baby. Open up for me.”

You just panted, resting your cheek on the desk helplessly as she thrusted into you. Your whining was also evident, considering you felt so full you thought you’d break. But there was a sweetness to the feeling, you felt so satisfied after being denied so long. As Elllie’s thrusts spread up, so did your gasps. Every rut of her hips elicited a gasp from you, sometimes a moan. Your mouth was left open, cheek still pressed against your vanity desk as you drooled onto it.

Ellie was distracted by the way you sucked her in, the way she could see your self lubricant with every thrust. It was mesmerizing, she just groaned and thrusted extra hard—sending your body forwards and the vanity back a bit. She smirked and looked up from your sopping pussy, looking at your face instead. But she couldn’t see, what was the point of the mirror then?

Without a warning, Ellie harshly grabbed your hair and pulled it back, forcing your body in a new arch position. You moaned and cried out loudly at that, eyes rolling back at the new angle. She was hitting so deep inside you, your cervix being bumped with every thrust. The thrusts were brutal now. Hard, fast, deep, powerful—all of it

Anything that could make your head spin. That was it.

Ellie adored the way you moaned from the new position, and when she pulled your hair. “That kind of girl, huh? Suits you.” she commented, panting a bit as her breathing tried to accommodate her pace. “Such a pretty girl, look at your face.” she said, her eyes fixated on your expression.

You didn’t look up, too distracted by the silicone stretching you out. Every thrust was overwhelming, every movement making your mind emptier and emptier. You couldn’t even fully process what she was telling you, only able to think about how good she was fucking you. Your eyes just rolled back, jaw slack in a perfect escape for all your moans.

Ellie slapped your ass again, pulling your head back a bit further. “I said look.” she said firmly, shaking your head a bit to try and coax your eyes back into place. You just whined, eyes locking on your reflection. You looked absolutely pathetic. Eyebrows knitted together, mouth open like a symbol, and eyes struggling to focus. More so when tears welled up in your eyes from the pain of her grip and the pleasure in which she was giving you.

You looked up, eyes falling on hers now. She was just watching you, a satisfied but hungry look on her face. She angled her hips differently, hitting something devastating inside you. Now she was bumping the harness was rubbing her clit perfectly, making her moan at the same time as you. Though yours was much louder and much more dramatic—a high pitch noise leaving you and your back arching almost impossibly as she continued to fuck that spot with an unfair amount of force.

“Fuckkk, baby. Take it, fucking take it.” she rasped, groaning between words. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to watch the way your pussy sucked her in or your expression, she managed to do both. “You’re such a good girl, you’re taking me so well. Should’ve known this pussy was this good.”

You could hardly even think, it was all too much. Your legs wobbled and beads of sweat dripped down your forehead, a small spot of fogginess appearing on the mirror of your vanity as you panted. As she fucked you so good on your own vanity—as if she owned it. As if she owned your pussy, as if she was there to prove something to you.

Oh, yeah—she owned it.

“Els, fuck! I-I can’t stand anymore!” you managed to moan out, your voice barely even peeking through those gasps of yours. You clawed the wood of your vanity, desperately trying to hold yourself up. It didn’t help that she was shaking the vanity with how rough she was fucking you.

Ellie’s hand moved to your hip, the other one still holding your hair. “Don’t be such a baby, you can take it, yeah?” she coaxed, her voice was so smooth you just automatically whined and nodded. She smiled and patted your hip “That’s a good girl.”

You could feel a tightness in your abdomen again, accompanied by a fluttering in your pussy. You were so close, it was building up an unbearable amount. Ellie could tell, and she wasn’t far behind. Though you’d probably cum first, unlike the time before that.

You just moaned and took it, just like she told you to. Ellie angled your face a bit, looking at you in the eyes directly. Those green eyes were so mesmerizing, but you were too far gone. Yours were so droopy and fluttery, while hers were hungry. “Ah, ah, ah!” she moaned, literally mocking you. “So loud, keep doing that for me, darling. Such a whore.”

Mocking moans after fucking you that hard? Cruel.

“Close, sweetheart? ‘You feel good?” she asked, as if you weren’t moaning and arching your back like a bitch in heat.

You nodded feverishly, tears pouring out of your eyes. “So good! Feels so good, baby!” you cried out, nearly choking on your own moans.

Ellie looked satisfied like always, her pace unchanging. Seeing your pathetic expression was doing things to her, you were just so perfect. “Oh, I know, doll. Tell me about it.” she husked, a groan leaving her from the friction she was receiving on her end. There was an audible wet sound from the harness—hearing that made you clench almost painfully.

You didn’t know if she was asking you to actually tell her about how good she was fucking you or not—but you were too dumb to think about it and did it anyways. “S-so deep and—f-fuck I’m close!” you whined, your breathing becoming even more shallow if even possible.

Ellie groaned in response, though it was half groan half laugh. “Yeah? You gonna cum, baby?” she continued rutting into you, her movements practically automatic. “How about you beg for it, go on.”

You let out some sort of hiccup, she even slowed down. You were so desperate it was painful, your pussy clamping around the silicone shoved deep inside you. “Please, please, Ellie!” you cried, feeling the way her grip on your hair tightened. Your eyes tried to roll back again, but she shook your head again to make sure they were back on your own pathetic expression. “I-I need it! Please, let me cum!” you panted out, practically sobbing now.

It was shameful the way you begged. The way you hiccuped and moaned, the way your pussy squelched and weeped with every thrust—all those sounds tangled together echoed off the walls.

Ellie laughed again, but she started to breathe a bit harder and pick up the pace again, fucking you like a ragdoll once again. “You need it, huh? Okay baby, go on.” she rasped, choking out a moan she tried to hold back. “Soak me baby, soak my fucking dick.”

“Shit, shit, shit! Ellie!” That was all you needed, you came so hard you saw stars in the back of your eyes. You cried out, release splattering and running down your thighs. Of course she made you squirt, who else would be the one to do such a thing. Curses and whines of her name escaped you as she helped you ride it out, you squirmed and clawed the vanity desk pathetically.

Ellie groaned at the sight, her head falling back a bit. Seeing you fall apart made her snap. She pulled your limp body up slightly and leaned down, her nipples rubbing against your back. She fucked into your overstimulated cunt, hearing the way you whined and feeling you squirm. Tears rolled down your eyes further, praying she’d cum soon. And she did, she moaned and cursed almost in your ear, her forehead falling against your skin. “That’s it, that’s it..shittt..”

You both just stayed in that position, panting and sweating. You were absolutely ruined, both your pussy and your brain cells. That was the best orgasm of your life, you knew she was aware of that fact because of the slight curve of her lips you saw in the mirror.

Ellie eventually pulled out, groaning at the way your cunt tried to suck her back in. Your bodies pulled apart, sweat trying to bind you. She looked down at the silicone, able to see all your juices and the slight ring near the base. She let out a breathy laugh.

“Atta girl, love to see it. Think you can give me another one?”

Oh, this was gonna be a long night.

tags!! <333 @valeisaslut @eriiwaiii2 @hyperbabes @usuck @haithone @yunaversalluv @smaugayra

for my precious @mayfldss !!! 💗💗🫶

[satrs]

Requested by anon ↳ ❝ [..."how would each lads guy react if you come up to them and adjust their collar saying "You got no one to do this for you?" ] ¡! ❞

✎ A/N;LUVVVV THIS NONNIE!!! MY GOSHHHH OK SO LISTENNNNN

"You got no one to do this for you?"

-‘๑’-

Okay so XAVIER will be confused at first, saying smt along the lines of "..No...? Do I... need to?", but will take it for grated from that point onward.

When he's at your place getting dressed in his work attire, he'll walk up to you with his collar undone, blankly staring at you until you repeat your service from the first time.

You're not even safe when your in the shower, he'll half scare you to death as he slides the curtain open, standing before you like a lost puppy.

That's it. You're his personal collar adjuster now. But don't be mad at him when he bursts into the room while you're sleeping, craning his head to your level as he watches you fiddle your hands on his collar with that grumpy expression on your face!

You've done this upon yourself!

ZAYNE The moment your fingers touch his collar, Zayne stiffens.

His muscles tense, like he’s about to pull away on reflex. He'll spurt out something like "What the hell are you doing?" is sooo embarrassed.

He'll probably want to return the favor somehow. He'll watch you put on your hunter gear, eyes scanning for something to help you out with.

It'll be so forced and obvious that he wants to pay you back for that small gesture you offered him, that you almost regret doing it in the first place.

"Oh here, your hair-tie."

"Zayne, my hair is already tied up."

"Wait. Did you drink enough water? Ate enough?"

"Sighh. Zayne, we literally just had breakfast together."

RAFAYEL is insufferable. In capital letters. Bold. Underlined.

There's a fat grin plastered on his face and you just know you'll never hear the end of it ever again.

He lets you do your thing, standing completely still, but you can feel his stare boring into you. Intense, amused, obnoxious. He tries—tries— to cover his flustered expression with that damn smirk, but the way his ears tint the faintest pink gives him away.

"Hm. So attentive, should I be flattered?"

He'll also bring it up any chance he gets, especially when your mad at him.

"Oh yeah? you're mad? But didn't you adjust my collar the other day?"

"Rafayel, that was two weeks ago."

He shrugs, completely unbothered. "And? Still happened."

Arghhh, he’s so childish.

Now SYLUS... my god.

He's so ridiculously smooth with it, quick to turn the tables on you.

"Hm, you're offering?" he'll edge you into a corner, loosening his tie again on purpose. "Because if you are, you can take care of more than just my tie."

His voice is smooth, honeyed, but there's a wicked glint in his crimson eyes— one that tells you he’s already enjoying this way too much.

He dips his head, his voice turning hushed, silky-smooth. "So? Gonna fix me up again, darling? Or would you rather..." His fingers brush just under your chin, tilting your face up ever so slightly. "...let me keep coming undone for you?"

Oh he lovesss teasing you.

CALEB's heart will skips a beat. He'll fall in love all over again.

After you've fixed his tie and maybe even placed the hat onto the colonel's heads, you're met with his awestruck expression, heart-eyes staring you down with an agape mouth.

No snarky remarks, no smirk, nothing. Just his empty faces staring holes into you.

"U-uhhhhh..."

"Caleb you have to go, you're five minutes late already."

"Uh-huh."

He's still stuck, as if his mind short-circuited (it probably did).

©︎𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙍𝙎 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. Do NOT plagiarize, copy, modify, republish, or translate my work in any way!

[delilahsturniolo]

— ♡ safety net . . . m.s

in which . . . matt helps you through your anxiety

warnings . . . panic attack, crying, thoughts of not being good enough, comforting, angst and fluff.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #7

it starts like a whisper in the back of your mind, quiet. almost nothing. a single, stupid thought that spirals into a storm. you’re sitting on your bed, legs crossed, the room dark except for the soft glow of your lamp. your phone’s in your hand, screen lighting up with a photo you took of matt last weekend, him in the sunlight, smiling at you like you hung the moon.

you should feel calm. safe. loved, but tonight, something’s wrong. you can’t breathe right, your chest is tightening, heartbeat spiking like it’s running from something you can’t name. and it’s always like this, isn’t it? out of nowhere, no warning. just panic, crashing through your ribcage like a wave you didn’t see coming.

your breath stutters.

your hands tremble.

you drop your phone, and it thuds onto the comforter. you clutch the fabric under your palms, like maybe if you grip hard enough, you’ll stay grounded. but everything’s spinning, the walls feel too close. your vision blurs, you can’t breathe. your chest aches, your throat burns. your mind is screaming.

“what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with you? pull yourself together, you’re pathetic.” were the kinds of thoughts running through your head. your body curls in on itself. your jaw clenches, and you feel the tears before they fall, hot and fast down your cheeks. the panic wraps around your lungs and tightens its hold, leaving no room for oxygen, no room for reason.

you’re alone.

that thought breaks you. it cracks something inside your chest so hard you flinch. and then you do the only thing your fingers remember how to do, you reach for your phone with shaking hands, open your favorites, and tap matt’s name. it rings once. twice. your hands are cold. your breath’s a mess. your heart is going to give out right there in your chest.

“hey,” he answers, voice soft. tired. but instantly alert. “baby?” you try to speak, but your voice catches in your throat. a broken sound escapes, half sob, half breath. his tone shifts immediately. “woah woah, baby? what’s going on? talk to me, love.” you finally force out words, choked and barely there. “i’m—I can’t—I don’t know what’s happening, i can’t—i can’t breathe, i can’t—”

“okay, okay. slow down, baby. just stay on the phone with me, alright?” you hear keys. movement. urgency. “i’m coming to you. right now.” you press the phone tighter to your ear like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. his voice is the only thing keeping you here. “can you lie down?” he asks, gentler now. “just for a minute. you’re safe, okay? just breathe with me.”you curl back into the mattress, arms wrapped around yourself like armor. your skin feels too tight. your head’s spinning.

“in for four,” matt says. “you’re doing so good, baby. in. one, two, three… four. hold. and out. slow.” you try. you do. your chest still stings, but his voice is steady. over and over, he counts. he speaks. he reminds you that you’re safe. that you’re not alone. “i’m almost there, love. just hang on for me.” the tears won’t stop, but the worst of the grip is loosening. the panic hasn’t vanished, but it’s not choking you anymore. and then…three knocks.

you don’t even hesitate. you pull the door open and he’s there. matt, hoodie thrown on over a white t-shirt, sneakers half-tied, hair a mess, and eyes so worried it makes your knees weak. you collapse into him. his arms wrap around you instantly, strong and warm and certain, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe. you really breathe. he presses his lips to your temple. holds you tighter. doesn’t let go.

you don’t even realize you’re sobbing until he’s guiding you back inside, one hand on your back, the other cradling your hand. “i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice barely more than a breath. “i’ve got you.” he sits with you on the edge of your bed, rocking you gently like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he lets go. his fingers trace patterns on your back. slow, comforting, patient. “do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, when your breathing starts to steady. “not yet,” you whisper. “just… stay.”

“i’m not going anywhere.”

you stay wrapped in his arms for a long time. minutes, maybe hours. he doesn’t move. just keeps holding you, letting you cry, letting you exist. he brushes the hair from your face, rubs slow circles into your shoulder. “i hate that you went through that alone,” he says finally, voice cracking a little. “you don’t ever have to do that again.” you nod again, still curled into him. “i didn’t know who else to call.” he pulls back, just enough to make you look at him. his eyes are soft, but serious. ��i’m the one you call. every time. no matter what.” you swallow hard. “i felt like i was falling. like i was going to disappear.” he cups your face gently. “then let me be the one who catches you. let me be your safety net.”

and he is. in every way.

© delilahsturniolo

[cherrywriterrr]

just friends, huh?

warnings: childhood best friend!rafe / domestic fluff / tension that slowly builds / emotional realization / alcohol mention / lipstick stains / suggestive themes toward the end / soft possessiveness

you’re both barefoot in the kitchen, tipsy and lazy, lights low, music playing from a speaker neither of you are sober enough to turn down. you’ve got your hair tied up and he’s in a hoodie that’s definitely yours—has been since high school.

the farmhouse is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and your laughter when rafe makes some dumb comment about your old yearbook picture still being stuck on the fridge door.

“you look twelve in this,” he grins, waving it like a trophy.

“i was twelve, dumbass,” you snort, swiping the photo back and sticking it right back in place. “you loved me even then.”

he doesn’t answer that.

just watches you. soft, quiet, golden.

the same way he’s always watched you.

you’re on your third drink—his second—when you press your lips to the rim of his Modelo and take a sip, eyes glinting with mischief.

you hand it back, casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

“thanks,” you tease. “mine’s warm.”

he looks down at the bottle and sees it.

the lipstick mark.

that soft red curve on the glass.

right where your mouth touched.

he doesn’t say anything right away.

just… stares at it.

his thumb runs along the edge slowly, contemplatively, like he’s touching you, not glass. like this tiny thing—the stain of you—is some kind of proof.

you pretend not to notice, turning away to grab the chips. “you okay?”

“yeah.”

you glance back, still smiling. “you’re quiet.”

he finally looks up. “you kissed my beer.”

“you always steal my fries, i figured it evens out.”

you pop a chip in your mouth and hop up on the counter like you own the place. (you do.) he leans against the stove across from you, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“we’ve been doing this a long time, huh?” you murmur.

“what—stealing each other’s food?”

you nudge his shin with your foot. “you know what i mean.”

he shrugs. “yeah. since you were, what? five?”

“five,” you nod. “you called me princess the first day.”

“still do,” he mutters.

and he does.

you don’t know if he notices, but every time you walk into a room, he softens a little. even when he’s mad. even when he’s drunk. even when he’s ruined and rough and stupidly in love with you.

which is always.

it happens slowly.

like honey melting.

one minute, you’re talking about old summers—running barefoot through the fields, sneaking out to the creek, crashing dirt bikes and stealing gas station slushies.

and the next, there’s a silence between you.

thick. electric.

you’re still sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly. he’s closer now. you don’t remember him moving.

he’s looking at you like something’s clicked. like he’s finally seeing it for what it is.

you. him. this.

you tilt your head. “what?”

he just shakes his head, voice quiet. “we’re not just friends.”

you blink. “rafe—”

“don’t.” he takes another step. “don’t pretend we are.”

your mouth opens, then closes again. “but we—”

“we what?” he cuts you off, soft but intense. “we sleep in the same bed when you’re sad? we know each other’s phone passwords? you steal my hoodies and i keep your hair ties on my wrist and i’ve been in love with you since i was ten years old?”

you freeze.

the room spins a little—not from the alcohol, but from him.

“rafe…”

“tell me you haven’t felt it,” he breathes, stepping between your knees. “tell me you haven’t laid in bed and thought about me. us. wondered what it would feel like if i kissed you right now.”

your throat is dry. “what if i have?”

his hands settle on your thighs.

tight.

claiming.

he leans in, lips almost touching yours.

“then kiss me back when i do.”

the kiss is fire and ache.

it tastes like citrus and beer and years of holding back.

he kisses you like he’s finally been let in. like he’s been waiting behind a locked door for twenty years and you just swung it wide open and said come home.

you gasp into his mouth, hands gripping his shirt. he groans when you pull him closer.

he lifts you off the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist without a second thought. years of muscle memory. years of knowing each other’s bodies through accidental touches and almosts and half-said things.

he walks you to the couch, never breaking the kiss.

lays you down like something sacred.

he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

“say it.”

you pant. “say what?”

his voice drops, dangerous and soft.

“that we’re not just friends.”

you swallow. and say it, because it’s true. it always has been.

“we’re not.”

he smirks. “fuckin’ right we’re not.”

his lips are on yours again before you can think.

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesfavegf

[mingiswow]

Little flower | Song Mingi

Pairing: vampire!Mingi x afab!reader

Genre: modern fantasy, romance, smut (MINORS DNI)

Word Count: 12,6k

Summary: Mingi has lived almost 500 years yet he never felt anything like he felt for you, the innocent kind barista he met at a charity event.

Content Warning: mentions of blood, mentions of food, feeding from humans, mentions of killing/hunting humans, reader suffers attempt robbery with physical attack, Mingi call reader my dear an insane ammount of times

Smut warning: porn with plot, tit sucking, oral (reader recieving), piv, unprotected sex (don't do that kiddos), creampie, Mingi big dick agenda

⚠️ English is not my first language, so sorry in advance if there’s any mistakes

The beep of your wristwatch and the bell of the door rang at the same time, announcing it was 3 pm and your regular customer was right on time. Again. 

He entered the shop and the whole atmosphere seemed to change, the few people that were there looking at the mysterious man that seemed to come out straight out of a period movie. He was tall, handsome, his hair was on the longer side, always slicked back perfectly, except for a single strand that fell on his forehead, he always dressed in long black clothes, even if it was spring or summer, the clothes seemed tailored for him, customized for his lean body. He always wore a pair of red sunglasses that hung low on his nose so his dark eyes could look at you like he was staring into your soul.

“Welcome back, sir? Your usual?” you asked behind the counter, the smile Mingi grew to be obsessed with on your soft lips. He nodded.

Mingi hated the taste of coffee, yet he found himself going to your little coffee shop everyday at 3 pm, asking for the same decaffeinated espresso just so he could interact with you even for a few seconds and stare at you. 

The man met you for the first time at a charity event he and his friends were sponsoring, and you were there with your little booth distributing coffee and baked goods for the people, always with that sweet smile of yours. He couldn’t help but be captivated by your innocence, by the way you’d move so smoothly around as you belonged to the place, by the way you were so kind to everyone, by how skin looked so smooth and soft and your neck seemed to call for his name exposed by your tied up hair. So he made his little ritual after that day to pay a visit to you in the coffee shop you worked at just so he could admire you.

“Here you go, sir” you handed him the little mug.

“I already told you to call me Mingi” you felt your cheeks heat up at his intense stare, his lips curved slightly upwards in a hint of a smile. You just nodded, not really sure what else to do, he always broke you with his eyes.

He sat at the same table he always sat, the one slightly beside the counter where he had a perfect view of you. You were so delicate, so precious, a flower in the bloom. You looked so beautiful even with the large shirt of your uniform and the apron over it, your hair tied up in a ponytail, and that beautiful smile of yours always on your lips. He admired you from afar as you laughed at something silly your coworker said, the bitter taste of the drink contrasting to the sweet view of you.

“He’s looking at you again” Jaemin, your coworker, commented as he cleaned the espresso machine. “I’m telling you, he’s obsessed” you shook your head.

“I think you are seeing things” you leaned on the counter looking at your friend. “I just think he’s a very meticulous man” you shrugged.

It has been a while since Mingi started to go to the shop, he wasn’t your only regular, but he was definitely the most amusing one. You thought you were getting delusional when you started to think he was staring at you one day, but Jaemin also noticed, and since that day you started to notice a pattern in his behaviour. He always came by the same time, always sat at the same table and would stay looking at the counter, more specifically, you. 

You tried to shake those thoughts, but your coworker kept bugging you that he was indeed going to the shop to watch you. He even tried to convince you to have a conversation bigger than the usual ones, but the man always broke you, especially the way he would look at you through his tinted sunglasses. 

When Mingi finished his coffee, he lingered a little longer, playing with the mug, before getting on his feet to leave. As always, he went to you to give his tip, he would always give the tip later just so he could say his goodbye to you, and left. But as soon as he left the shop he felt something, a tingle in his head, an omen. 

As the night fell and the last customers left the shop, you decided to finally let Jaemin go, since he was already late for his date, and closed to shop alone. When you were locking the last lock you felt something hit your head and all went black.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The smell of melted candle invaded your nostrils as you slowly woke up, your eyes gradually opening. As soon as your sight was fully focused, you took a look around where you were and did not recognize it, that definitely wasn’t your room. The room was dimly lit, the main lamp turned off, just a lampshade turned on by your side shining an indirect shade of warm yellow and a few candles by the desk in front of the bed. The bed was bigger than king size, you seemed so little in the middle of it, the soft covers in a dark shade of burgundy, the pillowcases in a matching tone of silk. The big windows by the side were closed by the thick black curtains, covering any sign of sunlight. 

You tried to move but the pain in your body was big, and the events of the night before came back to you. 

You heard footsteps coming by and watched attentively at the open door. 

“I see you woke up” it was Mingi, and he was smiling.

You almost didn’t recognized the man, he was wearing a more casual attire, with dark blue dress pants and a white button up shirt with only half of the buttons buttoned, leaving part of his chest to show, his hair was left natural, falling into his forehead, his usual dark and hidden eyes held a soft and warm gaze, almost caring. You couldn’t help but stare at him for a little, he was certainly gorgeous.

“Does it still hurt?” he calmly entered the room, hands in his pockets. You nodded. “They hit you pretty hard, huh?”

“What happened after they hit me?” you asked, now sat on the bed.

“You fainted, gladly I was passing by and saw and, well, now you’re in my house”

“Thank you, really” you bowed to him. 

“No need to thank me, I’m glad you’re safe and well” he came closer and suddenly you felt too aware of yourself. “Now let me see that bruise” he gently grabbed your head, turning to the side, you hissed a little out of pain when he passed his fingers over the spot the man hit you. “Let me put some pomade for you here, okay?” his long fingers were gentle, delicate, featherlike.

“Truly, I don’t know how to thank you enough” you shied. “You saved my life and probably the shop. If there’s any way I can thank you, please, let me know”.

Mingi pondered for a while, should he? It was dangerous, yet, he would love to have such an exquisite thing like you as his companion. If he wanted to get closer to you more than admiring you from afar, to get to know you, it was the perfect opportunity. His friends would call him nuts, but it was his chance to have his way with you.

“If you want a way to thank me” he started, “I know a way” you turned to look at him, your innocent eyes expectant. Oh how he wanted to corrupt you. “Next week a friend of mine will host a party, a ball if you will, and I’d love you to have you as my companion” you blinked a few times, was he asking you on a date? “Only if you feel comfortable… obviously” he added. “It’s a way for you to thank me and also help me”

“Help you?” you cocked your head at him.

“You see, I’m getting at an age where you are expected a few things of, and having you with me would shut the annoying questions” 

“How old are you? I think you’re still young to be pressured into marrying” he laughed humorously and you smiled, his laugh was adorable.

“Let’s keep my age a secret for now, dear” he lifted from the bed. “But I’ll give you time to think, no rush” he started to leave the room, but turned around one more time “also, feel free to stay as much as you need, I’ll be at the living room down the hallway if you need me, rest well”

You muse over his invite. It is tempting. Mingi is a very handsome young man, you can’t deny that, and he also saved your life, so helping him to handle annoying acquaintances wouldn’t hurt you. Sure, he was a very refined man, he seemed to come from a very wealthy background, you didn’t even know if you’d have a proper outfit for the occasion, but helping him could be fun, you’d go to a fancy event, a ball even! 

You got out of the bed, body still hurting a bit, and slowly walked down the corridor, admiring the beautiful architecture and decoration of the place, he was for sure a wealthy man. 

Mingi was sitting in a big armchair by the window, even though it was closed, his eyeglasses hanging on the tip of his nose and he read a book, a cup of wine on a coffee table by his side. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful, ethereal even, yet there was something about his aura that lurked in the corners of his soul. And that intrigued you. 

He slowly raised his gaze from the book to you, a playful smile on his lips as if he knew you were looking at him for longer than you should. You suddenly felt shy under his strong stare, cheeks warm, your fingers playing with each other like you were some kid. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone playful, almost provocative. 

“I’ll go” you blurted out, shier by the minute he kept his stare at you.

“Go where?” he provoked, he knew what you meant, but he was loving seeing this side of you, you were indeed an innocent flower. 

“I’ll go with you to the ball” you said lowly, voice above a whisper. He smiled.

“I’m glad to hear that” he grabbed his wine and took a sip out of it, his Adam apple bobbing beautifully. “I’ll tell you the details later this week. Also, don’t worry about outfits, I’ll have my tailor making something for you. And yes, that is needed” he added when you were about to question him. “I invited you, so only fair I provide the things for you” you nodded, holding a silly happy smile to appear on your lips.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The week seemed to pass slower than ever, maybe it was because you were excited, nervous, anxious. Mingi appeared at the shop everyday at 3 pm, asked for his usual coffee and sat at the same table. His routine didn’t change, but your interactions were longer, more friendly, more intimate. 

“You guys seem to be getting along pretty well” Jaemin noted as he wiped a table, a smirk on his lips.

You just shrugged. You told him about the incident but not about the invitation knowing pretty well he was going to tease the hell out of you if you told him. 

“I think he likes you” he stated, putting the cloth he was cleaning back inside his apron’s pocket and walked over to you at the counter. “Like likes you” you felt a heat crawl up to your cheeks at the thought.

“No way a man like Mingi would like me” you observed, suddenly aware of the fact that, yes, he invited you to his event, but only because of convenience. 

“What do you mean? He comes here everyday just so he can look at you” he rolled his eyes at your innocence. “I bet he’s just cautious and it’s waiting for the right time to attack. Listen to the voice of experience” you laughed and shook your head. 

As if the man himself was listening to your conversation, he sent you a message, the first time since you exchanged numbers that day at his house. 

Mingi: Hi, hope I’m not bothering you at work Mingi: But my tailor said your outfit is ready Mingi: Do you feel more comfortable for me to send it to your work or to your house? 

You smiled childishly at your screen, feeling your stomach take a few turns but you blamed your anxiety to see the garment he prepared for you. 

You: Hii You: not bothering at all today’s quite slow after you left You: you can send it to my house, no problemo You: here’s my address You: thank you so much again, you didn’t had to Mingi: No need to thank me Mingi: You deserve it Mingi: Hope you like it

With that you put your phone back in your pocket, a silly smile never leaving your lips, what had he prepared for you? To say you were excited and anxious was an understatement. Jaemin noticed the shift in your behaviour and he was sure it had to do with a certain mysterious costumer, your smile whenever you talked to or about him was unmistakable. He was curious but he didn’t want to chime into your business, so he let it be, waiting for you to tell him your secrets on your own time.

The afternoon seemed to drag on, your anxiety eating you alive. You looked at the clock on the wall every fifteen minutes, the time slower than the normal. When it was finally time for you to close the shop, you rushed, cleaning everything in record time, leaving Jaemin impressed. 

Your friend insisted on walking you home every day since the attack, so the two of you walked side by side. It was actually really helpful for your mind to have Jaemin talking your ears off all the way home, easing your anxiety a bit, making your mind leave Mingi and his surprises. 

You and the boy said your goodbyes and you entered the building, the doorman greeting you.

“You have a few packages for you, they were delivered this afternoon” you nodded excitedly. “I think you’ll be needing help to take all this to your apartment” when you looked over to the desk there were three enormous boxes and a bag. Mingi was nuts!

“If you don’t mind, I’d love help” you chuckled shyly.

The man grabbed two of the biggest boxes while you grabbed the smallest box and the bag and headed to your apartment. You left it all at your coffee table in the center of the room and inspected the packages. The boxes looked fancy, out of a sturdy cardboard covered in dark green suede paper with a black satin ribbon. The bag was painfully white, it could almost reflect light, with a matching black satin ribbon. 

The anxiety was eating you up, yet you felt nervous to open those boxes. You took a deep breath and decided to open the biggest one first, assuming it was the garment. And you were right.

Your eyes couldn’t believe the sight in front of you. When he said it was a ball you did not imagine you’d dress for such. The dress was absolutely stunning, breathtaking, you have never seen something so beautiful in your life. It was a long red dress, the bodice and part of the skirt were hand embroidered with silver beads, the chest had a net that connected the collar to the rest of the dress, a red cross hanging from the collar. The skirt had a high slit where a black embroidered lace was seen underneath, making part of your leg see through. The back was even more beautiful, the bodice had a low cut, almost reaching your bum, and tied up with a satin ribbon of the same shade of red. The net had more embroideries in it. 

You looked at it in complete awe. It was more than you could ask, more than you could imagine. You were shy at the thought of Mingi buying these expensive things for you. 

You grabbed the next box, not knowing what to expect, and opened. Inside laid a gorgeous high heeled pair of shoes. Black with the red soles, matching your dress perfectly. The leather shining on the light of your apartment. He was really going to buy you the entire outfit? Answer was yes. When you opened the last box you surprised yourself. It was a tiara, a crown almost, studded with white, black and red gems. It was exquisite, the gems going up in teardrops shape, some silver spikes in between them giving a gothic vibe to it. It matched Mingi’s style. 

Lastly, there was the bag. You gently opened it, not wanting to ruin it, and inside there were a few makeup items such as eyeshadow palettes, highlights, blushes and lipsticks. You were going insane. He went all the way to even buying you makeup. How were you going to make it up for all of this? How were you going to pay for all of this? 

You decided to send a message to Mingi to thank him for everything, still shocked, shy at his generosity. 

You: I just received the packages You: I don’t even know what to say Mingi: Did you like it? You: I LOVED You: thank you so much You: you didn’t had to go all this way tho Mingi: Only the best for my girl

My girl. You giggled like a teenager and threw yourself on the sofa, legs bouncing. You were his girl. You liked this. You could be used to this.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The rest of the days were odd, Mingi didn’t appear at the shop the whole week. You didn’t want to admit it, but you missed his eyes on you. You longed for him every day at 3 pm. You pondered sending him a message but decided not to, not wanting to seem annoying or nosy. The day of the event was due and he didn't give you any heads up anymore. You were getting nervous.

“You seem uneasy” Jaemin acknowledged, his hands cleaning a cup. “Is it because your man hasn’t shown up this week?”

“He’s not my man” you responded, not really paying much attention to him. Your mind wandering from Mingi to the ball to the dress carefully kept in your house. 

“Yet” you rolled your eyes to him, but deep down you were wondering if he meant it when he called you his girl. If he intended to make you his. Because truth be told, you'd give yourself to him if he asked for.

You and Jaemin were closing the shop when you felt a sudden cold breeze, you looked to the side and a dark shadow lurked in the corner as if it was watching you. You tried to not pay much attention to it, it was probably just some shadow formed by some boxes and stuff. But as soon as you and your friend started to walk towards your house, you felt as if the shadow was following you every step, a growing tightness in your chest.

“Min…” you called your friend, who seemed unbothered by it all. “Have you noticed something following us?” he looked behind you, scanning the perimeter.

“I see nothing. Are you okay?” you looked around you two too, the shadow seemed to disappear, a deep breath leaving your lungs. “That day really left scars on you, huh?” he hugged you by your side, keeping you close to him.

But you couldn't shake the feeling of the shadow that followed you was still there. Watching you every step. 

You threw yourself in your bed as soon as you arrived home, your heart racing, legs shaking, you were at the edge of something you didn't know how to name. You closed your eyes, doing your breathing exercises and trying your best to remain calm. you were home, nothing could reach you there. 

Deciding not to let those feelings win, you opened your favorite playlist, put it on the maximum volume and went on to take a shower. You felt your whole body relax when the warm water hit your scalp and fell down your back. You imagined all the bad thoughts, all the bad feelings and sensations leaving your body as if they were a black paint being washed by the water. You carefully soaped your skin with the soap, the lovely smell of lavender invading your senses and helping you calm even more.

At the corner of your eye you saw it again, the black shadow, but when you turned to look at it, it wasn't there anymore. “It's just your imagination” you kept repeating to yourself, but the sudden cold breeze that invaded your bathroom and the feeling of being watched wasn't helping at all.

Resuming your shower quicker than you intended, you decided you didn't want to spend the night alone, you were going to call Jaemin or any other of your friends. You left the shower, dried yourself quickly and put on a robe, ready to send a message to your friend when your doorbell rang. 

When you opened the door you saw Mingi in his usual attire, a long black coat covering his body. His complexion seemed more pale than the usual and his lips were a crimson shade of red, plumper than his normal shape. His eyes looked like they weren't there, looked lost. He appeared distressed. 

“Mingi, hi, are you alright?” you asked, analyzing him.

“Yes, I am alright. Thank you for asking” he smiled, a faint one. There was a moment of silence of you two just standing at the door before he spoke. “Aren't you going to invite me to come in?” 

“Oh my God, my bad, yes, come on in, how rude of me” you gave space for him to pass and he graciously did. “How can I help you tonight? Do you want something? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

“Just water it's okay” you went to the kitchen to grab a cup of water for each one of you. “I'm sorry I was absent this week, I was busy with… work and couldn't see you” he said, his words measured. 

“No need to apologize, it's your life after all” you smiled and gave the cup to him. You looked over at his hand and noticed blood in there. “Mingi, you're bleeding!” you almost shouted, and grabbed his hands to look at it, but it wasn't hurt, it was just blood, no signs of cuts or wounds.

“Oh I must have forgotten to clean it properly” he said embarrassed, retracting his hand from you and rubbing the already dry blood with a napkin he had in his pocket. “I had a case of a boy who have fallen of his bike, it must be his” 

“Oh, so you're a doctor?” you mused, never really having thought about his profession.

“You could say so, yes” you nodded with a smile and he smiled back at your innocence, he felt bad at lying to you but at least until the ball it was necessary. “So I came to discuss the matters of the party, if you remember, and I hope you do, it is tomorrow” you nodded, finally taking a seat at his side on the sofa, your body heat radiating to him. “You need to be ready by six, that’s the time I'll be picking you up, not a minute earlier not a minute later” you took a sip of your water and for a moment he lost his train of thought looking at your plump lips. “And I need to give you a bit of fair warnings about the people at the party. Some of those people are not trustable, not around people like you, so be near me at all times, do not leave my side, if you need anything please let me know that I'll get it for you with you, ok?” you nodded.

“Where are you taking me? you laughed a little, a bit nervous, a bit anxious, a bit to better the mood, but Mingi was being serious, his expression not softening. 

“I really want you with me tomorrow, but you need to be careful, soon you'll understand” you slowly nodded, his eyes staring at you.

His eyes always broke you. They could make you do anything with just one look, would that be blush or trust him undoubtedly. You felt your heart race not only at the way he was staring deeply into your soul but at the sudden feeling of being a small mouse entering the lion's cage. There was a sudden air of danger hovering in the air. Not you in danger in his presence but what was about to happen in the next 24 hours. Your skin prickled at the thought, suddenly the shadow in the corner didn't seem so bad. 

“I'll be there to protect you, no harm will be caused to you, my dear, you are my protected now” the way he spoke sent shivers down your spine. His protected. His dear. His.  You felt a warmth in your belly you haven't felt in years at his words. He always spoke so articulately. Like a gentleman of a secret high society. It made you melt. 

“I’m sure you will, Mingi. I don't doubt you” you said genuinely, a hand gently being placed on top of his, and it was his turn to have his belly warm. The things you made him feel he couldn't remember the last he felt. Dead or alive. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

You took the day off from the coffee shop so you could really take your time to relax and be ready. That if you could even relax. You were anxious to the max. You spent your entire morning deep cleaning your apartment, trying to keep yourself busy from remembering Mingi words from the night before. All the wait making you even more anxious.

It was little past 3 pm when you started to get ready, taking a long shower, adding extra steps into your normal routine. You were really going all the way to look extra good not only for Mingi but for the event as well. Since the outfit and the accessories already were showstopping, you decided on going for a classic soft smokey eye, trying not to go too heavy on it. 

When the clock hit 6 pm, you were going down the last stairs from the hall of your building when the big black car parked, and your stomach twisted even more if that was possible. The car, in opposition to Mingi's style, was big and modern. Then he left the car and you swore your heart stopped for a moment. Mingi looked even more refined than ever. He wore black fitted dress pants, red shiny shoes, his white blouse was fancy, puffy sleeves and a ruffled collar that was adorned with a ruby brooch, he wore a tight red vest that matched your dress, also embroidered with silver beads, and had two long tails hanging from behind his back. You couldn't even start to describe how handsome he was.

When he saw you coming from your building he couldn't believe his eyes. You were the most beautiful creature he ever laid eyes on. The way the dress hugged your body highlighting all your beautiful curves, the way the soft of your leg was half hidden underneath the black lace left his mind wandering to dangerous places. Or how your neck was hidden by the collar, eliciting his desire even more. He was definitely going to be the luckiest man in the party.

“Good night” he said, offering his hand for you to grab, which you gladly accepted. He kissed your knuckles, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I think I don't even need to tell you how absolutely stunning you are looking tonight” you suppressed your high-schooler giggle.

“Thank you. You look absolutely amazing too, Mingi” if he didn't lack blood in his system he was sure he would have blushed too.

He helped you onto the car and sat by your side, telling the driver to finally go. The drive was pleasant, you two talked about how your day, how your past week was, how work was. It was a great way to break the ice and also help ease the tension. But the closer you got to a giant gothic mansion, the more your anxiety seemed to come back. Mingi, sensing your crippling anxiety, held your bouncing leg and squeezed softly the skin there.

“Hey, we can go back if you want” you denied with your head. “Remember, I'll be by your side at all times” you nodded. He left your leg and grabbed your hand, his cold ones helping reduce the temperature of your clammy ones. 

The car came to a halt, announcing you had finally arrived, and a man dressed like he was a royal guard opened the door for the two of you. Mingi was the first one to leave the car, once again helping you out.

Suddenly all eyes seemed to be on you, and you became too aware of everything around you, the place, the people, the aura. Everything felt too surreal, too much. You didn't belong there. And it wasn’t just a social class matter. It was a deeper thing that you couldn't quite pinpoint yet.

“Stay by my side” Mingi remembered you, his hand still holding you, grounding you. 

You walked past some people, their heads turning to look at you. Mingi guided you to a group of a few equally ravishing men, some of them were alone, others had companions as well. They all seemed pretty enthusiastic when the man showed up, making loud noises and greeting each other, grabbing attention from some people around. 

“Ah, Mingo, I see you finally you brought your rare flower” one of them spoke, shamelessly looking at you up and down. “I'm San, my love” he offered his hand, you accepted and he kissed your knuckles for longer than necessary. 

“We thought you'd never gather the guts to ask them out” another one spoke, taking a sip of wine while his other hand was around the waist of his companion. 

“Perhaps it was them who asked him first” they all laughed and you saw Mingi shake his head, a shy smile play on his lips, so he talked about you to his friends? How long was he trying to call you out? You found it absolutely adorable.

You squeezed his hand, that was still holding yours, and he looked over at you, his eyes a different shade of dark, you never saw it like that, and smiled at him. He could die right then and there, you were the most adorable thing to step on this Earth. Your innocence was something he cherished yet he wanted to corrupt and break you so bad. 

He excused himself from his friends and went to show the mansion to you, show you the architecture, the design, the history behind every brick. 

“You are the talk of the party today, my dear” he whispered to you when you stopped by a table to grab some wine for the both of you. You noticed he grabbed a different wine for him, but decided to let it slide. “I bet everyone is talking about your ravishing beauty” you felt your cheeks heat at his words.

“I feel like everyone here looks at me like they want to eat me or something” you chuckled at your joke.

“They might” Mingi whispered into your ear. “And I might want it too” you were so lucky there was no one around to see the way your body trembled at his words, the heat that was on your cheeks going dangerously low.

He pulled you once again back to where his friends were and engaged in a conversation with them, leaving you just listening to them while enjoying your wine. You looked down where your hands intertwined, where he still held you close to him, secured, safe. The heat was back at your cheeks at the thought of how you felt with him. Even though he had that mysterious aura, the atmosphere of secrets that surrounded him, somehow you felt like you could trust him, you could feel at ease with him, feel safe.

The chat suddenly stopped and you looked over from your hands, where your eyes were still glued, to the group of people and noticed a man walking over there. He wasn't old, but older than the boys, but he held an aura of power, of prestige. He was very well dressed and he held a cane in his hand, the dark wood carved into intricate designs, the tip golden. 

“My boys! Good to see you all here!” he greeted them with arms open and a wide smile, with was inviting but held a wicked vibe to it. He looked over at you, a smirk playing at his lips as he walked ever so smoothly to where you stand next to Mingi. “I see we have a new guest today, what an honour” he grabbed your hand that was holding Mingi's and kissed the knuckles delicately, featherlike. “Nice to meet you, young flower, I'm the host of this event” you bowed respectfully.

“Nice to meet you, sir. You have such a nice house and the event is esplendid” you answered trying to sound as polite as him, he made you nervous. 

“Thank you, dear, but you see, I think my house is missing some… flowers” he smirked, looking at Mingi, who pulled you by your waist in a possessive way.

“I'm sorry, Taegyu, this one is mine” the older man laughed at Mingi's reaction and swayed his hands saying it was a joke, but you didn't feel it was simply a joke. 

The way the Taegyu guy looked at you was weird to say the least, like he was about to devour you, you noticed that when he kissed your knuckles he took a sniff of your hands and his eyes fluttered as if you were a delicious piece of grilled meat. The entire conversation between him and the boys you noticed his stolen stares at you, the little smirks, the tap of his gloved fingers on the cane. He was making you feel uneasy, and Mingi noticed. 

Mingi knew he couldn't hide his secret for longer, not with the way your scent was especially strong that night, making him feral. And probably everyone else in the party. He should have given you the perfume but he forgot. He noticed how Taegyu was looking at you, desperate. But this time he knew you wouldn't exchange him for the man like the others did, with you it wasn't a question of status or power, he was sure of that. You weren't simply another blood bag, for him, you were more, and he wished he was more for you too. 

He didn't know how to approach you and tell you his secret, how to touch the subject without you running away from him forever, he didn't want to lose you, he couldn't afford to lose you, not now that he was so attached to you, so close to having you for him. In all his almost 500 years of life he never felt so lost, you did things to him that not even his first love had and he honestly didn't know how to react. You were too pure, too innocent, too sweet for him, yet he couldn't afford to let you go, he was a selfish man, he wanted you all for him, and for him only. 

“Mingi” you called him, making him wake up from his daydreams of you. “Can we talk? In private” you added when he nodded. 

He led you two to the second floor of the house and it was even more beautiful than the first one, if it was possible. All the walls were covered in a soft green wallpaper, many art pieces on top of that, expensive ones that looked like they came straight out of museums. Mingi took you to a more secluded balcony where you could listen to yourselves better. Under your feet you could see the party happening, the people looking tiny under you.

You watched the man in front of you, something about him was different that night, darker, more mysterious, everything about that night felt odd. 

“There is something you might want to tell me?” you started, heavy chest, breathing uneven. You honestly didn’t know what to expect. 

He looked at you trying to hide his astonishment at you, his hand casually in his pants’ pockets as he cocked his head at you, while deep down he knew this moment was coming, he just didn’t know it would be so soon.

“What do you mean, my dear?” Mingi tried to sound composed.

“I don’t know, you tell me” you started, voice a little bit higher than your usual tone, a sign you were nervous. “Everything about this place feels… weird, like it came out of a movie, like it is stuck in time. Everyone here spent the night looking like they wanted to devour me, like I was a prey being hunted. You and I drank different drinks, and yours smelt very odd to say the least” you stated, words coming out of your mouth fast. “Not to mention that when you were talking to your friends some of their companions asked me if I was your blood bag. What in the hell did they mean?” Mingi sighed and you saw the defeated look in his face. “You’re not a doctor are you, right?” he denied, his head hanging low.

“Look, I was meant to tell you but I didn’t even know how to start” you nodded, signaling for him to continue. “I’m not a doctor, not anything related, I actually don’t work, I don’t need to”.

“So you’re filthy rich? That’s it?” 

“Yes. And no” it was your turn to cock your head at him. “I am filthy rich, I accumulated a lot during my life. You see, I’m older than I look”

“How old? You don’t look that old, Mingi. Stop taking turns, and go straight to the point, please” he sighed.

“I’m 487 years old” you looked at him incredulously, eyes blinking before letting a loud and humorous laugh out, head hanging back. You looked at him again but he wasn’t laughing. Or smiling. 

“Mingi, c’mon, if you want to lie to me or mislead me so I can leave you alone, at least say something believable” you crossed your arms.

“I’m being serious. I’m 487 years old and I’m a vampire. All my friends are vampires, Taegyu is a vampire, most of the guests here tonight are vampires” you started to laugh again.

“Mingi, please, I’m not a teenager anymore, I might like twilight but I don’t believe in vampires or werewolves or any other magical creature. I don’t know what you are trying to do, if that’s a fetish of yours, but it ain’t working” you turned to leave but he held your wrist, an annoyed huff leaving you, he was wearing your patience thin. “Mingi, please, I…” you turned around to look at him and he had his fangs out. You rolled your eyes. “Nice little costume you have, can I go now?” he retracted his fangs back to his normal teeth and you blinked a few times. “How did you do that?” You went to his mouth and started searching for signs of dentures or any prosthetics.

“Because they are real fangs, I can do that all the time” he made the fangs appear and disappear again. “I know it’s crazy, I know it sounds stupid, but we are real. I don’t know about werewolves, unicorns or whatever, but we have been existing among humans for centuries now” you didn’t know what to believe, his fangs looked too real and he seemed too serious about it all. “This week, when I disappeared, I was weak, I needed blood, I was postponing because getting a blood bag felt like betraying you, but I couldn’t handle anymore, I was getting angry, dangerous, vicious without blood, and if I got too close from you I knew I wouldn’t contain myself” he explained to you in hope that you could understand and believe him. “You humans have a different smell, an intoxicating one for us, and the longer we are without blood, the stronger the smell gets” he came closer but you didn’t back up. “And your smell is rather special to me. You know why?” you denied, your head perched up so you could look him in his eyes, his dark eyes. “Because when we fall in love the smell changes, the scent gets sweeter, specific, and you, my dear, smell like coffee, freshly baked cookies and daisies, and only I can smell that” you couldn’t answer anything, he just admitted to be in love with you while also admitting to wanting to suck your blood. “That’s why I didn’t offer you to be my blood bag from the beginning, because ever since I saw you that day at the charity event I knew I had to have you for me entirely” he laced his arms around your waist and pulled you flush to his chest. Your heart was racing, you didn’t know what to think, he was alluring, absurdly handsome, charming, he had you in the palm of his hand. The way his dark eyes would stare at you, deep into your soul seemed as if he was hypnotizing you. “The way you are so innocent, so pure, so delicate makes me want to corrupt you, to show you things no man has ever shown. Makes me want to bite the delicate and soft skin of your neck and mark you mine. Forever. I want to make you addicted to the feeling of me feeding from you while you give yourself to me entirely, body and soul” his words felt like daggers in your body, hitting all the right spots, and whenever they hit you a warmth would spread at the place. Your whole body was hot, you were sweating from his words only.

Mingi moved slowly, testing your reaction, but you didn’t retreat, instead, you waited for him with your lips half open. He gently touched your lips with his and when you accepted he started to kiss you, moving his mouth with yours. You had thought about kissing this man so many nights and now that it was happening it felt so surreal. His lips were soft, plump and cold. His hands held your waist strongly, squeezing the flesh underneath the dress and pressing your body impossibly close to his. Your hands were messing with the hairs in the back of his neck, fingers intertwining with the long locks to pull his face close to yours as he deepened the kiss. You could feel not only his tongue in your mouth but his fangs too, the sharp tip deliciously scraping the inside of your lips but not enough to draw blood. He was a good kisser, a very good one. You didn’t want to stop, no, for you, you could have stayed kissing the whole night on the balcony. 

But air was still something you needed, so you had to break the kiss. You were panting a little, a silly smile on your face. You looked over at Mingi and his dark eyes were a dark shade of red. He looked divine with his hair disheveled from your kiss, clothes all scrunched up from moving and holding you. And he could say the same from you, you looked absolutely divine with your hair messed up, face tinted from the lack of air, lips swollen from action. He wanted to bite you so bad right then and there. 

“I don’t know if you believe me, but I hope that this was enough proof about my endearment for you, about my feelings for you” he caressed your hair, slightly fixing the strands that were out of place. “And I hope one day you can return them”.

Your heart ached in indecision. On one hand you did like Mingi, you adored him, he showed himself to be a gentleman, a kind being, and he grew into your heart each day more. The days he was away were longer because he wasn’t there, you missed him. On the other hand you didn’t know how to feel about the whole vampire thing, you needed more proof to believe him, more than fangs or blood bag talks. You were going insane, vampires did not exist, right? 

“I think I need some time to process it all, Mingi” he nodded, he knew that would come. “I still don’t know if I believe in you and that you are a vampire, but I like you, I really do” he felt relieved listening to your words, you liked him back, at least one step was taken.

“If you need more proof, when you are ready, come to my place, I can show you things that maybe can help”

“You're not gonna show me a coffin that you sleep in, will you?” you chuckled and he laughed, appreciating your sense of humour at times like these.

“We haven't slept in coffins for centuries now, that’s something that Hollywood gets wrong about us. But I do have some proofs about the centuries and places I lived in, if you’re interested in seeing them” you nodded. “I’ll give you all the time you need, when you’re ready just look out for me”.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Three weeks. It has been three weeks since the party at Taegyu’s house and the canonic event that changed your life forever. And was about to change even more. Since that day Mingi never went to the coffee shop again, earning Jaemin a million questions of why was that? Did you do something to him? Did you reject him? You wish you could tell him what happened but he would call the hospital on you, admit you into a mental facility. And to be honest, you were almost admitting yourself. 

You couldn’t take Mingi out of your mind, you dreamt of him almost every night. Some nights it’s him feeding from you, his long sharp fangs buried deep down your arm as he sucks the life out of you. Other nights it’s you and him having a domestic life together, a bubblegum sweet relationship as you share your lives together. And there are even other nights where you had wet dreams with him, his long body laid on top of you as he claimed you his, him buried deep down your walls as he bit the junction between your shoulder and neck, marking you as his forever. 

There were nights you swore you could see his silhouette in the corner of your room, or when you were going back home from work and you’d feel a presence behind you, the dark shadow that lurked in the corners seemingly following you. At that point you swore you were going crazy, but there was a little itch in your brain that told you that those shadows and silhouettes were real and they were Mingi watching you. Taking care of you from afar. 

You developed a little routine for not becoming crazier than you already were. You’d go to work early in the morning, spend the day at the cafe and, after work, you’d either go to the library to do your research on vampires. Searching on old books, late magazines, on the internet, podcasts, videos where people claimed to have encountered vampires before. You even contacted some of the people from the internet to see if they could help you but they all seemed a bunch of weirdos, some of them even admitting to have lied for views. You were losing your mind, really. 

One night, while in the library, you saw a man that you recognized as one of Mingi friends from the Party. You saw him talk to the librarian and both of them disappeared behind the shelves. Curious, you decided to follow them. Something telling you that your answer could be there. Carefully, you followed the two until what seemed like a storage. All of sudden, the man showed his fangs and bit the librarian’s arm. You had to cover your mouth to not let a gasp come out when you saw the scene. The man was doing exactly what you have dreamt of Mingi doing to you. You didn’t know how to react. Should you call someone? Should you intervene? A little while after, he stopped sucking the poor woman and sensually licked the place where seconds ago were his fangs, his eyes connected to hers. She was smiling, she seemed happy, satisfied, almost blissed. 

You left the place fast before they could see you and sat back at your table, heart racing, breath irregular. You grabbed your stuff and went fast home, not caring if the lurking shadow was following you or not.

That night you couldn’t sleep, all your thoughts surrounding the scene you saw and how would it feel if Mingi did that to you. 

The next day you found yourself walking a different path, automatically your feet took you to somewhere you only have been once but your heart has been ever since. The front of his house was as refined as him, the walls very white like they have been recently painted, and various flowers and plants adorning the garden. You rang the doorbell before you could run away.

After a few seconds a casual Mingi appeared, his face seemed to brighten when he saw you, a smile dancing on his lips.

“You came” he stated and opened the door for you to enter. “I was starting to lose my hope you’d appear” he admitted, his hand scratching the back of his neck, the muscles of his arm flexing under the t-shirt he wore. 

It was the first time you saw him wearing a t-shirt and he couldn’t look more ravishing. The way the fabric stuck to his muscles, outlining them and leaving you almost drooling at the sight in front of you. So he was hiding all of this under those frilly and thick clothes? You couldn’t help but feel a heat take over your body. 

And he felt it too. Your smell increasing as soon as you entered the house, your scent taking over the entirety of the room you were in, intoxicating him. He noticed the way you ogled him, at his body, your body heat rising. He felt his ego inflate a little.

He led you to his living room, pointing to one of his armchairs so you could sit comfortably. 

“Can I offer you anything? Coffee, tea, water? Wine?” 

“Tea is fine, thank you” 

He went to the kitchen for a while before coming back with a tray with a cup of tea. You took a sip feeling the soothing taste of lemon.

“How can I help you today?” he asked, sitting in front of you and crossing his legs. You took a deep breath.

“I think… I think I believe you” you stated and signaled for you to keep talking. “I did my research, even though they weren’t conclusive- why are you laughing?” you asked when you saw Mingi hold his laughter.

“You researched over vampires?” you nodded, embarrassed. “You’re painfully cute, you know that? Continue”

“Anyways, one night, at the library, I saw your friend, I think his name is San, and the librarian. And he was… feeding off of her. I followed them and saw it all, I know I shouldn’t but I felt like my answer would be there” you admitted.

“And how did you feel about it?” you looked over from your tea to him. Heat crawling up your cheek at your naughty thoughts about him. 

“I was shocked at first” you assumed. “But after I… I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the feeling of it” you confessed shyly.

Mingi would have died if he wasn’t already dead. You looked so cute admitting that to him, like you had just admitted committing a crime. Your innocence would always be something he would cherish until the day he would break. And he was hoping that day would be the day.

“Wanna know how it is?” you looked at him with widened eyes as if he had asked you the filthiest of the questions. “I can show you how it feels if you allow me”. 

“I…” your words were caught in your throat. You were torn between wanting to fulfill your dirtiest desires and fear.

“Why don’t I show you my collection of memories? If you’re nice enough I can show you my old coffin” he laughed and you nodded.

He guided you through the house, leading you to the third floor, which was more of an attic than an actual floor. It was full of things over the place, things that indeed seemed from centuries away. Some of them even were inside glass domes and boxes, protected from dust and anything that could ruin them. 

Mingi saw your eyes shine at the sight of his things and swelled with pride, he knew that at some point keeping so much stuff would be useful, even if it was to impress a woman. 

The man showed things one by one, explaining where and when it came from, telling you stories from that period he lived, how it was living in that period, how it was being a vampire during that time in history. 

“Did you guys hunt back then?” you asked, eyes fixated on a windchime from the Joseon Dynasty. 

“Yes, animal blood tastes terrible and vampires weren’t seen as magical creatures that people write romances about” you laughed at him and nodded. “Blood bags became common only in the late 20th century”.

“Must be terrible to hunt for humans” 

“It was, but sometimes I miss the thrill of it” he admitted with a chuckle. “There’s not much to do nowadays, we don’t need to work and we can’t work because of our need for blood and weakness for the human smell. If we stay in a place with too many humans, the smell becomes unbearable and we can’t control our instincts. So we just stay under the radar”

“If walking like you came out of Interview with a Vampire is under the radar for you I have some news to tell you” you joked, laughing, and he accompanied your laugh. 

“Maybe one day you can take me shopping so I can dress more accordingly to the time” you nodded eagerly.

“I’d love that”. A heavy silence fell upon you. Suddenly none of you saying anything. “So… are you hungry?” you asked to break the silence.

“I don’t eat” he answered. “But I can do something for you if you-”

“I wasn’t talking about food” you said, cutting him. It was his turn to look at you with widened eyes, his dark eyes gleaming with hope. You maintained his eye contact.

“Are you sure?” you nodded.

“I believe in you, Mingi” you got closer to him, your hands going to his chest. “More than that, I trust you”.

He took advantage of your already close proximity and leaned down to kiss your lips. The kiss was gentle, soft, slow, as if he was savouring you before actually tasting you. His hands held your waist gentler than the night at the party but you could still feel the possessiveness in him. Your hands were spread out on his chest, feeling his muscles tense under your touch and under your spell on him. 

“Let’s go back to the living room” he told after breaking the kiss, you nodded, following him back to the room. 

He led you to the bigger couch so you could be at a comfortable position and he could be sure you wouldn’t faint. You sat very close to him, your knee touching his. You gave your arm to him, still a bit hesitant. Mingi gently grabbed your arm and started peppering kisses all over the soft skin, going up your arm until he reached your face again. He kissed your lips again, making you melt on his touch. You discovered that not only his eyes broke you, but also his lips, everytime the soft muscles touched yours you felt like you could live there. He broke the kiss after a while and kissed your forehead, joining them after.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered against your lips and you nodded. You were a little scared but you truly trusted him. And the adrenaline, the rush of excitement, you were feeling from anticipation told you that there was more than just curiosity. “I need you to say with all your words, my dear, I need your consent”

“I want this, Mingi, I want you to feed from me” the words came a little shaken but you managed to say it, earning a last peck on your lips.

Mingi, ever so delicately, kissed a spot on your pulse, his nose deep inhaling your sweet scent. His fangs appeared and you held a gasp. He grasped the fangs slowly through your skin, the thin points tickling and making you shiver wherever they passed. He locked his eyes with yours one last time before sinking his fangs on your pulse. The sound that came from you wasn’t a scream or a gasp, it was borderline a whine. The sensation striking, painful, yet sensual, soothing. 

You felt your whole body weaken as if it had melted. And then it started, right when he started to suck your blood out of you, the heat spread in your whole body like you were with a fever, your legs starting to squeeze together, your mind cloudy and dizzy, your only thought was him, all you could think was the dirty dreams you had with Mingi, the things he would do with your body, the things you would do to his body. The more he sucked you, the more aroused you’d get, your lips agape, whines escaping from them with each suck. You managed to look to the side and the view was something to behold, Mingi with his eyes rolled back, his plump lips attached to your pulse while his hands grasped at your forearm as if his life depended on it.

And it did. You tasted like something he never had before. They always said that the taste of lovers' blood is different but now that he tasted you he couldn’t stop, no, he couldn’t let you escape from his grasp. And he could feel every emotion, every thought from you into your blood, he could feel how aroused you were, how much you were enjoying this, how hot and bothered you were by minute. 

Mingi didn’t want to stop, no, if he could he would feed from you until you were dry. But he had better plans for you. He wanted you by his side, well and healthy. So he stopped, with difficulty, but he did. Licking the place where he bit so his saliva would heal the wounds faster and stop the bleeding. 

Your breath was rapid, erratic, you didn’t know what to focus on. You noticed the sharpness of his fangs and the hardness of his suction were gone and you looked to the side, seeing a satisfied Mingi. His skin seemed fresher, glowing, almost as if you could see a pink tint to his cheeks. You wondered if it was all your imagination, he was dead after all. 

The man left the room and came back with a damp cloth and a drink. He started to clean your sweaty face, always ever so gentle with his touch as if you were a porcelain doll. And, to him, you were his doll.

“Drink this” he handed you the bottle of a pinkish drink. It tasted sour with a subtle aftertaste of peaches. “It’s a special drink for after we drink your blood, it will give your strength back in no time” he kissed your forehead and went to discard the cloth back in its place. 

When he came back he sat by your side, circling your body with his arm and bringing it to lay on his chest. You laid there, enjoying the silence as you watched the faint wound in your pulse, a mark of your trust, of your belief. He kissed the top of your head, caressing your arm delicately. You sighed.

“What that head of yours is thinking?” Mingi asked, head lowering to look at you.

“Just… How’s everything is so crazy right now” you turned to look back at him. “The man I like is a vampire who just sucked my blood, and more than that I enjoyed all of that”

“I could tell you enjoyed it, dear” he caressed your head. You looked at him puzzled. “I can taste everything through your blood, every sensation, every feeling, every thought” you widened your eyes. “It’s a blood connection after all”.

“You could see… everything? Even my t-thoughts?” he nodded slowly. 

You hid your face in your hands and he chuckled, grabbing your hands to take away from your beautiful face. He kissed your lips, his tongue easily entering your mouth and dominating you, his fangs scraping your skin, this time to draw blood just so he could lick it and kiss it. He pulled your lower lip to break the kiss.

“Why be shy, my dear? I can fulfill all your fantasies, only if you allow me” the way he spoke, his deep husky voice fanning air into your mouth, making the heat come back to your body, your legs squeezing together again. He looked at your legs and chuckled. “And by the way your body is reacting, I think you want me to, don’t you?” you nodded eagerly. “You know I work with words, darling”

“I want you, Mingi, I want you to make me yours” you whined, the need for him already clouding your mind.

“Good girl” he attacked your lips, but time was different, it was hungry, desperate, like he was going to eat you whole. “Let’s go to my room” you nodded and he grabbed you like you weighed nothing, taking you to his room.

His room matched him, it was dark, dimly lit, the windows covered by the same thick curtain that was in the room you stayed in the time he took you there. The bed was enormous, round, covered in a red silk sheet. He gently laid your body on top of the bed and hovered it with his big one. His eyes were darker than usual, if that was ever possible. 

Mingi started to kiss you again, his left hand holding his weight and his right one exploring your body. He was bold, you got to admit that. You, on the other hand, was a bothered mess underneath him, your body hot, whines escaping your lips between the kisses and shivers running down whenever he would touch even on top of the clothes.

But you wanted more. You needed more. Your hands started to enter underneath his shirt, feeling his cold skin under your palm, his muscles tensing under your touch. He understood your silent message and unlinked your lips, staying on his knees so he could take his shirt off. You shamelessly watched as he undressed, biting your lower lip as you saw his muscular torso.

“Like what you see?” you nodded, pulling him back to kiss you.

In a rush of confidence, you turned your bodies over, staying on top of him. You could feel his volume even underneath the layers of clothing and without much thought, you started to grind yourself on top of his crotch, earning a soft groan from him. 

His hands slid from your thighs to your hips to the hem of your shirt, playing a little with the fabric before starting to pull it up, taking off of your body, leaving you only with your bra in full display to him. You grabbed his hands and put them on top of your boobs, which he more than gladly did, squeezing and feeling the softness of them. Expertly, he unclasped your bra, tossing to the ground and looked at you, asking for permission. You nodded, throwing your head back and enjoying it all.

Mingi attacked your breasts with his mouth, sucking, licking, biting them. His fangs appearing to graze over the skin and make you shiver under his touch. He gave special attention to them, enjoying how your body was reacting to him, your little noises, your little wriggles, your grinding on him. Everything about you was perfect and he was addicted to your perfection.

After his assault to your chest, the man turned your position again, so he could enjoy his meal better. He started unbuttoning your pants and taking them off your body along with your cute pink panties, leaving you bare in front of him. If he wasn’t already dead he could die just at the plain sight of your naked body. You were the most magnificent thing he laid eyes on, he was sure of that before, but seeing you naked, rendered to him was the nail in the coffin he needed. The view of you alongside your intoxicating smell was driving him crazy. He was addicted, obsessed, he wanted you all for him, just for him. He wanted to have you everyday all day, and he was sure that the moment he tasted your nectar it would be more than over for him. 

Mingi looked at you searching for any sign of regret or withdrawal but no, you were sprawled on the bed, legs open waiting for him. And for him only. 

He started to kiss your legs, your pores bristling down the trail he passed by, going up until he reached your inner thighs. You wriggled in his touch, trying to close your legs, but he was stronger and kept them open. He wasn’t in the mood of teasing, not when he was starving. He planted a little kiss in your vulva, then another, then a lick, and then another. You whined at the feeling, fuelling Mingi to do more. He started to lick your vulva from bottom to top spreading your wetness along with his saliva. He started to suck your clit, moans starting to fly past your lips freely. The tip of his tongue drawing circles and figures eight from time to time, alternating between sucking and licking at your clit. All you could do was moan and moan, his name faintly a mantra coming from your lips. 

Mingi kept his assault on your clit for a while, your high building so fast. Until his tongue slid from your clit to your entrance, his tip started to fuck your hole, his nose hitting your clit deliciously. Everything too much for you. And you snapped, a high moan leaving your lips as your legs trembled on top of his shoulders. 

But he didn’t stop, no, he kept going. He drank up all your juices before bringing his fingers to join the fun. His index finger easily entering you, your walls hugging the finger deliciously, like a vice. He started to move it, slow at first, and speeding with time. Soon he added a second one, the stretch feeling so good you almost didn’t handle it. Mingi started to fuck you with his finger, his mouth back to your clit. His fingers curling deliciously, hitting that oh so sweet spot that was making you see stars. 

It didn’t take long enough for your second orgasm to hit you like a wave, your back arching, your eyes rolling and his name coming out of your mouth like a prayer, a promise. Again, he lapped at you nectar as if his life depended on it before you started to wriggle of overstimulation. 

He was satisfied, you were already a mess underneath him and he didn’t even had the chance to fuck you, his pride and ego swelling. The man hovered over your body again, his hand gently caressing your face, fixing the hairs that had stuck to your sweaty face. 

“Are you okay, my dear?” you slowly nodded. “Do you think you can keep going?” you pulled him for a kiss, you could taste yourself on his tongue, on his lips. 

“Make me yours, Mingi” the words seemed to waken up something darker inside him, something feral, as he went back to kiss you, teeth clashing, tongues fighting, the weight of his body on top of yours, but you couldn’t care less. 

You lowered your hand to the waistband of his pants, fumbling to try to open while still kissing, to no success. He lifted from the bed and took his own pants and underwear in one go, his member springing free from its confines. Your eyes widened at the size, but your walls squeezed onto nothing of excitement. You bit your lips, looking at it, thinking about the weight of it on your tongue. 

“You can taste it another day, my dear, today I’m too eager to be inside you” as if he could see right through you, he spoke, walking slowly towards you, like a hunter to its prey.

With your legs open, you welcomed him back to where he was on top of your body, his new home. He kissed you again, slowly, deeply, savouring you. Gently he started to enter you, just his tip stretching you deliciously, a crooked moan leaving your lips while a low growl left his. He knew he wouldn’t last long if your walls hugged him like that. Slowly he moved, entering more, shushing you, kissing all over your face to try to soothe the pain. 

Mingi was so gentle, caring, making sure you were okay all the time, waiting for you to give him the green light to move until he bottomed all, his whole length inside of you. Your both dreams coming true. He took more time for you to get used to the size and girth, to the feeling of being so full.

“Mo-move” your voice above a whisper, you were far gone, your mind hazy with lust and pleasure and him. 

He did as you asked, moving slowly, taking a little before putting back. Your mouth hanging open, no sound coming out of it. Little by little he started to take more and more before putting back in, his hips moving slow but deep, a delicious addicting dance.

The man started to move faster after a while, your body moving up and down with the strength he’d move. You wouldn’t last longer, your walls starting to squeeze around him more viciously, more strongly. Your moans louder, you weren’t holding anymore.

“Mingi! Make me yours” you managed to say between moans. “Mark me yours” a rush of adrenaline going through both of your bodies. 

Mingi felt like he was dreaming and he was hearing things.

“Don’t play with me, flower. Don’t make promises you can’t keep” he warned, his voice octaves deeper than usual.

“I’m not playing- God!” he gave a rather strong thrust. “Please, Mingi, I’m all yours, I wanna be yours forever” you pulled his face closer to yours so you could look right in his eyes. “Please” you pleaded like your life depended on it.

Mingi felt his dick twitch inside of you, the way your broken innocent eyes were looking at him with intent. You meant it. You wanted it. And he knew that. He could feel that. He could see through your eyes. He was about to break you forever, to fulfill his filthiest desires. 

His hand held your face, his lips planting a sweet kiss over your lips, his nose rubbing over yours. His mouth moved to the junction where your neck and shoulder met and left a few butterfly kisses there before looking at you again. You nodded, a smile dancing in your worn out face.

The man let his fangs out, and rubbed them over the sweet spot, he could smell your anticipation, your adrenaline, your need for him. And the he bit. The fangs sinking down the soft plush skin as a moan escaped your lips, the sensation of his dick fucking you and the bite stinging your body was something you couldn’t describe. You felt so full, so relieved, so happy, hazy, dizzy. 

He felt his dick twitch and he knew he would come, all the feeling of being complete was too much for him. He sucked a bit of your blood to seal the pact before licking the wound close. His hips haltering their movement as he came, his white ropes of cum filling you up to the brim, some of it spilling out as he kept fucking you until you came too, your walls squeezing him inside of you. 

Mingi laid by your side and brought you to nestle on his chest, your whole body molten, weak, fragile, happy, full, complete. Your breathings erratic from the action. He started to mindlessly play with your hair, while you draw abstract shapes on his chest. 

It took a while for you to get back to a seemingly normal state. Mingi left the room and suddenly you felt lonely, cold. But soon he was back with a damp cloth, a water bottle and another bottle of the pinkish drink from earlier. He cleaned you gently, taking care to not be too harsh to your delicate parts, the damp cloth cooling down your body temperature. You drank a bit of the water before drinking the juice, you definitely needed your energy back. 

The man discarded the cloth, the dirty sheet and got back at your side. 

“Fuck” you exclaimed. “I guess I’m yours now”

“Are you regretting it?” you denied.

“Not at all, I love being yours” you kissed his lips before nesting yourself in his chest again, a yawn leaving your lips.

“Rest, little flower, you need” he kissed the top of your head and with that you fell asleep.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The beep of your wristwatch and the bell of the door rang at the same time, announcing it was 3 pm and your regular customer was right on time. Again. 

Mingi entered the door and you smiled widely upon seeing him. He waved at you and came to the counter, landing a soft kiss on your lips. 

“How can I serve you today, sir?” you said with a smile.

“How about… my girlfriend’s juice?” he provoked, his voice low, a smirk on his lips.

“You guys are utterly disgusting, you know that?” Jaemin blurted, a disgusted face on before leaving to clean some tables.

“Good thing he doesn’t know I’m talking about your blood” you hit his arm as he laughed and you accompanied him. 

Masterlist Requests

[gloomysoup]

a secret worth keeping

@steddiebingo prompt: sneaking around | rating: m | word count: 2319 | tags: secret relationship, rockstar eddie, hockey player steve, modern au | ao3

🏒 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 🏒

“I can't believe I let you two drag me to a hockey game,” Eddie grumbled as they moved through the crowd to get to their seats. “It's too cold in here. And I have to watch sports! This is, like, the exact opposite of how I wanted to spend our off day.”

“Come on, Eddie! It'll be fun!” Gareth said, knocking his shoulder into Eddie’s.

“What about this is fun, Gareth?!” Eddie screeched, drawing a few stares from those around them. “It's hockey! It's cold, and it's sports, and you know I can't stand sports! I am already miserable. What makes you think I’m going to have fun?”

“Christ, Eddie, can't you just try to enjoy something someone else likes for once in your life?” Jeff grumbled with an eye roll. He sat in his seat, decked out in his favorite hockey jersey, which he always takes on the road with him. He claims it's for luck, but Eddie secretly thinks he just doesn't want to leave it at home with his slightly psychotic girlfriend. Eddie never did like her. He still doesn't understand why Jeff doesn't just break up with her, but he'd never say that out loud. He's had his own fair share of bad relationships that the guys graciously don't make fun of him for… anymore.

“It's not my fault you guys picked the one thing you know I can't stand,” Eddie shot back.

“Eddie, man, just shut the fuck up for once,” David snapped. “Hockey isn't really my thing either, but you don't hear me complaining.”

Eddie, clearly outnumbered by his so-called friends, huffed and flopped down into his seat at the end of the row. Curse Gareth and Jeff, and their stupid hockey team. Eddie slouched in his seat, arms crossed, as the teams came to the bench. Their manager, Chrissy, had scored them seats in the front row, right behind Gareth and Jeff’s team’s bench. It didn't take long for Eddie’s friends to be on their feet, cheering and yelling with the rest of the crowd.

Eddie couldn't possibly care less.

-

He loathed to admit it, but hockey was actually… kind of interesting? He had zero clue what was going on, like, at all, but there were some moments that he couldn't help but be intrigued. Particularly when the players landed some hard hits on each other.

What really got his attention, though, was the fight.

They were reaching the tail end of the second period. The game was tied, 3-3. Tension was high. A player from Gareth and Jeff’s team— he didn't catch the number— took a shot at the goal just as an opposing player slammed into him from the side. The guy went straight into the glass, and then he pushed the player back. He got a stick to the side for his troubles. Within seconds, they were shoving each other, sticks left forgotten on the ice. It wasn't long after that the refs broke it up, sending both players to their respective penalty boxes. Eddie watched in fascination as the player from Gareth and Jeff’s team pushed his way into the box, slamming his stick into the wall and ripping his helmet off.

It was like a Greek God was walking among them, playing hockey of all things. The man was gorgeous. Eddie watched in pure wonder as he rubbed a hand over his face, combed his fingers through his hair, and whacked the glass with his stick again. He could see the frustration, but he was too absorbed in his staring to care.

“Who is that?” Eddie asked, barely sparing a glance towards his friends as he continued to stare.

“Who’s who?” Gareth asked, tearing his eyes away from the game for the first time since the period started.

“That.” Eddie nodded toward the box, where the Greek God of a hockey player was shoving his helmet back over his head and talking to the guy standing in front of the door.

“The guy in our box? 23?”

“Yeah. Him. Who is he?”

“Steve Harrington. He's from Indiana too, actually. Second overall pick from Ohio State two years ago. He's good.”

“He's hot.”

Jeff whipped around to give Eddie an incredulous look. “Dude….”

“What? Can’t a guy appreciate a good-looking man?”

“And what about your doctrine, huh? Thought you had a thing against jocks? Or does that not apply to dating?”

Eddie shrugged. “Who said I had to date him?”

Gareth wrinkled his nose. “Gross, dude.”

Eddie’s eyes didn't leave 23 for the rest of the game.

-

This was stupid.

What the hell was he thinking.

Eddie laid in his bunk on the tour bus, staring at his phone screen, stuck in an endless loop of internal turmoil.

He hit the backspace button until the message was gone. His thumbs tapped across the screen. Delete again. Type again.

He set his phone down on his chest and blew out a long breath.

This was so fucking stupid.

He picked it back up and looked at the message again… only to realize he’d accidentally hit send.

Fuck.

Eddie sat up quickly, momentarily forgetting where he was, and whacked his head off the top of the bunk.

“Shit!”

His phone tumbled from his hand and clattered to the floor. A string of curses fell from his lips as he scrambled for his phone. The bus turned, sending his phone sliding across the bus and bumping into Jeff’s bunk down at the end of the row.

“No, no, no, I got it,” Eddie rushed as Jeff reached down to pick it up. Too late.

“What's got your panties in a twist?” Jeff asked as he picked it up. He started to hand it back to Eddie, but obviously caught a glimpse at the screen. He snatched it back before Eddie could grab it from his hand, looking intently at the screen and cackling. “Oh my god, you did not!"

“Shut up,” Eddie hissed, reaching for his phone. “Just give it back!”

Gareth poked his head out from his bunk, eyebrows furrowed and clearly still half asleep. “What's goin’ on?”

Eddie glared at Jeff. “Don't.” Jeff just grinned maliciously right back at him.

“Eddie slid into Harrington’s DMs.”

Gareth perked up, much more awake with the new information. “Oh, no, he didn't.”

“He did!” Eddie hid his face in his hands, already feeling his cheeks burn. “Wait, he's texting back!”

“Give it back, Jeff,” Eddie begged hopelessly, knowing it wasn't going to do him any good. Jeff held his phone out of reach, watching the screen for the message that was going to come through any minute.

“Dude, I can't believe you actually sent him a message,” Gareth commented with a laugh.

“And I can't believe it worked,” Jeff added. “He said, ‘Glad to see I have a fan’. With a winking emoji.”

“This is stupid,” Eddie huffed, snatching his phone from Jeff’s hand. “Y’all suck. I'm going to bed.”

Eddie thought that would be the end of it. He sent a stupid message, got a trained reply, and that was that. Oh boy, was he wrong.

He didn't tell a soul. It was their little secret. And honestly? Eddie thought it was kind of fun. Sneaking around, meeting in hotel rooms on the road, texting every day. It was thrilling. Eddie’s never had a secret that fun before. His friends still poked fun at him for the initial message from time to time, but Eddie always blew off further questioning with a simple, “It didn't work out.” But he would sneak off to meet with Steve every chance he got.

Eddie was playing a dangerous game.

With every secret meeting, with every text sent and night spent together, Eddie fell more and more in love with Steve Harrington. He'd probably be more upset about it if Steve hadn't made it so easy to fall. Steve Harrington also made Eddie take risks he wouldn't normally take. Like sneaking him into the hotel room that his bandmates also had a key for.

“I missed you,” Eddie murmured against Steve’s lips, fingers tangled in his still-damp hair. It was late. Steve had an evening practice and went straight to Eddie’s nearby hotel after. A hotel that Eddie specifically asked for, because he knew it was close to the rink.

“Missed you too,” Steve whispered back before kissing Eddie again, hard and deep. “It's almost playoff season. I'll be done soon, 'til next season. I can come see you more.”

Eddie loved how breathless Steve sounded. Loved that he was the reason.

Their clothes dropped to the floor piece by piece as they migrated to the bed, leaving a trail of wandering hands in their wake. Eddie pushed Steve back onto the bed, taking a moment to admire the way his hair fanned out beneath him and his skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat. He couldn't keep his mouth off of him for long, though. He trailed kisses across his torso, sucking a bruise here and there. He slipped his hand between them, toying with the button on Steve’s pants before finally popping it open and sliding the zipper down. Steve’s eyes were closed, eyelashes brushing across his cheeks, and he was already panting. Eddie watched as he pulled his arms up above his head, stretching his torso more. Eddie couldn't help it. He ran his hand up Steve’s abs, relishing in the shiver he received. His hand trailed back down, fingers scratching against the hair beneath his navel, dipping lower and lower and-

Click.

“Yo, Eddie!”

The door pushed open, and there were his bandmates.

“Oh my fucking god.”

Eddie’s head collapsed onto Steve’s stomach as he groaned. Of course this would happen now. Eddie couldn't even bring himself to look up, to face what was happening. He knew he would have to. He couldn't get out of this one. But now he's dragged Steve into it too. Perfect Steve, who has been so good to him and didn't deserve to be put in the middle of Eddie’s band’s bullshit.

“Eddie, what the actual fuck.” Jeff’s voice broke through after what felt like hours of silence.

Eddie took a deep breath and lifted his head, knowing it was time to face this head on. “Guys, Steve, Steve, the guys.”

“Eddie. Dude. You cannot be serious right now.”

“Yeah, man,” Gareth added. “You owe us an explanation.”

“I don't owe y'all shit,” Eddie muttered, still very much aware that he is still in a compromising position. “What I do in my free time is none of your business.”

Jeff crossed his arms and raised his brow. “Uh huh. Sure. So it was none of your business when you caught Gareth losing his virginity to that model? Or how about when David was on that ecstasy kick a while back?”

“Dude,” Gareth hissed, smacking Jeff in the shoulder. “Do you really have to spill our fucking secrets like that in front of Steve Harrington?”

“That's different,” Eddie argued.

“How is that any different than this, Eddie? Is it because this time it's you? You can butt into our business, but when we catch you with Steve Harrington, it's none of our business?”

Eddie grumbles, knowing deep down Jeff is right. This isn't any different than the other times. They've always shared everything with each other. His business is the band’s business, and vice versa. That's how they've always been. No secrets. Well, not until this. Not until Steve. Which… actually isn't much of a secret anymore.

“How long has this been going on?” Gareth asked. “Because, y'know, we asked. How long were you lying, Eddie?”

Eddie knew they were just joking. He knew they weren't taking it that seriously. But still. Did they have to take digs at him like that?

“It wasn't like that, dickbags,” Eddie snarked. “You're just too nosy. Can't have anything to myself.” Eddie couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.

Jeff rolled his eyes, but he was fighting a smile of his own. “Whatever, man. We still expect to hear about it later. Don't do anything stupid, because I am not giving up my hockey team for you.”

With that, the guys left, closing the door with a soft click behind them. Eddie groaned into the duvet. He only looked up when Steve started laughing; a little snort turning into a fit of giggles.

“I'm sorry,” Steve said through his giggles. “It's just- it was just- so funny. I'm sorry.”

Eddie shook his head, a smile on his face. “You, Steve Harrington, are absolutely ridiculous.”

“And you're not?” Steve challenged, still fighting through his giggles.

Eddie shook his head again and leaned up to kiss him. “They're never going to let me live this down.”

“Oh, baby, neither am I,” Steve whispered with a smile against Eddie’s lips.

Eddie leaned back a little to see Steve’s face. “That mean you're gonna stick around? Even after that whole debacle?”

“Well, I think I have to now.” Steve’s smile was soft, filling Eddie with a warmth he's not sure he's ever felt before. “Can't make it awkward for Jeff, can I? With the hockey team and all.”

Eddie chuckled before leaning in and kissing Steve again. The heat of the moment was gone, but that was okay. Eddie was content just to be there, in the moment. They spent their night trading lazy kisses and drawing patterns on their skin with their fingertips. In the morning, Eddie knew he’d have to face his friends. He'd have to explain everything, because Corroded Coffin didn't keep secrets from each other.

Oh well.

Sneaking around was fun while it lasted, sure, but now he gets to annoy the shit out of his friends talking about Steve whenever he wants. It was a win-win for him.

The guys were really about to regret dragging Eddie to that hockey game.