Liz

23🖤

[httpxelysian11]

Woland x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, Dirty Talk, Degradation (Light), Praise Kink, Pet Names, Dom/Sub Undertones, Size Kink, Marking, Aftercare?¿

Every man in the club watched her dance. Only one of them frightened her and only one intrigued her. He sat alone at the edge of the club. He was a foreigner in a suit that looked like it cost more than the club took in a month. He didn't lean forward like the others. He didn't sweat or grin or reach for his glass. He simply watched her, unhurried, the way a man watches a fire he is letting burn. He looked at her a moment longer, then looked away, as if he'd seen enough already.

She found him afterwards, "I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new?" she said.

"No." He had a faint German accent. His voice was cool and calm. “What is your name?”, she asks. His reply was just as calm and measured, “Woland.” He turned his eyes on her fully then, and she felt it in her chest like a hand laid flat against her sternum. Something was wrong with those eyes. One was endless and empty, like looking at the eyes of a corpse. The other was a deep green, golden speckle glinting in it with a look of madness.

There was nothing in those eyes and her body answered anyway. It was an immediate heat that started under her ribs and went down. The noise of the club faded to nothing and she became very aware of herself. The sweat cooling along her spine, the feathers still trembling at her hip from the last number, her pulse going rapidly in her throat where anyone could see it. He saw it. His gaze dropped there for half a second and when it came back up she felt it like fingers dragging slow along her jaw. The air around him was warm and she was standing there with her thighs pressed together, being undressed by a man who hadn't even bothered to blink. Then, he moved his hand toward the empty chair across from him, barely a gesture, and she sat down without hesitation.

She knew they talked, because her mouth was moving and he was answering, that cool measured voice pouring over her like warm water. But the words went through her like water through a sieve. She remembered the intensity of his stare and the heat of him across the small table. She remembered the moment his fingers grazed the back of her hand reaching for his glass and her whole body lit up like a sparked fire. Nothing else. Not what he'd asked her. Not what she'd told him. She never once stopped to wonder why.

Woland came back. Of course he came back. He called himself a professor, a specialist in things people preferred to forget. He talked to her the way no man in that club had ever bothered to, as though her mind were the most beautiful thing she'd taken off that night. He asked what she wanted, as though he genuinely intended to go and get it for her. She chuckles, “I could go for some Italian right now.” He paused for a moment before a slow smile spread across his face, “Italian.”

He took her out of the club and with a snap of his fingers, they were in a restaurant that would’ve been closed, candles already lit, and wine already poured. She told herself to be afraid but couldn't manage it. "Woland…how did you do this? Why did you do this?"

"I do this because the world is dull and I am very old and you," he set down his glass, "are the first thing in a long time I've wanted to do something for." She leaned back and let him look at her. "How old is very old?"

"Old enough that I've watched this city be three different cities. Old enough that people stopped surprising me a long time ago."

"And I surprise you?" He watched her mouth for half a second before coming back up to her eyes. "You're used to men who want you gone by morning. I'd like you at breakfast. I'd like you arguing with me at breakfast. So, yes.”

"You don't know that I'm any good at arguing."

"You've contradicted me nine times since we sat down and you haven't lost once." His voice dropped. "Do you know what that does to a man who hasn't been told he's wrong in a hundred years?" She didn't answer, because her mouth had gone dry, and because he was still looking at her like he had all night. “A hundred years? You don't look a hundred."

"No," he agreed, and refilled her glass, and said nothing else about it. "What do you like to do?" he asked suddenly. "That's what you want to know?" He smiles slightly, "It's what I want to know." She takes a sip of the wine and crosses her legs, "I'll go to the opera on a night off if someone else is buying the seat."

"Which opera?"

"Faust." She said it before she thought about it, then made a face. "Which is embarrassing. Everyone loves Faust."

"Why do you love it?"

"Because Marguerite gets the last word." She shrugged. "Everyone comes for the deal. The man selling his soul, the smoke, the fun of it. But the whole thing turns on a woman deciding what she'll agree to. That's the part people talk over."

"I've sat through that opera more times than I'd like to admit," he said finally, "and I've never once heard anyone say that." She chuckles softly, "Then you've been going with dull people."

"I've been going alone."

"That's worse."

"It's considerably worse," he agreed, and something in his face had eased. "Gounod, or Boito?"

"Boito. Gounod's nicer but Boito's right." She leaned in without meaning to. "The devil should be funny. Everybody plays him like a storm cloud. He'd be charming, wouldn't he? He'd have to be. Nobody signs anything for a man who's frightening in the first act." Woland laughed. It was a real one, surprising him, "No," he said. "Nobody does."

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. You're simply the first person in a very long time who's been right about something in front of me." She laughs at him, leaning her head on her hand and a genuine smile spreads across his face at the sound of her laughter, "I'd like to keep talking to you."

"You are talking to me."

"I mean after tonight." He said it plainly. She should have said something clever. What she said was: "Thursday." And it wasn't only Thursday. He turned up on Friday, and then twice the following week. She started leaving her hair down for the walk out. She started thinking of things during the day she wanted to tell him, small stupid things, a woman arguing with a fishmonger, a line in a book she'd hated, and saved them up.They argued about Boito and then about Tolstoy and then, one long night, about whether anyone deserves what happens to them, which he had strong opinions on and would not explain. By the end of the second week she knew what nights he came and dressed accordingly for them.

One particular night he came to her dressing room. She felt him before she saw him. The lights flickered when he passed by them and the temperature warmed. She stopped overanalyzing the wrongness of him, the way shadows moved with him. "You're not supposed to be back here."

"No." He didn't come any further in. "I'll go, if you want." She didn't say anything, just continued to watch him through the mirror and remove her makeup. He crossed the threshold and shut the door. “Come here,” she beckons softly. He crossed the room and stopped close enough that she had to look up, as she turned to face him fully. He took her face in both cold hands, and looked at her long enough that she felt herself come apart under his gaze. Stripped down to the woman underneath who had wanted, her whole life, to be looked at exactly like this.

Then he kissed her.

Fire moved through her like something came out of the earth, out of some furnace she hadn't known was under the city. She fisted her hands in his black lapels and pulled him against her and he made a low sound against her mouth. It was rough, more animal than man. One of his hands came off her face and buried itself in her hair. He kissed her like he'd been starving and hadn't known it until she'd handed him something to eat. He was not careful. Not at all careful. All two weeks of restraint went at once and she felt it go, felt him crowd her back against the vanity, his other hand splayed across her waist to hold her exactly where she was. "Ask me what I am," he said. She looks into his eyes and whispers, “What are you?" So he told her. That he was the Devil, and he was tired, and he had walked into a smoke-filled club to be bored somewhere new. But he had looked up, and saw her there, dancing for men who weren't fit to watch her. Then he was on her again, and the lights along the mirror went out one after another. She didn't care, pulling him closer anyway. "Yes," he said, low and rough, "God help me.” His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back and lifted until she was up on the vanity. Jars and brushes went over the edge and smashed on the floor, neither of them looking. He stepped between her knees as her hands shoved his jacket off his shoulders. Then his mouth was on her jaw, her throat, the hollow under her ear, kissing every inch of skin. "You should be afraid of me," he said against her throat, teeth grazing over her pulse. "Say it and I'll stop." She whispers, "Don't you dare." His hands slide up to hold her face, tilting her head towards him. "Look at me," he said. His eyes had gone from empty to a light far down in them, and he was looking at her like a man who wanted something. "I'm going to be terrible about this," he said.

"About what?"

"You. Having you. I'm going to be awful." He said it like a confession and a warning and a promise all at once, his forehead pressed against hers, lips brushing over one another. "I don't share, I don't forget, and I have never once in my existence had to let anything go."

"Then don't." He got an arm around her waist and hauled her against him. He pushed her until her back hit the mirror, the long clean sound of it cracking behind her. His hands were in her hair, on her thighs, dragging her closer and closer like there was somewhere closer left to be, and he was muttering low against her throat over and over, the same few words, rough and half-swallowed. She dragged her nails down his back and he broke, the words spilling out of him now, ragged. "Serva me."

"Serva me," he said again, and it wasn't a whisper anymore, it was torn out of him. He looked at her the way starving men look at food. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world. "Say my name," he said. "Woland,” she said breathlessly. His eyes closed. "Again." She said it again, “Woland–” He growled into her mouth, hauling her legs around him and taking her off the vanity entirely to turn and put her against the wall so hard the thud echoed across the room. He bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood and licked it clean. He grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them over her head, pressing them hard into the wall. Every light in the room went out at once and the air went hot. The last thing she saw before the dark took it, was his face. 

His free hand tangled into the back of her costume. He undid the first hook and the rest he tore. She heard the seam split down her back and let out a sharp gasp as she felt the air hit her spine. Her fingers tore into his shirt and pulled, buttons flying across the floor like dropped coins. "Yes," he said into her mouth, desperate and ragged. "God—" He was burning and he was going to burn her with him. "I'm going to ruin you.”

He leaves open mouthed kisses down her neck and past her collarbone, kissing all the way down. The sudden, wet heat of his mouth against the sensitive curve of her breast drew a sharp, broken cry from her throat, her head falling back as her fingers tangled desperately into his hair. The silk of her costume hung in tatters about her waist. His tongue traced a slow, devastating circle, worshipping the soft skin with a reverence that bordered on sacrilege, before his teeth grazed the peak just enough to send a jolt of electric pleasure-pain straight down her spine. A breathless moan of his name leaves her lips, “Woland.” His free hand slid down lower, fingers hooking into the lace edge of her undergarments with no patience left. Her hand on his back comes forward to grip onto his chest, her nails dragging down the skin. The sharp rake of her nails against his chest was exquisite, white-hot lines scoring his skin that bordered on pain but landed squarely in the realm of pleasure. He hissed through his teeth, his eyes flashing with a predatory darkness as he looked down at her. His mouth left her breast, trailing scorching, open-mouthed kisses lower across her stomach until he was on his knees.

He spread her thighs with his palms, breathing against her core deliberately. She arched her back with a desperate tilt of her pelvis. He let out a guttural groan as his mouth descended, tongue sweeping across her slick heat with a devastating, agonizing slowness. He tasted her properly for the first time, the heady sweetness of her arousal flooding his senses. Every time he moved she made a sound and every time she made a sound his grip on her thighs got harder.

He fed on those sounds like they were sustenance. Her gasps that became moans, moans that became ragged cries when his tongue pressed deeper, when his lips suctioned around her clit with a merciless precision. His fingers left deep crescent marks in her skin, bruises forming under the pressure as he devoured her.  

Her thighs try to close around him as her pleasure intensifies, her hips now bucking desperately against his tongue. He denied her, his hands forcing her trembling thighs wider and keeping her splayed open for his mercy. He chased the bucking of her hips, his mouth sealing over her clit and sucking hard just as her spine began to arch off the wall. He hummed low against her, the vibration traveling through her nerves like an electric shock, tongue flicking rapidly until she was shaking, breathless, and entirely undone. “Woland!” She whimpers and grips his hair tighter, eagerly grinding against his face.  He doubled his efforts, “yeah?”, tongue stroking her clit with rapid, ruthless circles, sucking hard enough to make her vision white out. The words were a cruel, breathless mock, “yeah, take it.” Her back arched fully off the wall, nails digging into his scalp until her knuckles went white.

"Woland—" Her moan was broken, desperate. "Yes," he growled against her clit, feeling her pulse throb against his tongue. “I've got you, princess," He murmured into her folds. Her breathing becomes ragged and frantic, her cries getting louder. "You're getting close," he whispered against her, tongue sweeping slowly across her clit, savoring the sweet taste of her unraveling. "Almost there. Just a little more, princess. Just a little more."  

The whine that escaped her was pitiful and desperate. Her body stiffened, back arching wildly as she released. “Woland!”

He didn't stop. He swallowed her entire climax, tongue working through the peak, drinking her cries like wine. He could feel her clench around his tongue, her walls contracting violently. "Nnh—" The way her voice broke, breathless and trembling, calling his name, it was just as intoxicating as her taste. He let her ride it out against his mouth, his tongue stilling only when her thighs began to shake uncontrollably and her legs threatened to give beneath her weight. He rose slowly from the floor, “There she is," he murmured, catching her face in both hands. He stared down at her flushed cheek, swollen lips, and glassy eyes, a satisfied smirk forming on his face.

He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, trembling like a newborn doe as he pressed her into the wall again. The friction of his trousers against her slick, oversensitive core tore a shattered sob from her throat, her head falling back against the wall. He rolled his hips deliberately, slow and devastatingly hard, grinding the rigid fabric of his trousers against her raw, wet flesh, letting her feel exactly how desperately he wanted her. “Woland, please~” she whimpers. "Please what, princess?" He ground against her again, harder this time, making her gasp and cling to him. His voice was a low, dangerous purr in her ear. "Do you want me inside you? Is that what you're begging for?" He pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling as he continued the torturous grind, his erection straining against the fabric of his pants. "Tell me what you need."

"Need me to fuck you?" he clarified cruelly, rolling his hips again so she could feel exactly what she was asking for. It was hard and huge and straining against his pants. "Need my cock inside this pretty little cunt?" He bit her neck sharply. "Say it." He was demanding filthy words from her pretty mouth, making her ask for it like a whore. And God, he loved how easily she submitted. She practically cries as she begs him, “please, Woland! Need you in me.” The desperate, broken plea was exactly what he demanded. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure predatory satisfaction, and shifted his weight to unbuckle his belt one-handed. "That's my girl," he murmured darkly against her mouth, freeing himself.

He rubbed the swollen head of his cock through her folds, coating himself in her arousal and spreading it around her entrance, teasing her mercilessly. He was thick and veined, the tip glistening with her wetness as he dragged it up and down, deliberately avoiding pushing inside. His other hand came up to grip her throat gently but firmly, holding her gaze captive as he teased her with the promise of his cock. "Feel that?" He asked mockingly. "This is what you begged for." She nods rapidly, a pathetic little whimper leaving her lips, “Woland…” her nails dug into his abdomen, clawing at him desperately. That pathetic little whimper was music to his dark soul, and the sting of her nails clawing at his abdomen only spurred his cruelty. He pressed the thick head firmly against her entrance, stretching her sensitive opening without yet pushing inside, letting her feel the terrifying width of what she was begging for. “You want it huh? Take it,” he growls, shoving into her with a single thrust. She cried out, her head snapping back against the wall as he split her open. He didn't stop until he was hilted, grinding against her cervix. “Take it all," he commanded through gritted teeth, his hips pinned tight to hers, forcing her to feel every thick inch. "You begged for this cock." Her body was trembling and everything felt like it was on fire. She clawed at him desperately as he withdrew almost entirely before slamming back into her. He fucked her into the plaster, hips snapping upward with enough force to bruise her tailbone. “Woland! Woland!”

"Keep screaming my name," he snarled, driving into her so hard the wall thudded constantly under the impact. Her back arched off the wall, a strangled scream ripping from her throat as he hit some place inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. "Can't even speak, princess?" he murmured against her ear, lips grazing the lobe. "Begging for me and you can't even form words?" He suddenly bucked her pelvis up, angling himself even deeper. “Give it to me~ I’m yours,” she says breathlessly. At her words, his pace became feral, his hands tangling in her hair and yanking her head back as he fucked her like he intended to leave permanent marks on her soul. “Woland! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” She screamed as he pounded deeply into her until her legs were trembling violently around his waist. "Let go, princess," he ordered, snapping his hips. "Fall apart for me." He wasn't asking. He was commanding her orgasm. "Give it to me." That’s all it takes before she’s falling apart under him, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. "Good girl," he breathed against her lips, not slowing down, pounding her through it, forcing waves upon waves of pleasure until she was sobbing his name. With a final, brutal snap of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, his own climax hitting him. He came with a deep, animalistic growl, his cock pulsing hotly inside her as he filled her with his release. 

He utilized the slick mess of their combined release to keep fucking her, his movements turning slower and deeper. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed obscenely in the quiet room, his cock pushing his cum deeper with every thrust. She was oversensitive, trembling uncontrollably around him, moaning brokenly as he prolonged the intensity, refusing to give her a moment of reprieve. He ground his hips, watching her eyes glaze over, ensuring she felt exactly who owned her. His hips slowed gradually, relishing in the feeling of her cunt.

His hand came up and he brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, slow, back and forth, like he was checking she was real. He kept doing it and her eyes fluttered shut. He slowly eased out of her, a small gasp leaving her lips at the sensation. Then he carried her to the chaise in the corner and lay down with her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her. The air changed. She felt it go from the warm dressing room to something cool and large. When she opened her eyes she was in a bed the size of a small country, in a dark room with a fire going low in a grate across the floor, and he was still holding her exactly the way he had been. She blinked slowly, her eyes heavy “Woland…”

“I’m here.” Her eyes closed again, her hand coming up to settle on his chest, and a moment later she was gone. He didn’t move for a long time, watching her breathe. She turned in her sleep, pressed her face into his chest and he felt a little smile form on his face. Woland stayed awake the whole night and didn’t look away from her not once, holding her close.

[httpxelysian11]

Robert Frost x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mature. Implied sex. Dark themes. Slight stalking. Obsessive Behavior. Possessive Behavior. Unhealthy Relationships.

So sorry if this is bad— this is like my third work and I was just tired of the lack of Robert content. 🙏

The server room hums at a frequency of about sixty hertz, and Robert has spent enough of his life inside that sound that he can hear when it changes. Nobody else in the building can do this. Nobody else in the building has ever asked him about it.

He eats lunch at his desk at 11:40, which is twenty minutes before everyone else, so that the break room will be empty when he goes to rinse his container. He has calculated this. However, at 11:52 on a Tuesday in October, it is not empty. She is standing at the sink with her back to him. As she feels a presence she turns and she says, "Oh! Hi. Sorry, am I in your way?"

He says nothing, his entire body freezing up, his throat locking. A million danger signals and warnings go off in his brain.

"You're Robert, right? From IT?"

He nodded once. Then again, because perhaps the first had seemed too hesitant. The second immediately struck him as excessive, which somehow justified a third. By the time he stopped, he was acutely aware that he’d transformed a perfectly ordinary gesture into something faintly avian. It seemed to happen to him regularly, that the harder he tried to appear natural, the more he didn’t.

She just smiles and says, "You fixed my laptop in August. The thing with the….the whole thing where it wouldn't wake up. You were really nice about it. I know I was kind of a disaster on the phone."

"The battery firmware," he says. His voice comes out flat, abrupt and too loud in the small room.

"Well. Thanks anyway." She dries her hands. On the way out she touches the doorframe with two fingers and she says, "Have a good one, Robert."

Robert. She said it twice. She cared to remember his name, to say it. He stands in the break room with his container in his hands for four minutes and eleven seconds. He knows this because he looks at the clock when she leaves and he looks at it again when his nervous system finally calms down.

She said his name twice and he does not know hers. This is the thought that arrives at 10 PM that night. He is standing up with a fork in his hand, munching on his dinner. She said ‘Robert’ twice, once as a question and once as a goodbye, and he stood there and gave her nothing back. Not even the smallest, most ordinary thing a person gives.

It is not embarrassment. It is worse than that, and it takes him most of the evening to find the word, and the word turns out to be rudeness. He was rude to her. She apologised for standing at a sink. She remembered a repair from two months ago. She called him nice. And he stood there like an idiot.

The thing is, she didn’t have to say any of it. Nobody in that building has ever said any of it. He has worked there four years and been thanked by email, in the passive voice, by people who spell it Rupert. But she came into a room and used his name like it was a normal name belonging to a normal man who happened to be standing there.

He knows her badge number. He knows the floor she works on. He knows her laptop's asset tag and its MAC address and that she has never once changed the default power settings. But not her name.

He goes to the laptop on the desk and he pulls up the directory, and there she is. Marketing. Fourth floor. A photo from her first week where she is smiling the way people smile for photos.

He looks at it for a long time. Then he closes the laptop like he's just walked on someone in the bathroom. Then twenty minutes later he opens it again.

The thing is that Robert isn’t stupid. He can hold an entire network topology in his head. He has found intrusions that three consultants missed. When the auditors came in March they spent four days trying to break what he'd built. He is not stupid. He is simply not…normal. He doesn’t understand the thing where you make a sound in a hallway and someone makes a sound back and something comes out of it. Conversation.

A week later, he sees her again. He is coming up from the second basement with a box of replacement docks and she is coming out of the lift with two other women from marketing. She’s mid-sentence, laughing at something, but she sees him and lifts her hand. A small private wave, mouthing, “Hey, you.” and goes on talking.

He gets three metres past her before he has to stop and put the box down on the windowsill because his hands aren't steady enough to hold it.

She waved. In front of them. She waved at him in front of the people she works with, which means she is not embarrassed by him, which means that at some point she has thought about him when he was not standing in the room, which means…..

He carries the box the rest of the way but he does not remember carrying it. His mind is in chaos, his body on autopilot.

That evening he does not go home right away. He sits in the car park in his old van and constructs it: She's laughing at something he said, because in this version he's the kind of man who says things. She has her shoes off under the table. She’s saying “you’re so much smarter than any of them up there, you know that?” and in the fantasy she says it seriously, leaning in on her elbows, not the way people say things at work. “Well, thank you,” he says.

She says nobody ever notices him and she doesn’t understand it, she’s never understood it. She says she noticed him the first week. She says “you’re actually really easy to talk to, once you stop being nervous.” and then, because it’s his fantasy and he can do what he likes in it, she reaches over and takes his hands so he’ll have to look at her.

He runs the scene four times. The fourth time he changes one of his own lines because the first version was too eager, too nonchalant, too boring.

By November he knows her calendar.

He tells himself this is not what it is. He has admin access to every calendar in the building; that is the job; he could recite the CFO's dentist appointments if he wanted to and he doesn't want to. He simply happens to be in there, and hers is simply open, and it's a work calendar, it's practically public.

He tells himself he'd stop if she asked him to. He has a whole imagined conversation in which she finds out and is hurt. In which he explains, gently, that he only ever wanted to make sure she was all right, and in which she is quiet for a moment and then says, “nobody's ever paid attention to me like that.”

He likes that scene. The one where she understands him.

He is suddenly jerked from his revere at the sound of someone calling his name. He clicks off the tab at lightening speed, his head snapping up. There she is, holding a coffee and her laptop.

She came to him herself instead of raising a ticket, like everyone does, and she says, "Okay, don't laugh, but I think I've done something bad to the shared drive." She smiles, “I figured you’d need coffee, it’s a long day.” She holds it out to him. He stares at it for a long moment before he takes the coffee out of her hand.

He fixes the drive in ninety seconds. He then spends eleven minutes not fixing it, because she has sat down on the spare chair, sat down, in his cubicle, in the chair he had put there for nobody. She begins telling him about a train that was cancelled in Hamburg and how she'd stood on the platform for two hours.

He says, “You should have called." Before he can think the words come out. Too fast, too much. She blinks.

"Called…?" Her head tilts.

"The service line," he says. "For the train. There's a number. Most people don't know it. It's faster." His voice sounds small, almost pained.

"Oh," she says. "Right. Smart." And she laughs, “I’ll remember that for next time.” She stands and places a hand on his shoulder, grabbing her laptop, “Thanks, Robert.” He doesn’t move. Her hand is on his shoulder for two seconds. The only barrier is one layer of shirt and his whole body decides the correct response is to stop breathing. She leaves his cubicle and he sits frozen with the coffee cup for the rest of the afternoon. Then takes the cup home and does not throw it away, doesn’t wash his shirt.

“You should have called.” He turns it over for hours. He hears the version where he said it and she understood. He hears the version where she said “I would have, if I'd had your number.”

A few weeks later he finds out about the man she’d been seeing. Not on purpose.

She's on the phone in the stairwell, and Robert is on the half-landing below with a coil of cable over his shoulder, and her voice comes down the concrete the way voices do, and she is saying “no, you pick, I always pick,” in a register he has never once heard her use.

Something goes wrong in his chest. Not a break, a cascade, like a land-slide. Something angry and hungry festers.

He says he’s sick and goes home early. He sits in front of six monitors and does not touch any of them for nineteen minutes. Then he begins, very calmly, to establish who it is.

He does not think of this as anything other than diligence. There are men who are not good. There are men who take advantage of exactly the kind of person she is: open, warm, the kind who comes to his cubicle herself instead of raising a ticket, the kind who waves. Someone should be looking. Nobody else is looking.

“Somebody has to be careful for her,” he tells himself, "since she isn't."

The version of her in his mind, as ever, agrees with him. He tells himself the whole way through that he is only closing a door that never should have been open, that this is maintenance, that this is what he does. When it’s done, the man is simply a little less able to reach her than he was that morning. A message that doesn’t go through. A call that fails.

He sits back. He expects to feel the peace again but instead his heart is pounding out of his chest. It isn’t guilt. It was something much darker festering.

Two days later, she comes to his cubicle and she sits down in the spare chair without being asked, and the first thing that goes through him is not joy. It’s she knows.

She has come down here herself and she is sitting down, and she is not smiling, and there is exactly one reason a person in this building would come to talk to Robert about something that isn’t working.

“Can I ask you something weird?” She starts. He nods, several times, that nervous thing. She sighs and looks at him, “Is it possible for someone’s phone to just… stop working. Like, for messages to not go through, but not officially. No error, nothing bounces. It just goes quiet.”

The silence in the cubicle is loud. It stretches on before he answers quietly, “It happens,” he says, “Carrier problems.” He’s barely breathing and it isn’t until she’s nodding along and agreeing, that he floods with relief. She doesn’t know. She’s come here because something upsetting happened to her and she wanted to tell him about it.

“Right.” She picks at the cuff of her sweater. “There’s this guy. We’d been talking and then it just went dead, and I keep going back and forth about whether it’s him, or whether it’s a stupid technical thing and I’m being crazy.” He wants to say ‘you’re not being crazy.’ It doesn’t come out and instead he nods again, and the nodding has gone on too long now, it has become its own thing in the room, and he stops it and puts his hand on the desk for something to do.

“Sorry,” she says. “This is not part of your job description,” she chuckles.

“No!” he says. Which is not what he means. He means ‘no, it’s fine,’ he means ‘you can come down here whenever you want,’ he means ‘you can come down here every day.’ He stares at her for a long moment before speaking again, “It’s okay.”

“See, that’s why I asked you.” She laughs at herself and stands, gathering the sleeves back down over her hands. “Everyone up there makes you feel like an idiot for not knowing things. You’re so sweet.”

He makes a small sound that could be agreement and looks at the monitor instead of at her, and the heat is up his neck before he can do anything about it, and he can only hope the light down in the office is bad enough.

She’s halfway back to the elevator when she stops and turns around like she’s decided something. “Okay, can I actually just have your number? Your personal one. Then I can text you instead of ambushing you every time something breaks.”

And the floor falls from beneath him. There is a stretch of time, probably one second, possibly two, he genuinely doesn’t know. Seconds where his body simply cannot decide what to do with what has been said, and so it tries several things at once. Something goes up through his chest and gets stuck under his collarbone. His eyes sting and he is briefly and seriously worried that he is going to be sick on the floor of his own cubicle, and underneath all of it is a lunatic impulse with no name that would have him on his knees in front of her, or with her face in both his hands, and none of it reaches the surface. None of it. Her personal number. She’s giving him her personal number. People give each other those. That is a thing that happens between two people who are going to keep speaking to each other outside of a building.

Then finally, “That’s fine,” he says. It comes out completely flat. He hears it come out completely flat and there’s nothing he can do about it. She smiles and pulls up her contact card, tapping her phone to his. His hands are steady. He’s proud of that, that his hands were steady, that not one single part of what was happening inside him got out where she could see it.

Then she’s gone, back up to the fourth floor, and he sits in the office with her name in his phone in her own typing, and the enormity of it settles over him: that she came to him frightened, about the exact thing he did, and sat in his chair, and thanked him, and gave him this. As though the whole machine of it had been built by someone who loved her and knew exactly what she needed.

He does not think ‘I did this.’ He thinks, ‘she chose me.’

The message arrives on a Thursday in December, and it is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to him.

‘hey robert!! sorry to ask off the clock :( my home wifi has completely died and I have to work from home tomorrow. any chance you'd be a lifesaver? I'll pay you in food obviously. no pressure at all!!’ - x

He reads it fifty or sixty times. He starts a reply nine times. He waits fifty-one minutes to answer, which is the longest fifty-one minutes of his adult life, because he read once that answering too quickly signals a lack of alternatives.

‘That's no problem. What time.’ - R

He wants to add something. He doesn't know what people add. She sends back a time and an address and he sits in the flat with the phone in both hands and lets the whole thing rise up around him. This, this is not a service call, this is the point in it where the thing that has been true for months becomes true out loud. People don't invite you into their homes. Not people like her. She has been waiting for him to be brave. She has been leaving the door open for months. The coffee, the wave, the conversations. He has been so slow and she has been so patient with him.

He gets a haircut. He buys a shirt. He stands in front of the mirror in his mother's hallway and practises the moment where she opens the door, and he says hi, and it sounds normal, and he says it again, and it doesn't. So he keeps practicing.

The day comes and she texts him the code to get into the building and how to get to her apartment. He stands there for nearly five minutes before finally knocking.

She opens the door in a jumper and her hair up in a way that means she wasn't expecting to be looked at. She smiles and says, "Oh my god! thank you, come in, ignore the mess.” She steps back and opens the door more for him to enter. He steps in slowly as if he were entering some sacred space. She shuts the door gently before turning to him, “you got a haircut? You look really handsome.”

Handsome. The word goes into him and doesn’t come back out. He says something. He’s fairly sure he says something, because she’s already laughing and turning to lead him down the hall, so a sound must have been produced, but he has no record of it.

Everything is arriving at once and none of it is being processed.

The hall smells like her. Perfume, laundry, and coffee…and it is everywhere. It’s in the air he’s breathing, he is standing inside the smell of her. There’s music somewhere at the back of the apartment. Her shoes are in a heap by his feet, on their sides, one of them still holding the shape of her foot.

And under all of it, running, looping, going round again: ‘you look really handsome.’

She looked at his head. At some point in the last four seconds she looked at his head and had a thought about it and then said the thought out loud to him. People don’t. Nobody has ever stood in front of him and reported what they thought of his face. He has been in rooms for thirty-eight years and been looked past by every person in them, and she opened a door and looked directly at him and the first thing she found was worth saying.

Which means she noticed the haircut, which means she knew what he looked like before, which means there is a Robert kept somewhere in her head. It was filed, held, accurate enough to compare against, and there has been the whole time, all these months, while he thought he was the only one carrying anything.

He is very hot. His collar is wrong. There is a pressure behind his eyes and his hearing has gone slightly strange, the way it does on a plane, so that her voice from the kitchen comes through muffled. She’s saying something about the router, about the man who came from the company, and he can’t get any of it because the loop is louder.

Really handsome. Not handsome. Really.

He does the arithmetic standing in her hallway. She didn’t have to say it. She could have said ‘thanks for coming.’ But he got a haircut for tonight. That’s the part that nearly takes his legs out. He sat in a chair on Tuesday and did that on purpose, secretly, for her, and told nobody, and she saw it, she saw it in under two seconds, she caught the one thing he’d done and said it out loud at the door. It isn’t a coincidence, it can’t be a coincidence, it means the same wire runs through both of them and always has, from the break room, from the wave, from everything.

“—it’s just been flashing orange for like two days,” she’s saying. “Sorry. I’m talking too much.”

“That’s fine,” he says, from somewhere.

His hands are shaking now, which they weren’t a minute ago, which they weren’t when he was standing in the door. He puts them in his coat pockets. Then he takes his coat off, because a man who has come to fix something takes his coat off, and he does it slowly. He touches the back of his head once. Quickly. Checking.

Then he follows her into the kitchen, into the light and the smell and the small warm domestic hum of it, and he thinks, ‘this is the night.’

He fixes the router in four minutes. He knew it would be four minutes. Then he stretches it. He runs a diagnostic that doesn't need running. He asks about her upload speeds. He sits at her kitchen table, and she puts a plate down in front of him. She has made him something. “I hope you don’t mind some spätzle? Since you skipped dinner to help me.” She sits down across the corner of the table from him and pulls her sleeves over her hands and says, "God, I really owe you. Seriously. You've saved me twice now."

He looks at her. He has never in his life looked at anything the way he is looking at her, and he has just enough left in him to know he should stop, and he can't, and she notices, and a small confused smile forms on her face.

"Robert? At work. You always go to the break room at half eleven. Forty minutes before everyone else.” She shrugs. “I noticed ages ago.”Ages ago. “It’s empty then,” he says. She’s looking at him steadily now. “Although now I know, I might start coming down at half eleven. Ruin the whole system,” she teases him softly.

He should say something and what comes out of him is a voice he’s never heard himself use, “You wouldn’t ruin it.”

Because he can see the whole of it now, laid end to end, and it is so clean, it is such a good clean line. The break room in October, the wave in front of the others, the coffee, the problem she went to him herself rather than raise a ticket, sitting in a chair he’d put there for nobody, the hand on his shoulder, her number, you’re sweet, the haircut caught in under two seconds at her own front door. All of it points one way, and it has been pointing that way for months.

She has been waiting. She’s been waiting since October, standing beside a door she left open, watching him not come through it. And she has never once been unkind about how slow he is. She’s just kept leaving it open.

His heart is going hard enough that he can hear it. He puts his hands flat on the table. Then, he doesn’t stand so much as find himself standing. The chair goes over behind him and cracks against the tiles.

Something has come up through him and taken the controls.

He takes her face in both hands and kisses her. Too fast, too hard, his mouth landing half at the corner of hers; their noses knock and he feels the blunt shock of it through his skull and does not stop, does not adjust, does not even register it as a thing that could be adjusted. His fingers slide back into her hair and close, and she makes a sound of pure surprise into his mouth, and he swallows it and keeps going. His pulse is everywhere. Throat, ears, the roof of his mouth, his fingertips where they’re pressed against her scalp. There’s a roar under all of it.

Every hour he spent constructing a version of this in an empty flat and getting it wrong, is now the real thing under his mouth and it is warm, she is warm all the way through, and no imagined version ever had a temperature. He pushes forward and she gives ground, one step, and the small of her back meets the edge of the table. He follows. There is no thought in it. It is simply that the distance is unacceptable and always has been, and he is closing it, and something in him that has been starved for thirty-eight years has finally been allowed near a source and cannot be made to be reasonable about it.

He knows he is doing this wrong. She tilts her head, adjusts the angle, and takes over “Hey,” she says into his mouth. “Slow down.”

Then his hand is at her waist, gripping, and his breathing has gone audible and cannot be corrected, and he is shaking so hard she must be able to feel every bit of it through her palm. He kisses her again and it’s marginally better but still bad. and he doesn’t care, he cannot be made to care, because she is letting him. That is the fact burning through the middle of everything. She is letting him kiss her.

His forehead comes down against hers. Both of them breathing hard. Her hand is still flat over his ribs where she can feel exactly what he’s doing in there. He almost whimpers when she pulls away slightly.

“Was that wrong?” His voice comes out desperately. She blinks and furrows her brows, “What?”

“Tell me how you want it.”

“Robert—”

He presses closer into her, his hand gripping her hair tighter, the other grabbing her face to keep her gaze on him, “I’ll do it right! I want to do it right.” His breathing had dissolved into uneven, shallow pulls that left his chest aching. He searched her face with an almost frantic concentration, trying to read every flicker of expression before it vanished.

And then he doesn’t wait for the answer.

Whatever she was about to say gets taken. He kisses her before her mouth has finished forming the word, and it’s worse than the first time. All urgency, no craft, his mouth too hard against hers and his hand still fisted in her hair holding her head exactly where he needs it. There’s no rhythm to it. There’s no give. It’s a man trying to take.

She makes a muffled sound, he swallows it and doesn’t slow. Because she hasn’t pulled away. That’s all he has and it’s everything. Her hand is still flat on his chest, and she is still here, and every fraction of a second she doesn’t stop him is another entry in a ledger that has been running since October. He tilts her head moving her face to where it wants her, and it’s not rough exactly, but it isn’t gentle either. The new angle feels more right, and the moment it he feels it properly, a sound comes out of him that he has never made before. Something small and wrecked from the back of his throat.

He’s crowding her against the table. His whole weight is nearly on her. His breathing hasn’t recovered at all; it’s shallow and uneven and audible in the small kitchen, and his heart is going hard. Then he breaks off and drops his face into the side of her neck, gripping her, holding on.

“Sorry,” he says into her skin. He isn’t letting go. “Sorry.”

Her hand comes up to the back of his neck, slowly, “Robert, it’s okay. Just….” She gulps, “do it less aggressively. It’s okay to be rough, just calm down.” She rubs his chest soothingly. He nods against her neck. Several times, too many. “Yes.”

“Okay.” She keeps rubbing, small circles over his sternum, “Just breathe for a sec.” He lifts his head. He’s still shaking, but it’s steadier, deeper, and less like a man coming apart. “Slower?” he says. She nods.

He kisses her again. It’s better this time. She lets out a small, approving sound and it goes through him. Her hand moves off his neck, into his hair, and she pulls. Not hard. Just enough that he feels it at the roots. His whole body locks for a second, everything suspended, before he presses in harder, deeper. He doesn’t break the kiss. He can’t. He makes a sound into her mouth that almost animalistic. She pulls his hair again, slightly, and he moves with it. He lets her tip his head where she wants it, showing him how to do it.

There’s no restraint in it anymore. There’s no checking. He has the technique now and he uses it for perhaps four seconds and then abandons it entirely because he cannot get enough of her fast enough with it.

He breaks off her mouth and goes for her jaw instead, her throat, wherever there is skin, breathing hard against her, saying something into her neck that isn’t quite words. His hand in her hair tips her head back to get at more of her and she lets him, she just lets him, and every second she doesn’t stop him is another confirmation stacking on top of the last until the whole tower of it is roaring.

“God—” she says, half laughing, “okay—”

He comes back to her mouth. He can’t stay away from it. He kisses her deep and hungry and slightly out of control, and his hands keep moving because they can, because nobody is taking them off her, because every place he touches her turns out to be available.

He is shaking harder than before, not less. His breathing has gone entirely. He kisses her again and again, quick, greedy, one after another with no pause between them, like a man who has found something he was never supposed to be given access to and is taking as much of it as he can before somebody notices. So he doesn’t stop.

She pulls back to breathe so he follows her. His lips go down under her jaw, into her throat, mouth open against her pulse and he can feel right under his lips, going fast. Going nearly as hard as his own. He’s pushing her down and on top of her before she can blink.

He comes down onto her hard. There’s no elegance in it. His elbow goes out to catch himself on the table and doesn’t quite, so half his weight lands on her at once, she lets out a little oof into his mouth and then her hand is fisting in the back of his shirt to keep him exactly where he is.

Her knee comes up against his hip. Her heel finds the back of his thigh. He has no idea what to do with any of that and he doesn’t need to know. She arches under him and makes a sound he will be hearing in the dark for the rest of his life. Her breath is going ragged below him, “Robert.”

Her hand slides up his arm and he lets go of her face to catch it. He takes hold of her wrist and brings it up over her head and puts it down on the table, and then finds the other one and does the same, holding them both there under one hand. He presses her down and feels as she wiggles slightly. But he doesn’t let go, putting his mouth by her ear.

“I’m never letting you go.”

[httpxelysian11]

Being in the Lost Boys(1987) fandom goes from wanting to read about just one of them, reading about the other boys as side characters, then turning around and wanting all of them, then you think about sub!Michael and then Star— it’s just 😣 😖

P.S. all of them subby is great but sub!Michael is just 🫶🙌

[httpxelysian11]

Why are the Avatar/Jake Sully tags flooded with smuts about THE CHILDREN?! Even the fluff!! I don’t want to read about CHILDREN, I want to read about JAKE SULLY. Idc that they’re “aged up” NO NO NO NO. STOP IT THIS INSTANCE

[httpxelysian11]

When I’ve just read the most gut wrenching, majestic piece of fanfic on Tumblr and go to read the next chapter but it says,

“posted 6 years ago”

And it’s been silence ever since.

[darlingemerson]

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; V

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The Lost Boys lay to rest your fears regarding the night prior, and you agree to stay a night longer with the four of them. Everything is perfect, until Star comes to you with a warning. 

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: SMUT!!!!, emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, gratuitous swearing, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), internalized slut shaming, use of the word 'slut' and 'whore' (the boys aren't the ones saying it), implied parental verbal abuse, flirting, David's poetry loving ass, if you're reading this you're legally obligated to tell me what you would put on your jacket as a lost boys member, outdoor sex, not-quite-angry-sex-but-sorta?, kissing to make someone shut up, lore drop 👀, threesome, sex on a motorcycle, vaginal fingering, squirting blowjobs, vaginal penetration, kind of fluffy?, non penetrative sex, thigh riding, arguments, implied hypnosis during sex, non consensual hypnosis during sex (you don't know they're vampires so idk man), ANGST, the canon timeline is my bitch and I will do whatever I want with it

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: Hi guys! I'm sorry this took a while. There are two impending deaths in my family right now - one in hospice and one who had a brain bleed (don't listen to conspiracy theories, please take your medicine). I’m sorry if this isn’t up to par with my other stuff but if I didn’t post it now, I don’t think I would have the chance. In other news, this chapter alone is 1/3 the length of the original CLS and three times its original chapter length. This is what I get for finally giving everyone their smut scene. Original word count 4098, new word count 12800 (I'm sorry to the people who hate long fics)

MASTERLIST

← previous chapter

Michael stumbles up the drive, head hazy from the morning sun. It’s almost like the light had sucked the last of his strength. His bed begs for him.

It’s not all terrible, though. At least he finally knew where things stood with him and Star.

Star…

God, he hated leaving her alone this morning! He would have given anything for one more minute in her arms. She smelled so good, so perfect! But he had to leave her and face the oncoming storm.

He'll make it up to her. After all this ... whatever this is ... gets sorted out, they'll catch a movie, grab a bite to eat. Just be normal.

Michael trips, catching himself just in time before he faceplants on Grandpa’s porch. He really needs to sleep.

He would have gone straight to bed, had someone not caught his eye.

The side door is wide open—intentionally open—for Lucy Emerson to spot him when he arrives. And, for Michael to notice.

Mom has curled up in an old wicker chair, a blanket over her lap, tea in hand. Her hair is damp. She’s wearing her fresh clothes—ass-kicking clothes, Michael’s mind supplements.

She looks at him expectantly. 

“I thought you’d be at work,” Michael says lamely.

“Hello, Michael,” she says—patiently impatient. Michael feels like he’s ten again, being reprimanded for forgetting his manners. She sips her tea. "We're still friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah," he grunts, rolling his head skyward.

"Oh. Oh, well, good. So, let's talk like friends, Michael. Let's chat. We never do that anymore."

"Mom—" he starts, but she doesn't let him finish.

“How was your night?”

“Fine.”

She hums, drumming her fingers against the ceramic mug. “And your sister?”

Michael withholds a groan. He rubs his eyes under the cheap sunglasses, summoning every ounce of strength to keep himself upright. Can’t his mom do this later?

“What about her?”

“Did she have fun, too?”

“I don’t know, Mom, why don’t you ask her?”

Mom’s smile falters. “She’s not with you?”

“Why would she be?”

He wrinkles his nose. His little sister hates everything he finds cool. 

“Well, where is she?”

“Have you checked the library?”

“Michael, I’m really not in the mood. I asked you to stay home and look after your brother—”

“I did, mom! But you came home, so I figured—”

“And I hoped,” she says, a little louder, “that your little disappearing act was due to you looking out for her.”

“She was pissed last night and stormed out!” Michael flings his arm out toward the yard. Thankfully, you missed the drama that ensued. He’s not sure how he would have explained all of that, but he knows you would have taken Sammy’s side. “She’s not inside?”

Mom sits the tea on the railing, laying her hand across her stomach. “No,” she says in a slow, measured voice. 

Michael frowns. He knows that tone. That’s the ‘pretend you’re not panicked’ tone. 

“Mom?”

“I haven’t seen her. I assumed she slept through the fiasco last night, but when I went to check on her this morning, she wasn’t in her room. Sam said she went out.”

“No, Mom, I haven’t…” Michael trails off, blinking rapidly. God, he needs to wake up. His little sister … “She wouldn’t go with me. She hates—the guys.” 

He can’t tell his mom about Star, not yet. He’d be in even bigger trouble for bailing if she knew it involved a girl.

“Well, where could she possibly be, Michael? It’s not like she’s made any friends!”

It’s pitch black when you wake.

With every blink, you adjust to the darkness, noticing the fragmented silhouettes. A pit forms in your stomach as it dawns on you that you're not in your bedroom.

Blindly, you feel for your glasses on the bedside table and slip them on. The blanket slides down your naked chest as you rise, and you frown.

You’re in the Lost Boys’ cave. The distant crash of waves haunts the cavernous cave like a far off roar. Memories from the night before trickle in like a whisper of a dream. The ache between your legs reminds you it's all real.

You had sex with all of them.

Well, not all . David had been notably absent from the action aside from some kissing. 

You drag the sheets up to your chin and scan the 'room.' Not a trace of evidence remains aside from the obvious nudity and a sore pussy. Even your clothes have vanished from the floor.

With your glasses on, you can make out more details of the space.

The bed you slept in is a grand thing: four poster, intricately carved. The posts are a little chipped, but it’s sturdy, dark wood that people would pay an arm and a leg for these days. It matches your little antique side table. On top it is a glass bowl of baubles, glass gems, and tarnished silver jewelry. A fat pillar candle, about the size of your wrist, sat beside it and a matchbook.

Hmph. No electricity down here, probably.

You strike a match and light the ancient wick. It crackles and sputters, but catches. The flame grows tall.

Now, you see some more candles sitting on tall, rusted candelabras along the wall. Paintings with cracked frames clutter the corner; a russet rug lays beneath the bed. Pirate is there, too, that poor bastard. You must have kicked him off in your sleep.

It’s beautiful for what it is, but you wish you had a mirror to survey the damage. 

Smiling, you decide to test your legs. You wobble as you pull the sheet with you, and wrap it around your chest. You’ll need to find the boys and get some clothes before you go home. 

All of it had been wonderful. Really and truly—unimaginably—fantastic. They were so kind … even when they weren’t. None of the guys back home would have acted like that. They would have dumped you as soon as they got what they …

… Oh.

Oh no.

You grip a wooden post for stability; your fear threatens to bowl you over. 

You fucked them. Not a cutesy lovemaking with a long term boyfriend. A X-rated, pearl-clutching fuckwith three men. They got what they wanted. And you—you made it so easy, didn’t you? Didn’t even put up a fight?

You’ll never be able to show your face in Santa Carla ever again. News will spread fast: Emerson’s sister is a slut. She’s taken three guys at once. No, I heard it was five. It was an orgy!  

Oh god. You bury your face in your hands. Oh, fuck. This is a mess!

You sniff, steeling your nerves. One thing at a time. First, you have to get out of here. No— clothesfirst, then leave. It doesn’t matter what kind or who they belong to. You grab and you go. And, hopefully, no one notices.

Unfortunately, by the time you make it through the labyrinthine cave, the Lost Boys sit in the main room, chatting and joking, almost like nothing happened at all.

When you appear, they stop what they’re doing. Dear god did their mothers not teach them not to stare?

You pull the sheet higher over your shoulders. You’d had a speech prepared and promptly forgot it.

“Nice toga,” Marko says, breaking the awkward silence.

“I couldn’t, um, find my clothes.” Your voice is small, throat tight. You can’t cry yet. “Do any of you, um …” 

David reaches for the cigarette behind his ear. “Your sweater didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” 

Little slut , hisses a voice that sounds an awful lot like your dad’s. 

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry—

“We can go shopping,” David says slowly, exchanging looks with the other Lost Boys.

“No, that’s—I don’t want to be a problem.”

She was only out with friends, Lance! the memory of your mother cries. 

She’s allowed to stay out past curfew when she’s an adult. But I refuse to clean up her mess if she decides to act like a little slut now!  

The noose around your neck tightens; your throat burns.

“Oh- kay … We can probably find something around here.” He jerks his thumb toward a table. “Your shorts should be dry, they laid out all day.”

The blood drains from your face. “How long have I been here?” None of them answer and you whip your head around to an old grandfather clock. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirtyish,” says Paul, “just in time for sunset.”

“Are you okay?” asks Dwayne.

“Oh, my god.” Is this what a heart attack feels like? You stumble down the stone slope and snatch your shorts off the side table. “I-I have to go home!”

“Where’s the fire?” Marko asks.

You struggle to keep the sheet in place as you get back in your cut offs, but give up and let it fall. It’s not like they haven’t seen it all anyway!

“I can’t believe I slept all day, I’m so dead.”

“To be fair,” says Paul with a gloating grin, “you were pretty busy last night.”

“Yes, I know! Okay? Please, don’t rub it in my face.” You gather the sheet in your arms, covering your breasts. “Where the hell are my shoes?!”

Mom had to be worried sick. You should have called. How were you supposed to explain this? All night and all day without a word, what did she think happened?

“You’ve been here this long,” says David, “might as well stay a little longer.”

“Look!” You snap your head up, begging the tears not to fall, but David’s figure is blurry. “Last night was a fluke, and I don’t need to be made fun of anymore, so please let me go without smearing the last of my pride on the doormat.”

David scoffs, his bemusement freezing over into ice. 

Paul appears in front of you even though you swear he was across the room a moment ago. “What’s wrong?”

“I know how this goes, okay?!” But you were so totally fucking stupid for not realizing it last night. “I’m just another way to haze Michael. So, good job! Now you get to rub it in his face that his sister is a whore.”

Oh, God, Michael. You could cry thinking about him alone. He can’t fight all of them but he’s dumb enough to try. They'd massacre him!

“We wouldn’t,” Paul insists.

You recoil. “I’m not stupid.”

“Is that what you think this was?” David asks. “A game?”

“What else could it be?”

Quickly, you wipe your cheeks dry, but tears continue to fall. You want to curl up in a hole and die.

David exhales smoke through his nose. He flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the cave floor, exchanging a look with Marko. 

“You’re wrong,” says David.

“Please—”

“You’re wrong .”

Somehow, you believe him. It’s a gut punch. An instinctive knowing , something you can’t quite describe.

David glowers at you, his eyes like torches of blue fire. You sniffle. You have an urge to affirm that you believe him, but you stop yourself. Your lower lip quivers with restraint. 

“David’s right,” adds Paul, raising his hands in surrender.  “We’re not messin’ around.” 

“We don’t plan on quitting you so soon,” says Marko.

“Or ever,” finishes Dwayne. 

David stubbs the cherry of his cigarette against his boot. “But it’s nice to know that you think so highly of us.”

“Dude,” Paul warns.

“You’re not serious,” you state, even though it feels like a lie. 

“We are,” says Dwayne. 

“What, so … this has nothing to do with my brother?”

“I admit, I wish I’d thought of it,” mutters Marko. “Wouldda been a little funny.”

“This has nothing to do with hazing Michael,” David states.

You wipe your cheek. “And you don’t think I’m a slut?”

Paul gently touches your back, and when you don’t shove him away, he says, “What kind of dicks are you used to being around?”

"Dicks that fuck around and kick you to the curb when they're done." The knot in your throat tightens. “If … if this had happened back in Phoenix, it would have been the talk of the cul-de-sac.” 

I refuse to clean up her mess if she decides to act like a little slut...!  

You flinch, and your body suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.

“That’s not really our style,” says Marko.

“We’re not interested in ruining a lady’s reputation.” The chip might have fallen off David’s shoulder, but there’s still an edge to his tone.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you were,” you whisper. “Not many guys are as … well, as kind as you.” 

David swallows this admission, his jaw tight. Then, he shakes his head.

“I should really go back, though," you say. "My family must be totally freaked. And I do need a shirt.”

“Hey, baby, you’ll hear no complaints from me—”

Dwayne smacks Paul on the back of the head. 

“There’s no rush,” says David. “Your brother and Star got together, too. He was here all night.”

You freeze, “And you didn’t…? He couldn’t hear, could he?”

“Nah,” says Marko. "He was too wrapped up in his own party." He’s too happy to inform you of that, and you sputter.

"You've been here for this long," Paul adds.

“Which is why I should go.”

“But you never get to cut loose," says Marko, jumping back in. "C’mon—when’s the last time you actually did something for yourself, honey?”

He raises his eyebrows to drive home his point and you ... can't tell him. The last time had been the night you stayed out past curfew, nearly four years ago. You can still picture that disgustingly pristine doorway of your old home, barely holding it together as your mom and dad fought. Sammy doll eyes peered at you through the slats of the stairs, his pudgy cheeks pulled down into a sorrowful expression. Michael had kept his hand clamped on your little brother's shoulder to keep him from making matters worse. 

That fight had happened long before your father’s infidelity came to light. Looking back at it now, it was his guilty conscious that made him so belligerent. It still stings. His voice is the salt in the wound, and even if he is divorced from your life, it doesn't erase the past.

Mike never got in trouble when he stayed out late. Not even now. It's always a slap on the wrist, a word of warning, not Hiroshima .

Technically, you’re an adult. 

Which means you need to make the adult choice and go home. Your mom is probably tearing up half of Santa Carla right now—!

Michael had been here night with Star. She probably told him about your awkward reintroduction. She probably told him you were with the guys. Maybe she thought you also went back out?

At any rate, if Michael can do it, why can’t you? All things considered, your brother isn't a bad guy—he wouldn’t endanger himself like that, so the Lost Boys can’t be that bad, either.

“Do you want to leave?” asks Dwayne.

You worry bottom lip. “No.”

He shrugs. “Then stay.”

Maybe you’re naive. Maybe it’s the romantic in you, the one that wants to believe they’re different, the one that wants to believe they like you beyond the fact that you put out. 

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

A little longer can't hurt, right? 

“Yes!” Paul sweeps you into his arms and spins you around. “ Pretty woman, yeah, yeah, yeah. Pretty woman, look my way. Pretty woman, say you’ll stay with me! ” he sings—but it has more of a Steven Tyler flair than Roy Orbison. 

“Paul!” You clutch his shoulder, laughing despite yourself. “Put me down!” 

“ Mercy! ” he shrieks.

“Put her down before she threatens to leave again,” says David. 

“If I make her dizzy enough she won’t go nowhere, man.”

“Pa-ul!”

He obeys, in his own time, planting you on your own two feet. You push your hair out of your face. It’s hard to pretend to be annoyed when he smiles like that—especially when he sang one of your favorite songs. 

“Thought you didn’t like music from the sixties,” you say.

“Hell no, babes. That would nix the Rolling Stones.” 

“But we have to give you shit about something,” teases Marko. 

“C’mon.” David stands from his wheelchair. “Let's find you something to wear before he finishes the verse.”

“ I need you! I’ll treat you right! ” Paul thrashed his head from side to side, miming an electric guitar. "Yow!"

You follow David, but watch Paul until you can’t see him anymore. “Is he always like that?”

“Only on days that end in ‘Y.’” David makes a face. “The weed was supposed to mellow him out.”

You laugh again, shrugging the sheet closer. David’s glaze lingers, dropping to your mouth, then back to the endless rocky tunnels ahead. You cover your mouth. Maybe he didn’t like your smile? You’re sure it couldn’t be too pretty, given the state of you. 

You enter a room not far from the main cave. It’s organized chaos, to put it nicely. Bins of denim and scrap leather litter the space; t-shirts and fishnets and boardshorts haphazardly stick out from nooks and crannies. A single, battery operated lantern hangs overhead. David rummages through the bins until he finds a shirt. There’s a few holes and bleach stains on it, but it’s coverage you desperately need, and you accept it.

David turns around for your sake, granting you privacy. “We should get you something else to wear,” he mutters. ”Just in case.”

You shrug even though he can’t see you. “I have stuff at home.”

“And what about the next time this happens spontaneously ?”

“You think there's a next time?” you ask, popping your head through the shirt hole. You fluff your hair. 

“I can hope,” he states, equally as sarcastic.

“I didn’t mean…” 

“I know.” David turns, assessing you. “That’s just how you are, isn’t it, sunshine?”

“And you’re such a Lisa Frank painting.”

He smiles. “With unicorns.” 

You snort, covering your mouth again. 

David’s amusement simmers in those baby blues of his, lifting the corners of his mouth. “So, what about it?”

“What?” you ask. David gestures with his hand. “Shopping? You’re serious? I told you, I can get more from home.” 

“Might be nice to have something different. Something that’s not so …”

“Dowdy?” you challenged.

“I was going to say ‘modest,’ but that works too.” David scratches his ear. “You can think of it as a date.”

“A date?” You cross your arms. “Like, a you and me thing?”

“That was the idea.”

A date.

A date with David .

Hi, powder keg, meet flame!

Being alone with him like this had been hard enough, but being alone-alone? Unchaperoned? Unsupervised? Your heart might just give out.

Still, it thrills you more than any motorcycle ride ever could. Gaining David’s undivided attention is like ketamine injected into your veins. You crave it so much it scares you.

You toss your hair to one side, masking your nerves behind a wall of taunt. “Is this your way of proving you’re better than the others?”

“After everything you’ve seen so far, do you really think that we aren’t okay sharing?”

Your heart skips a beat. There wasn’t an ounce of derision in his tone, no mocking—beyond what you’d already dished out—to be found. 

“I guess not.” You drag your fingers across a leather jacket draped across the back of a chair. “Let's do it then. Go out. On a date."

God, can you flub this any more?

But David must find you endearing because he doesn't crack.

“Let’s.”

He pulls the leather jacket off the chair and hands it to you. It’s a few sizes too big and smells of cigarette smoke and Lexol. 

“For the ride,” he says. 

The boys watch you curiously as you re-enter the main cave. Toward the back of the room, Star’s curtains flutter. You can’t see her, but you’re sure she’s watching. David leads you down the slope with his hand against the small of your back. 

“We’re going out,” he says. “You boys should grab something to eat.”

“Have fun,” Paul teases. 

Amazingly, the bikes were exactly where the boys left them the night prior, right on top of the Bluff. David claims his. There’s something so effortlessly cool in the way he does it that you’re consumed with half-jealousy, half-awe. 

“You sure there’s not another way we can get to town?” you ask. “You guys don’t have a station wagon hidden behind those trees, do you? I hear the bus system in Santa Carla is supposed to be top rate.”

“Don’t tell me you’re standing me up, Emerson.” David cocks his head, sliding his hands over his thighs.

You cringe. “Can you promise me you won’t go too rough?”

David sighs. “For now…” He offers his hand, which you accept. Your fingers slide into his palm as he pulls you around behind him, not unlike a gentleman leading you in a dance. 

You suppress a snort. David and gentleman didn’t belong in the same zip code. Still, it’s probably not the smartest thing—taunting the driver of the motorcycle you’re on—to tease him for that, and you keep it to yourself. 

You embrace him and rest your chin against his shoulder. He rolls his eyes. “You’re testing my self control, you know?”

“That sounds dangerous,” you quip.

The bike roars to life, drowning out his reply:

“You are.”

“I think that’s the best Chinese I’ve had in years,” you say, swinging your little bag of thrifted clothes as you walk beside him. 

“Mr. Zhang knows his stuff,” he says.

Neither of you ate a lot, but you didn’t feel right asking David about it, in case he asked you too. Not that the food wasn’t good—it was delicious. But your stomach flip-flopped the whole time. Probably nerves. Even after the ordeal that was last night and David ‘buying’ (you’re pretty sure there were things in your bag that he got with a five finger discount) you some outfits, being around him was like orbiting the sun when you're made of wax.

“So,” you start. David’s hand brushes the back of yours, and you return the nudge. He turns his palm and slots his fingers through yours. “Where to next?”

“I have an idea,” he admits. “We’d need to kill some time, though.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Not a chance.” 

You pout. “You’re not going to murder me, right?”

“If I was, it wouldn’t be smart of me to tell you.”

“Not like I could do anything to stop you.”

David shrugs. “You’re very skilled at avoiding me when you want. I’m sure you’d escape.”

Ouch. Direct hit. He’s getting really good at throwing those back, and you can’t say you don’t deserve it. 

You squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I don’t feel like running right now.”

David hums. He looks up at the sky, which is astoundingly clear tonight. The moon shines like a beacon. He returns your squeeze, dragging his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles.

“I guess I’m doing a good job at behaving.”

“Me, too,” you laugh.

David smiles and your insides quiver. He’s handsome, always has been; but there’s something mystical about him when he grins without a trace of mockery. He really is the sun. So bright, so intense, but one look from him and you blossom.

Together you round the corner, approaching a quieter street with less storefront lights and chatter. Santa Carla doesn’t have much to offer away from the Boardwalk and the Pier, so you were surprised when he brought you to this side of town. The old shops are shack-like, painted barn-red and sky-blue. Most of them are mom and pop shops: there’s a grocer, a diner, the old chinese restaurant, and the thrift. Seashells peek through the cracked cement—someone’s bright idea of making this strip festive, you guess—and bits of sand have blown over the dunes to fill in the gaps. 

“You like books, yeah?” David asks.

“A bit.”

He ingests the answer thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “I might know a place. It’s not an overpriced tourist trap like the one on the boardwalk, either. We could go there next?”

“Now you’re spoiling me.” You dare to lay your head on his shoulder. You move it off him just as fast. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“You don’t need to deserve it,” says David. “But, I think it’s important I make up for the misunderstanding earlier.”

“That wasn’t—” you sigh, and stare at the sand-pit below your feet. “You don’t have to make up for something that’s not your fault. It’s my stupid brain.”

You arrive at the alley where David had parked his bike. A rush of warm, salty air blusters past you, rustling your hair and David’s coat. The metal glints under the street lamps.

“I’m sure your ‘stupid brain’ wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions if someone had been there when you woke up.” David tugs on a strand of your hair. “That is my fault. I thought they would misbehave if I let them stay longer.”

“They didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” you say softly.

“Good.”

You tighten your grip on his hand and take a breath. The question of why sat on the tip of your tongue. Why didn’t he join in? Why didn’t he have his ruthless way with you? If there were any regrets from last night, it was that, as unrelentingly shameful as it was. How could you not be satisfied with three gorgeous men ravaging you—three men who hadn’t acted selfishly, either. Your pleasure had never been an afterthought, which none of your friends in Phoenix could say about their boyfriends. 

Instead, you say, “Tell me about yourself, David.”

He releases you and sits side-saddle on his bike. “What’s to know?”

“Lots of things,” you laugh. “What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I don’t have one I claim,” he clarifies.

“Well, what’s it say on your birth certificate?”

“Don’t have one of those, either.”

“Shut up,” you say. “How is that possible?”

David looks away, and your heart sinks into your stomach. His silence is a knife. When he speaks, it’s with great slowness, “I’m not exactly supposed to be here.”

“Oh.” You rock back on your heels and turn away. You're such a dumbass. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” David plays with the fresh cigarette he stashed behind his ear before you left the cave. "Not all of us are as lucky as you."

There's not a trace of resentment anywhere to be found as he says this. His truth is unburdened by jealousy or contempt; you could swear he's nostalgic.

"I wish you could have been lucky, too."

"I was, in my own way." He leans back and assesses you from head to toe. “You remind me of someone I knew back then."

“Yeah?” You grimace. "Is that a good thing?"

“I think it is. It’s one of the first things I noticed about you.”

"I'm afraid to ask what the others were."

"I don't promise to answer truthfully, either."

You scoff playfully, and yet, your stomach twinges with melancholy. "What happened to them?"

"She died," he says.

"I'm sorry."

David humors you with a small smile, but it’s distant like his mind. “‘You do not know how longingly I look upon you,’” he starts.

He reaches for you, the tips of his leather clad fingers grazing yours until you give your hand to him. “‘You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return.’”

David interlaces your fingers with his. “‘I am not to speak to you. I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone. I am to wait.’” He pauses, “‘I do not doubt I am to meet you again. I am to see to it that I do not lose you.’”

Finally, he looks away with a roll of his eyes, as if he was embarrassed by himself.

You swallow thickly. “Who…?”

“Walt Whitman,” he confesses. 

“Oh.”

“That ... is the second thing I thought of." He huffs through his nose. "You acted like you hated us."

"I didn't know you," you insist. "But one look at me, and I drove you to poetry?"

“You reminded me—” He stops short, drops his hand from yours, but you’re already closing the distance. “I’m not a good writer, Emerson. I don’t have any original words to woo you with.”

“I don’t care.”

David swallows. There’s a chink missing from his armor, and you catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “You’re looking at me really funny.”

“How?” 

“Like you might actually like me.”

“There’s a chance,” you admit. “Don’t tell anyone.”

David shakes his head. “That’s going to be hard.”

When did he start whispering? And when did you get so close? You couldn’t fight the magnetic pull guiding you toward him anymore than you could fight gravity. You were going to kiss him.

At least, you were until David stopped you. 

“What—?”

A firm hand on your wrist silences you. David stands. He stares past you, down the alley, where the street lamp illuminates the crumbling sidewalk. 

A man stalls near the mouth, tall and broad. It takes a blink, but you recognize the figure. He’s carrying a bouquet. 

“Max?”

Though you’re sure you say that under your breath, Max acknowledges you with that jovial smile of his.

“Ah—good evening,” he cheers. David steps in front of you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “David, it’s nice to see you out and about. What are your brothers up to?”

“They went to the boardwalk,” he says lazily.

You tear your eyes away from Max to look at David, but he won’t meet your eye. 

“I’m on my way to your house, now,” says Max, addressing you again. “I picked these for your mother. Do you think she’ll like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” you stammer.

You start to speak again, but David cuts you off. “We were just about to go.”

“Ah. Yes, I should do that, too. I’d hate to keep Lucy waiting.”

“Your date must have gone well last night,” you call out. David tenses.

Max pauses, laughing nervously.

“This is take two, I’m afraid,” Max says. “Luck hasn’t been on my side as of late. I’m a bit out of practice with this, er, dating thing. But I’m glad to see the two of you are getting along. I’ll pass it along to your mother. Will Michael be joining you tonight?”

David gives you a look, and alarm bells blare inside your head. “Oh, I’m not sure," you say. "Is he, David?”

Max waits, eager to hear as well.

“He has plans with Star,” David says tightly.

“Very well.” Max checks his watch, “I really must be going. You kids have a great time. Don’t stay out too late.”

But David is already climbing onto his bike. He doesn’t wait for you to take his hand this time; he pulls you by the arm, and your only choice is to get on the bike or topple over it. You don’t even see Max leave. 

“You know Max,” you say.

But David revs his engine loud enough to drown you out. The bike rumbles furiously beneath you and he pulls out in lieu of an answer. The summer air is a razor to your face as David weaves through the Santa Carla streets, disobeying every traffic law in the book. But you’re beyond caring; a newfound dread usurps any fear you could have had.

“David,” you call, “how do you know Max?”

“It’s nothing.”

“David.”

Still he doesn’t answer.

“David, pull over right now or I’ll jump off!”

You feel his chest rumble, and he speeds up to call your bluff. You may have been terrified of bikes, but you were nothing if not stubborn. You unwind your arms from around him, barely even lifting the pressure off his waist, and David abruptly pulls off the main road.

The bike skids to a stop into the grassy, sandy strip of trees just beyond the last lights of the city. 

David whirls around to look at you, his face contorted in anger. “Are you crazy ?!”

Your head spins from the encounter. Too many thoughts in your head, all of them shouting, clamoring to be heard; a chorus of why? and how? crudely bounce in the echo chamber of your mind. A mystery lies in front of you, and you fear you’ve already found more than enough clues to come to a conclusion. 

​​I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them.

You have sons?

Oh, yes. They’re reckless. As untamed as wild horses.

… Where are your brothers up to?

“Max is your dad,” you say.

David blinks, still appalled at your almost-stunt. “What?”

“Max—he’s your dad.” You get off the bike, pacing. “He told me he was a father … And you said you didn’t have any parents.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Answer my question, David.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks away into the trees. “He’s not my birth father.”

“Your adopted dad, then,” you huff.

David’s jaw flexes. He tightens his grip on the handlebars, and you wonder if he’s debating on leaving you here. 

“Am I wrong?”

“Why do you care?” David sputters.

“Because you lied .”

"I didn't lie!" David’s mouth tightens. “He’s more like a benefactor.”

You scoff, and pace back and forth. “Unbelievable.”

David says your name, but you’re too angry to care.

“So what was all that crap you fed me last night? A few minutes ago? Huh?”

“I didn’t lie to you," he says again.

“Yes, you did! You said you had no one but each other.”

“And that’s all we do have! Max doesn’t give a damn about me.”

But you're fired up, and his excuses glance off you. “Putting aside the getting into my pants bit, do you know how royally fucked up it was not to tell me? He’s dating my mom .”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with this!”

“It does if you hate the guy so much that you’re willing to break them up!”

He scoffs, slamming his hand against the handlebars. “And how would I do that, sunshine?”

“This!” You gesture between the two of you. “You—me—sex! You want to mess with him!”

“No, I don’t.” David flips his kickstand down and is in front of you in seconds. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.”

“Why are you always looking for an excuse for this?”

“Because!”

“Because you can’t accept that maybe, just maybe, I like you?”

“Yes!”

David grabs your nape and kisses you, hard. 

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until he has you against a tree, and all those latent feelings arise from their hiding places. You grip his coat as he holds your face, kissing you with a hunger that hadn’t been satiated last night. His mouth tastes faintly metallic and you realize you must have re-opened the wound you caused last night. The tang of his blood ignites your senses. Every hair stands on end. You moan. David breaks away.

“Max has nothing to do with the way I want you,” he rasps. His mouth grazes yours as he speaks. 

It dawns on you that there’s no possible way it could. David couldn’t have known about Max and your mom until last night, their first date. He and the others had been a fixture in your Santa Carla life almost from the beginning. 

“Do you understand me?” You don't answer fast enough, because David speaks again, "Do you?" 

You nod, utterly speechless

David flicks his gaze down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, and kisses you again. Your body conforms to the contours of his, moving when he moves, breathing when he allows you, until all of it belongs to him and him alone. 

“Please,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” He nips your bottom lip. “More?”

“Please.”

“Another word, sweetheart. A real one. Tell me.”

“I want you. All of you.”

‘All of him’ presses snugly against your pelvis, giving you the courage you needed to beg. Despite that tough guy act, he was held together by a singular, fraying string.

“I need to feel you in me,” you breathe.

He grasps your waist, hands delving beneath your denim to play with your pussy. You’re sensitive from last night, and it’s embarrassing how wet you get from a little manhandling. But it’s not just anyone doing it—it’s David. And you have always been putty for him, no matter how hard you’ve fought it.

“Lift your hips.”

He moves your shorts down just enough to where he has full access and unfastens his pants.

It occurs to you, vaguely, that you’re barely out of sight from the road. Anyone could drive by and see you, anyone could stop to check—a good samaritan thinking you broke down or something—and you should have been horrified. But David sinks himself into you, and you forget all about that.

You paw at his back as he drives into you, slow to start, gradually building depth and rhythm. Still, it’s sloppy. A bit uncoordinated, and whether that’s because of the clothes, the location, or your mutual desperation you don’t know. 

All you know is that you’re whole.

The missing piece has clicked into place; your silent wish fulfilled, even if it was away from the others. 

David grabs your throat, pushing your jaw upward. Stars fill your eyes as he kisses your pulse point, and you choke on a moan when he drags his teeth across the fragile skin. 

“D-David,” you moan.

You yearn to ask him— bite me! Please, please, please bite me!  

You’ve never craved pain before this, never fantasized about teeth and blood until you felt his. It’s only fair, isn’t it? You drew first blood, now it’s his turn. 

“Ah!” Your voice breaks, eyes rolling when he sucks your sensitive spot below your ear. “More.”

David delivers, but not in the way you secretly wanted him to. His fucks you like he owns you, hiking one leg higher over his hip to reach a place that might be Heaven. 

“I-I’m going to—”

“Do it. Let go,” David grunts.

There’s something about his voice—about his eyes—when he says that. There’s a pulse. That once strong, but distant, cord of pleasure suddenly ripped through you, like the invisible string had been pulled tight by David’s leather-clad grip. It’s a rush; less of a tumble and more like you’ve been shoved head first off a building. You cum with a moan.

David swears. He isn’t far behind you, working himself into you as you wade through the aftershocks of your climax. He cums, not bothering to remove himself from your pussy as he did so. You’re glad. If he had, you might have begged him to go again. You still could. David has an allure about him, his touch, even his smell, is a drug that you’re afraid you’ve become addicted to. 

The hand on your throat moves to your cheek. David rests his forehead against yours. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.” He kisses your forehead. When he's caught his breath, he kisses your cheeks and slowly withdraws from your sex. He fixes your clothes. "I'm ... I didn't mean to make it sound like a lie."

"I believe you," you say. The rage lingers like a bruise, but you'll put it aside for now. "Can we go back to the cave?"

"Yeah. Of course."

The surprise date would have to wait for another day. Once you're as clean as you can be, you load onto David's bike and he takes the long way home.

The boys are back when you arrive; belly’s full and raucous as ever. Their laughter carries through the rocky halls, spilling out and mingling with the ocean’s roar like ghosts on the wind. 

You pet your hair self-consciously, praying it doesn’t look like a rats nest, and hoping they don’t notice your strange walk. 

David keeps an arm around your waist. He squeezes your hip reassuringly. Six eyes turn your way, each accompanied by toothy grins.

“So,” Marko drawls, “how was it?”

You turn on your heel to march back the way you came, but David you back into his arms, capturing you in his embrace.

“Classy, Marko,” David snarks.

Time blurs the longer you’re with your boys. Memories bleed into one another like an inkblot soaking into a page, seeping into a single, endless night. The coming daylight existed as a cruel reminder that you’d have to abandon your recklessness eventually, return to the dreadfully boring life you lead before. You hated it, and prayed it would stay away for as long as possible.

It’s the first time you’ve truly felt alive. Like someone finally flipped on the flashlight, illuminating a path ahead. Your once murky, dismal future appeared with razor sharp clarity, and it involved all four of them. 

They made you try on the new clothes first, stating it’s only fair since they hadn’t been there to help you choose. Everyone approved of your picks. They’re the sort of clothes you’d always dreamed of wearing, in your secret heart of hearts. Bold, daring, and racy. Clothes that didn’t make you look like someone’s grandmother; clothes that turned heads. More specifically, the Lost Boys’ heads, which were the only people you really cared about impressing anyway.

Next, Marko insisted on helping you modify your jacket. 

“Am I not allowed in your club until I’m fully customized?” you quipped.

“Something like that.”

They had accumulated heaps of fabrics, buttons, patches, and baubles; paints, spikes, and pins overflowed from their buckets, and they all took turns picking out pretty little charms to add to the chain Marko secured around the homemade epaulets. He embroiders blue feathers down your sleeves, like falling plumage in hues of cornflower, periwinkle, and cerulean. Together you cut up the back and used excess leather and ribbons to cinch it tighter, like a corset, so the once oversized and shapeless form now fit you like a glove. 

There was more. More stolen kisses, more weed, more of that peculiar wine poured in tiny dixie cups. 

“What is this stuff, anyway?” you asked David.

“Blood.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me.” You downed it, savoring its taste. “Whatever it is, you can’t even taste the alcohol.”

Paul would whirl you around the fountain as you jammed to his rock box and still spontaneously burst into bouts of Pretty Woman , or Be My Baby , or My Girl in his own hair-metal way. The boys and Laddie had no sympathy for you, finding it utterly hilarious, especially when you inevitably melted into a pile of sheepish goo.

Dwayne would only save you if you agreed to hop on his skateboard—no, not a euphemism—and let him teach you. The grin on his face when you could finally hold your own without falling was criminal. Just wait until you can do a kick flip, he might cry.

It’s as close to Utopia as you could find in Santa Carla; your very own Neverland. 

You've never felt more different in your life.

You've never felt more yourself than in that cave.

You’re waiting for Laddie to come back with his spinning tops when Marko and Paul slide up beside you, pulling you onto your feet.

“Can I help you?” you ask, half-heartedly struggling against them.

“We were just thinking,” starts Paul.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

He pouts.

Marko doesn’t beat around the bush. “You need to learn how to ride a motorcycle.”

“Ha!” You unwind your arms from theirs. “No.”

But they catch you, weaving their arms around you so you can’t escape. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” says Paul. “Relax, girl.”

“I don’t think road rash is fun.” You rotate your wrist and add, “Or plaster casts.”

“We wouldn’t let you get hurt,” says Marko.

“Like you can prevent that.”

“We happen to be excellent teachers, honey.”

“Ye of little faith,” taunts Paul.

"Look, I've already tried to ride a bike and almost killed myself. So thanks but no thanks."

"Yeah, but that was when Mikey was your teacher," says Paul. He uses your brother's nickname like a slur.

Marko adds, "We've been riding these things since before he was born."

Oh, god. The ego driving pissing contest. "You're not going to let me get out of this, are you?"

Paul shakes his head.

And on they drag you, away from the safety of the cave up the aging wood steps to their rides from hell. It's like marching to your own death.

“Do you guys hate your motorcycles so much that you’ll let me, of all people, drive them?”

“No,” drawls Paul. “We like you so much that we want you to drive our motorcycles."

“What would you do if somethin’ bad went down and we needed help, huh?” asks Marko.

“I’d wait for the bus,” you say dryly. 

Marko slaps the handlebars of a bike. “You’re not getting out of this, honey. Hop on Paul’s bike.”

Paul’s face falls. “My bike?”

“Ha!” You point in Paul's face. “See?! Hang on to that picture of mangled metal. It’s a premonition.”

Marko gives him a look. Paul’s eyebrows shoot up and he gestures toward the bike, but Marko doesn’t let up.

Paul sighs, begrudgingly complying with a tone that could only be describes as child-forced-to-eat-vegetables: “Hop on.”

So much for fear, huh?

You sling your leg over the seat, shifting uncomfortably. It’s got a similar make up to Michael’s Honda, but there are a lot more bells and whistles to contend with. Paul settles in behind you, taking full advantage of the position by scooting as close as possible.

“Hey, sweet thing,” he coos. 

The man's libido is truly something. In ten seconds flat, he forgot all about the very high likelihood of you wrecking his pwecious baby .

Your wring your hands together, too anxious to touch more than you already were. “I don’t know about this, guys. Seriously. Maybe we should wait until it’s daylight, o-or grab someone else. Like Dwayne. Or David.”

Someone who isn’t a certified terror .

“Paulie ain’t gonna let you crash,” says Marko, slapping the handlebars.

The bike jiggles, giving you the opposite of reassurance. 

“I’ll keep you real safe,” Paul assures you.

Oh, joy.

You’re shaking as Paul and Marko instruct you on how to start the bike, but phrases like use the clutchand don't flood the engine mean nothing to you. Paul has to be the one keeping it steady. There’s no other explanation why it didn’t tip over immediately.

Paul lays his hands over yours when you start the engine. His grip is sturdy. In that moment, he's as good as God in your eyes. Or, he would be if you could see him.

He doesn’t force you to go fast, which is a small, merciful, win as you loop around Hundson’s Bluff, the road, and back. The wheels jostle as you go over rocks and uneven terrain, but it takes each turn like a champ.

They make you do about a dozen more loops before Paul forces you to do it by yourself.

With sweaty palms, you jerk into a turn and head back for the road.

It’s … not as bad as you imagined it would be. You gradually take the turns faster, moving from a snail’s pace to a semi-acceptable road speed. 

The two of them whoop and shout like fans at a sporting event, and even you can’t help but laugh. You’re doing it. You’re riding a motorcycle—and you’re not crashing. The landscape blends into varying hues of black and gray, and the constant rumble from the bike is almost soothing.

You come to a shaky stop in front of them, a smile plastered on your face. You’ve barely killed the engine and flipped the kickstand down when Paul surges forward and kisses you. 

“God, that was so sexy!”

“Shouldda brought a camera,” Marko mumbles, biting his thumb. His dark eyes dart over your figure, still straddling the bike. “You’re like a centerfold waiting to happen.”

Paul pinches your chin. “We need less clothes for that.”

You gulp, chest heaving from the exhilaration and something else. You push your hair back and wet your lips, looking between the two of them. “I guess it’s not so bad when you don’t crash. Like flying.”

“Hell yeah,” Paul cheers.

Marko’s grin is razor sharp. “Exciting, yeah?”

“I can’t stop shaking,” you admit. But they were good shakes, tremors of adrenaline, greater than any high their weed could formulate. 

“You look excited,” Marko muses.

You must be made of glass for him to notice your transparency.

Paul stares down at you with those forget-me-not eyes of his, worrying his pretty bottom lip until it’s pink. He’d been no help. It’s partly his fault you’re all wound up in the first place. 

You squirm against the seat, ultra aware of the tingling between your legs. It started as a tickle as the rush of successfully riding a bike thrummed through your veins. Having Paul’s budding erection snug against your ass, and the vibrations from the bike pressed right against your bundle of nerves, motivated your libido to rocket skyhigh. 

“You’re horny, baby?” Paul asks rhetorically.

You swear everything quiets, even the wind, just enough to make your heartbeat thunderous. You don’t mean to grind against Paul’s bike, but when you shift forward it shoots fireworks of pleasure through you.

You glance between them, and step into the deep end. “What are you going to do about it?”

All it takes is a look. Barely a nod. Paul and Marko move in sync, hauling you onto your feet and shoving your leather jacket off. Marko meets your mouth half way. He’s fiery, keeping one hand on your throat while the other pushes your embarrassingly short shorts aside. Paul kisses your jaw, groping your breasts through your shirt, teasing your nipples until they’re stiff.

Marko turns you around, and you finally catch a good look of poor, needy Paul. He’s palming himself through his pants, lips parted, like he’s moments away from kissing you himself.

But Marko doesn’t let that happen. He bends you over the bike, smacking your ass as you go down. You’re eye-level with Paul’s bulge, your middle squished awkwardly against the seat and ass hiked way up. With your shorts pulled to the side, there’s nothing between you and Marko.

“Look at you,” Marko whistles. He sinks a couple of fingers inside your dripping pussy as Paul undoes his pants. “You gonna let Paul and I have our fun now?”

You nod, gasping as he twists his fingers just right. “Yes!”

Paul strokes his shaft with one hand and pets your head with the other. “Be a good girl and lick it, yeah?”

He looks like he really needs it, too. Somehow, even though you’re in the dark with barely even the moon to light your path, you can see him perfectly. His tip is the same pretty pink shade of his lips; a pearl of precum blossoms out of his slit.

You stick your tongue out flat and slowly lap over his head. Paul’s breath hitches, and he eases forward, breaching the tight, wet suction of your mouth as Marko pushes inside you.

You whimper. You hadn’t even noticed Marko’s hand leaving your cunt, it felt like it happened so fast. And now, his cock bullied its way into your hole. It’s thicker than you remember— mean how it stretches you open even though you’re dripping. 

“Oh, fuck,” Marko hisses.

Paul is beyond words, possibly because you can’t stop making noises as you breathe him in. 

Crass as it is, it’s strange being filled at all ends. Yes, they’ve done it before, but you had been so far gone that it seemed like a distant dream. But this is real. This, Paul in your mouth and Marko in your pussy, is grounding. 

And then, they begin to move.

They’re overeager, and if you weren’t as much of a mess you would have made fun of them for how horny they got seeing you on a motorcycle. Yet, knowing you’re the one that riled them up that way is an aphrodisiac on its own.

Marko jerks your clit like it was a toy to be played with as he slams into you, forcing you to take every inch he had to offer. He doesn’t talk much—not like Paul, who talks enough for both of them—but his grunts and groans are sublimely erotic. 

“Doin’ so good, baby, just like that,” Paul mumbles. You bob your head faster, uncaring of the drool seeping from the corners of your mouth. “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this. Looking up at me as you suck on my dick— fu-uck! ”

Marko pulls out abruptly, and tugs you off Paul’s cock by your hair. The absence of him inside aches like a stab wound. You have to arch against Marko to satisfy the pull on your roots, and Marko takes advantage by kissing your cheek.

“Straddle the bike, honey,” he orders. 

Clumsily, you swing your leg back over Paul’s bike, but a sharp jerk on your hair keeps you from sitting.

“Marko!” you whine.

“Almost, honey.” Marko kisses his teeth. “You wanna shake? I can give you something to shake about. It’ll be the best ride you’ve ever had.”

Paul turns your head and kisses you as Marko’s fingers probe your needy pussy. He rolls your clit, starting slow then building up speed as Paul’s hand slides over the globes of your ass. Paul reaches your cunt from behind and pushes two fingers inside.

It’s the strangest sensation, more so than their cocks. Two hands, completely disconnected from each other, different sizes, different shapes; and yet they come together to build a matching, punishing pace.

It’s too much.

You break free of Paul’s kiss with a gasp. You’ve never been drawn to watching yourself be gratified, and yet you can’t look away from their hands as they undulate under your shorts. Open mouthed and glassy eyed, you sob. Your knees quake, threatening to buckle and send you crashing onto the seat of the bike.

“W-Wait, I feel—” Indescribable. The sensation is unlike any orgasm build up you’ve experienced prior. You’re not even sure it is an orgasm. It feels wrong, a rising tsunami as opposed to a crashing wave. “S-Sto—ah—it’s—!”

They don’t stop. Paul’s fingers hit just the right angle as Marko rubs your clit, and you climax so hard your vision goes white. Something gushes out of you, and for a couple of horrified moments—once you’re actually coherent—you’re positive you’ve pissed yourself. 

You expect disgust. You don’t expect to see Marko beaming. 

“Oh, fuck,” Paul moans. “Squirted all over my bike, didn’t you baby? Such a good fucking girl.”

You don’t have the time, or the ability, to ask what that means. Marko rips you off Paul’s bike and shoves you backward, onto another. You land like a ragdoll, limp-limbed and bobble-headed; too disoriented to see straight. The kickstand groans, but the bike doesn’t tip. 

Luckily, Paul appears behind you, being the solid wall that keeps you from dropping over the edge of the cliff. Marko hikes your knees to your chest.

Marko enters you with a low, drawn out fuuuck . You gasp, clutching his jacket. He reminds you of an ancient statue in all his ecstasy, head tipped toward the gods, curls cascading down his shoulder, his back. He might as well be carved from marble.

You reach behind you and take Paul’s cock, fervently stroking him as Marko pummels your pussy. 

They take turns kissing you. Marko first, all tongue and teeth, then Paul, who uses your mouth as a confessional. He mutters fragmented, sinful words that slur and break whenever your thumb teases his slit. Marko butts in again, and you can feel how close he is. His thrusts are sloppy, his breathing ragged.

Paul rests his head on Marko’s shoulder and watches the lurid scene between your legs.

Marko cums with a grunt, sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck. You yelp. The twinge of pain burns, but Paul is quick to kiss you, distracting you from the pain. Marko must have drawn blood because he soothes his tongue over the divots as something wet dribbles down your clavicle.

" Oh ," you moan. That pleasurable pain threatens to do you in a second time; you're already so thoroughly fucked and wound up that a little bit of agony goes a long way. 

It fuels a second wind. You twist onto your belly, laying across Marko's bike so you're down in front of Paul, and you swallow his length. It's akin to being drunk, that belligerent sensation of invincibility and craving . Paul is weak from skirting the brink for this long, it doesn't take much to force him over the edge. Paul's breath hitches, too far gone to even whimper before he floods your mouth with his cum.

“Aw, look at you. You take cock so well,” Marko croons. He pushes your head further down Paul’s shaft. “You’re gonna swallow it all, right? Since you’re so hungry for it?”

You gulp it down and stare at Paul through your lashes. Tears of pleasure stream down your face. 

“Fuckin’ hell, dude,” Paul groans when he's capable of human speech again. 

Marko relents and you drag yourself off Paul's cock with a cough. You're hypersensitive to the strain in your body, now. You sag against Marko's bike, and Marko embraces you.

“Need a shower,” you grumble. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Feel like a used sock.”

“What?" Marko snickers.

"Like a cum—never mind."

You're too tired to explain yourself.

“Oh, fuck, gimme a minute, man.” Paul runs his hand over his face. “Jesus.”

Paul grumbles something along the lines of having his life sucked out of his penis, but it's mostly gibberish. Marko noses your temple, rubbing soothing circles against your hips until you come back to yourself.

You pull your shorts back into place, cringing as the wet slip of denim grazes your pussy.

“I’m have to throw these away,” you lament. They were one of your favorites, too. Homemade from an old pair of your mother's and ultra soft from years of use. Damn. 

“Why don’t you take ‘em off," Marko murmurs. "Then we can really get that centerfold look we were talking about.”

You’ve never had a better bath in your life. Sure, the water is lukewarm—the boys siphoned hot water off someone else’s tank since the hotel didn’t have power—and you don't have nearly enough bubbles to make it fun, but the tub is massive. A porcelain clawfoot monstrosity that probably cost a small fortune in today’s money, much like all the other antiques junking up the Lost Boys' cave.

It takes a while to get fully clean, and you guiltily stole some of Star’s hair products. (You absolutely needed a head-to-toe wash after your time with the guys.) But with every layer of grime, you are made anew. 

When all is said and done, exhaustion seeps into your pores. You're tempted to fall asleep in the water just like that, but you've survived a motorcycle tonight. You're not about to be taken out by a little bit of liquid.

Through the twisting hallways of the cave, you wander back to your bedroom with nothing but a single candle to light the way. Your eyelids droop and brain tingles with the allure of unconsciousness. A sweet, tv-snow like fuzz hazes over most coherent thoughts. It's a miracle you make it without passing out.

Dwayne lays in your bed, one arm behind his head, the other propping Pirate up against his stomach. He glances at you.

You must look truly ran through, because he says, “I can go."

“Please don’t.” You drape your robe and hair towel over the banister and climb into bed. “I ... I'd like it if you stayed.”

Dwayne nods, shifting around the sheets to make room for you. The bed is big enough for you both, and then some, so it wasn't necessary. Still, it's sweet . You settle beside him, mindful of your glasses as you lay. You've never noticed how dark his irises were. If someone had taken the entire night sky, bottled it, and squeezed them into two teaspoons, it still wasn't as black and fathomless as Dwayne's eyes. They're an abyss you could fall into, drift away, and never worry about anything ever again. You study his cheeks, his jaw, all the way down to the curve of his shoulder.

"You sure you don't wanna sleep?" he asks.

"Eventually. I'll try not to when you're here."

Dwayne makes a face. "Wouldn't mind if you did."

You hum and drag your finger over his collarbone. “How’s the bite?”

“Huh?”

Remembering it makes you want to spontaneously combust. You peel his leather jacket off one shoulder, observing more of him. “I thought I drew blood. Wanted to see how bad it really was.”

But the only thing on Dwayne’s neck were a couple of well-hidden freckles that you had to squint to see in the candle light. Everything else was smooth. Unfairly unblemished for someone his age.

“See? Nothin’ to worry about.”

“But, I swore I…” You shake your head, stroking his skin. “I guess I was pretty messed up. I’m glad I didn’t hurt you.”

“Not possible,” says Dwayne. He kisses the tips of your fingers, wearing that handsome almost-smile of his. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “Paul and Marko made me practice riding.”

“And you live to tell the tale. Proud of you.”

“Guess it’s not too bad when I have a real teacher.” You remove your glasses and plop them on the bedside table. “Or two."

"I can teach you. If you want." He coils a strand of your hair around his finger. "Some other time."

"I might like that."

His eyebrows twitch inward. "You sure you didn't hit your head?"

"Now that you mention it..."

Dwayne chortles. His chest rumbles warmly. "I'll start looking for parts."

"For what?"

"Your new bike," he says simply.

"You're hilarious," you deadpan. "It'll be a long time before I even think about something like that. I'm leaning toward 'never.'"

Dwayne hums, unimpressed.

"No, but ..." You snuggle closer and pick at your lip. "They were less intense than I thought they’d be. It was kinda fun.” 

“Surprised they didn’t keep you out there longer.”

You cringe. “You heard?”

“A little.”

Groaning, you scrunch your eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay.”

“I swear—I’m not usually like this."

“Even if you were, we wouldn’t care.”

You’re grateful that you can’t see him all that well, so even if a modicum of judgment lingered somewhere in his expression, you didn’t notice. “I don’t know what it is about you guys. You make me feel …”

“Weird?”

“Happy,” you correct. “Which is very weird in a ... kismet way. Like I don't need to try with you.”

“Who says it’s not?”

“Logic. Reality .”

"Two highly subjective things," Dwayne philosophizes. "Why can't it just be what it is? Easy."

You wrinkle your nose. You could make several self deprecating jokes about being easy, but you don't think Dwayne wants to hear that. Besides, things that are too easy are always suspect. 

"Thanks, by the way," you say, "for not being a total jerk."

Dwayne unspools the curl from around his finger. "Still a part of me that is, though?"

You fidget with the hem of your oversized shirt. “Well ... the Max part."

The air in the room thickens. Dwayne takes a measured breath. “David said you put it together.”

His acknowledgement opens the floodgates.

“How…? I mean, why…? Not that you guys don’t live in a sick place, but if Max is your guardian…?”

Dwayne quietly shrugs, turning his attention to the cheap stuffed animal on his abs. “It’s complicated.” 

That sinking feeling returns. They’re not telling you something—and you’ve only asked David and Dwayne about it. Marko would likely close ranks too, but Paul …

No. Even he has enough sense not to spill his guts, especially if the others get to him first. 

“Is he a good guy?” you ask. Dwayne drops Pirate’s arm. “At least give me that. My mom is involved with him. She doesn’t need another shitty man ruining her life.”

“Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean …” Dwayne trails off. “We chose to walk away, alright? He didn’t force us out or beat us or anything. ‘S a matter of differing opinions.” 

You sigh. Even if you push, you doubt Dwayne will give you more than he had.

“And it’s not weird to you? All of this?”

“No." He doesn't even pause. 

A man of few words. You suppose that’s all you would get out of him on the subject. You sigh again and lean your head against his chest. Dwayne pulls you closer, and rests his hand on your hip. 

“I have something for you,” he says after a long pause. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws something small and circular. It rattles pleasantly. It’s a bracelet of small, smooth crystals.

You graze your fingers over it. “Jasper?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

He fastens it around your wrist. “You like it?”

“I love it.” Tilting your head to the side, you kiss Dwayne. His lips are soft and welcoming, and you loath to pull away, but you do. “Thank you.”

Dwayne’s adam’s apple bobs. “If you could do this forever, would you?”

“Kiss you?” You grin.

He nudges his nose against yours. “That. Everything. Be here. With us.” 

“All four of you?”

He nods.

Humming, you say, “I don’t know. We have to get serious eventually. Grow up. Get jobs and pay taxes and make investments and worry about gas prices.” Dwayne pokes your ribs and you burst into laughter. “That’s how it goes! You guys will get sick of me eventually.”

“Not a chance, beautiful,” says Dwayne. “When we like something, we hold onto it for a very long time.”

“A very long time isn’t forever.”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet.” Dwayne adds, “But would you? If you didn’t need to grow up?”

Your mouth twitches, and you trail your fingers over his chest. If you try hard enough, you can picture it. It’s one of those fantasies you should keep to yourself, one that most adults would call a flight of fancy. Everyone grew up. But there is a time when everyone thinks of themselves as young, dumb, and immortal. You can see that. It’s a little cloudy, in a haze of smoke and premarital sex that would make the average American clutch their pearls, but it’s there: your endless night. 

“I would stay as long as you wanted,” you say. 

Dwayne embraces you, pulling you fully onto his chest. “Forever it is, then.”

You laugh, squirming as Dwayne prods your ribs again. The tussle ends with you on your back and him overtop. His long, black hair cascades around your face like a curtain. 

“I would like to go back to the kissing bit,” you say quietly. 

“So would I.”

Dwayne closes the distance between you. Kissing him is better than before, especially with his weight pressed solidly against you. 

“Dwayne,” you whisper. 

“You got all clean. Not gonna make you dirty again.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

His lips caress yours, tongue flirting with the seam of your mouth, and yet you can't focus on a damn thing other than his bulge. 

"You're hard," you say into the kiss.

Dwayne rolls his hips against yours, not denying the accusation in the slightest. What a barbaric way to taunt you. Despite your earlier exhaustion, every atom inside you perked up, eagerly anticipating what could come. 

Yet, Dwayne doesn't push your sleep shirt aside. He doesn't slide your panties aside. Doesn't even move to unbutton his jeans. 

But he does flip you both over, forcing you on top of him. Dwayne slides his hand over your ass and grips it. “I don’t need to be inside you to feel good.”

He parts your thighs just wide enough to press his thigh against your sex. 

“Use this for me, yeah?”

"W-What?"

"You know what to do," he assures you.

The brick of muscle snug against your clit taunts you like a punishment fit for Tartarus. The pressure is just right and simultaneously too far, too soft. Not enough. It creates a delicious form of agony, one where you try to buck your hips fast, but Dwayne holds you too tight, forcing you to go at his pace: languid .

"That's it," he says. "Hump my thigh, beautiful."

Rude, awful, horrible man!

You try to speed up again, only for Dwayne to foil the plot by stilling your pelvis. "Not fair," you grunt through gritted teeth. 

"Plenty fair. You're doing so good." He pulls you higher up his body. His hipbone caresses your swollen nub to your unfettered delight. He drags you, up and down, round and round, over the ridge of bone. "Just like that."

But chasing a high at this speed is like a dog chasing a car: so close yet so far. 

Dwayne undulates with you. He drags his cock over your thigh, and moans when the friction gets to him.

Then, you break. It's not a satisfying climax; it hurts. Your clit is too puffy, too overused, and the cotton of your underwear rubs it raw. Your pussy flutters around nothing—yearning for something —that it will not get. Still, it's pleasure. Unwanted, paltry pleasure and if you had the energy you would have torn Dwyane's pants right off and did the job yourself.

And yet, he might have been on to something. 

Overworked, you wither and practically collapse against Dwayne, utterly spent. You've been running on fumes for hours.

"That's it. You did perfect." He catches you under your arms and readjusts himself so your head rests comfortably against his sternum. "Knew you were tired."

"You didn't ..." you trail off. 

"Shush," he admonishes. "You can make it up to me some other time."

"Dwayne."

"Go to sleep."

You're halfway there without realizing it. You don't even realize you're nodding off until Dwayne shifts his weight, and you jerk awake. "Please stay."

"Not goin' anywhere," he says, and pulls the sheet over you. 

A hand covers your mouth. You jolt awake, a scream half-formed in your throat, but before it's born—

“Shhh!"

—an unfamiliar voice shushes you.

Panic subsides like a slow, creeping slug and your eyes adjust to the dark.

Dwayne is still sound asleep beside you, and though she's blurry, you recognize her silhouette.

Star messily slides your glasses into place, smudging the lens in the process, and you clamor to fix the arms over your ears. She holds a finger to her lips and removes her hand from your mouth. You exhale, no longer scared, but not exactly sure you shouldn't scream. After all, who barges in on someone like this?

Come with me, she mouths. Frowning, you obey.

The main cave is just as dark as your bedroom; none of the bonfires had been lit, and none of the boys seemed to be around yet. Like this, it's eerie. The shadows have eyes and long spindly fingers. Her heart leaps into your throat.

“We have to get you out of here,” Star breathes, “Michael—your whole family—they’re worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” you say. "They know where I am."

Maybe not what you're doing, but certainly where you are. 

“No they don’t.” 

Star thrusts piece of paper into your hands. It's unevenly folded, and you raise an eyebrow. When it's open, you recognize the black and white Xerox is a picture from last summer. Michael and Sam's faces are cropped out, but you see their hair and bits of their dimpled cheeks. There's a heading in big, bold letters.

MISSING, it reads, LAST SEEN AUGUST 13th, 1987. 

Below that, IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL THE SANTA CARLA POLICE OR THE NUMBER BELOW.

It's not a new paper. It's weathered and creased, like someone had been compulsively folding and unfolding it. The top is ripped from a staple. 

“I don’t understand,” you stammer.

“You’ve been gone for a week,” says Star.

You step back. “No ... No, that’s impossible.” 

“Please, you have to come now, I need you to trust me. You are in danger.”

“Is this a prank?” you ask. You clutch the missing flyer between trembling fingers. “Because I don’t think it’s funny, Star.”

Star reaches for you, like she thought she could somehow drag you out of the cave, but you jerk away. Star’s face falls, her urgency fading into a glassy-eyed horror. 

“You drank it, didn’t you?”

“Drank what?”

She winces and turns around, pacing the floor. Her voice cracks when she says your name. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about Star?”

“I can’t tell you, I don’t know how.” She sniffs, fisting her hair. “It’s all my fault. I should have told Michael sooner but I thought they’d kill him.”

“Who?” You shake your head. “You’re not making sense?”

“Star.”

You nearly scream for a second time. 

David stands by the fountain. Dwayne and Paul aren’t far behind him. Marko stands at the mouth of the cave, jaw clenched. You hadn’t noticed any of them come in. 

Star’s voice is thick as she whispers, “What have you done?”

“That’s enough, Star.” It’s a warning. The ferocity in his icy-blue eyes scares you. 

You press the missing flyer to your chest, inching away from both of them. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”

But David isn’t looking at you. His nostrils flare, aiming every iota of vitriol at Star. It terrifies you. This look that you’ve never seen before, this unadulterated, animalistic rage and fear. Star shrivels under his glare, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“David?” you whisper.

He blinks, glances at the ground, then back at Star. “Take Laddie to get something to eat.”

“David,” you say again.

“I want to talk to her alone,” David says.

“I made the mistake of leaving once,” Star starts, moving forward so she shields you from David. She balls her hands into fists, and you want to laugh at the absurdity of all of it. 

“And what more could we possibly do?” His impatience seeps into his tone, but so does a twinge of desperation. Star holds his gaze. Her mouth trembles. David sighs. “Just go. Tell Michael to come to the Boardwalk.”

It's the desperation that gives you pause. Star, too. She hesitates, and her hands uncurl, hanging limply at her side. Laddie pops his head out of the lacy curtains surrounding Star's head, apparently done pretending that he wasn't listening. He rushes past you to Star and clutches her skirt.

"Fine," she says. Star lays a on Laddie's back and guides him out of the cave. You feel her look back in your periphery, but you can't look away from David. 

Why is it that whenever you think you've unearthed the last secret from him, another pops out?

No, you won't let him weasel out of it. David starts to turn away from you but you bound after him. 

“Did you know about this?” you ask weakly, thrusting the flyer into his chest. 

David’s expression is impenetrable. He doesn't even look at the paper. “Yes.”

You release the breath you didn't know you were holding and drop your hand. David catches the flyer. Your grainy, toothy grin stares back at you with pity.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask. “I couldn't have been— that long? I thought—if I had known, I would have …”

David interrupts your stammering. “You were happy.”

“My mother thinks I ran away.”

“They would have learned the truth soon enough.”

“For once, can you please not talk in riddles!” you shout. “Why did Star wake me up to tell me I’m in danger?! What is going on?”

David carefully folds your missing flyer into fourths, taking his time to smooth out each crease before sticking it in his coat pocket. “And if I said it was nothing?”

“I’d leave,” you say.

The words ring through the cave. 

A vein in David's neck throbs. He sniffs. Nods.  Won't look up from the ground. "Fine. You'd learn the truth soon enough."

[httpxelysian11]

PAIRINGS. male!reader x afab!character

18+! MDNI 👍🖤

WARNINGS. Obsessive behavior/yandere!reader. Stalking. Implied non-con. Implied murder. Dub-con.

A/N. this was a written for my bf! first post! Not proof read :/

She lay sprawled across her bed, clad in nothing but a t-shirt and panties, her hair fanned out over the pillow like spilled ink. Soft music hummed in her ears as she scribbled in her journal, its spine pressed against her bare thighs. Rain tapped on the rooftop, restless and loud, that streaked down her windows. It was cold for a summer day—the sky covered in shadows, draining the last traces of warmth.

I watched from across the street, rain soaking me to the bone, but I didn’t feel it. I only saw her. The goosebumps crawling up her legs. The way she bobbed her head to the music. The way her shirt had ridden up, baring the curve of her stomach, the softness of her thighs.

I could warm her, if she’d just let me near. Let me in.

I raised my camera and took a picture. A keepsake. A moment stolen from a world that didn’t yet understand we belonged to each other. How long must I wait to claim what’s already mine?

My love for her burns hotter than any star. If the sun were to die tomorrow, I could reignite it with what I feel. Why doesn’t she see that?

I slipped the camera away and reached into my jacket for the small box. Quietly, I circled to her porch, set it down gently, then knocked—three sharp raps—and disappeared into the shadows before the echoes faded.

The street was still, empty. Rain poured harder now, but I walked on, alone. How much longer can I keep this desire caged?

Then, in the distance—a scream. Sharp. Terrified. Beautiful. I smiled as I pulled out my phone and began to type.

“I hope you enjoy the gift. Maybe men will think twice before complimenting what’s mine, for the price they pay is their tongue.” ~(…)

Her scream still echoed in my ears as I walked beneath the streetlights. A sound like that can’t be faked. Raw. Honest. Pure.

I smiled wider, tucking the phone away. A chill clung to my soaked clothes, but I didn’t feel it. I was burning from the inside.

She knew now. She felt me now. All the distance, all the silence—wasted months of pretending I wasn’t there. But she heard me now, didn’t she? She saw what I was willing to do. What I would do. And that was just the beginning….

I took the long way home. My sanctuary. My altar. The room was exactly how I left it—walls covered in photos, clippings, scraps of her. Her laughter frozen in time. Her tired eyes. Her thighs when she thought no one was looking. Her beautiful breasts, naked body as she changed. Each one, a piece of her soul she unknowingly gave me.

I walked past them slowly, letting my fingers brush the edges of each photo. It was different now. Now that she knew.

Love isn’t born in dinners and small talk. That’s what weak men do. She didn’t need to hear about my day. She needed to feel me.

I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. She was awake now, too—I could feel it.

By morning, I had the next box packed. This one wouldn’t make her scream. Not exactly. It would confuse her. Disarm her. A necklace she wore in a picture six months ago. Stolen from her apartment. She wouldn’t even know it was gone until now. I cleaned it. Polished it. Nestled it in white velvet. Beside it, a single Polaroid—her, two nights ago, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. Shirt loose, thighs bare. A moment she let hang just a little too long.

I tucked a note inside:

“You’ve always looked better with your hair down. Wear the necklace. I want you to look perfect for me next time.” ~(…)

This time, I wouldn’t leave it on the porch.

She forgot to re-lock her window. Third floor, back side. She thinks it makes her safe.

It doesn’t.

I slid inside like a shadow. Her scent clung to everything. I stood there in the dark, listening to her breathing through the bedroom wall. I didn’t go in…Not yet.

Just left the box on the kitchen counter. Right where she’d find it. Then I left.

I didn’t bring a gift this time.

Tonight wasn’t about gifts or teasing. Tonight was about us. About the way the air thickens when I’m near her. About seeing her chest rise and fall in real time—not in photographs.

I was done watching, so I waited until the lights went out.

It’s darker than usual. No flickering TV, no low music. Just the soft hum of her old fan rotating in the bedroom.

I pass through quietly. The furniture doesn’t creak beneath me anymore—it knows me.

The hallway is long. Each step feels like a countdown. Her bedroom door is barely ajar. I stop, watching her from the gap.

She’s lying on her side. Legs pulled up slightly. A t-shirt, nothing else. One arm tucked under the pillow. The sheets barely cover her thighs.

The necklace is there—mine. She wore it.

My chest tightens.

Is she wearing it for me?

I push the door open a fraction more.

She doesn’t move so I step inside. Still—nothing. I reach the edge of the bed and kneel, slowly. My fingers hover just above the sheet near her knee. I don’t touch…Not yet. I study her skin—goosebumps rising from the cold. The fan clicks as it turns. Her breath catches—soft, almost silent.

I trace a finger up the outside of her thigh. Just once. Light as air. She twitches. A subtle shift. Her legs press tighter together. Her hand moves beneath the pillow—slowly, instinctively.

Still not a word. Still not a sound..But she hasn’t told me to stop.

I lean in, close enough that my breath brushes the back of her neck. She smells like orange soap and sage.

My voice barely leaves my throat, “You left the window open again.”

A long pause. No reply. I wait. Then: the smallest movement. She shifts her weight. Her spine arches just slightly beneath the shirt. Barely enough to notice—unless you know her like I do.

I slide my hand beneath the sheet and wrap my fingers gently around her wrist. No resistance. No return. Just silence. I don’t know if it’s permission…but it’s not rejection either.

I stay still, my hand wrapped around her wrist beneath the sheet. Her skin is warm, her pulse steady. I could crush it, I think. But I don’t. I feel the slightest tension in her muscles—not pulling away, not leaning in. Just waiting. I lean closer. Her hair is brushed to one side, revealing the soft curve of her neck. My breath ghosts over it, and I feel her exhale—slow and deliberate, like someone trying not to give too much away. Does she dream of me like I do her?

I release her wrist, gently. Her hand doesn’t move. Her body stays perfectly still.

I reach up and touch the silver chain around her neck—the one I gave her, the one she’s only worn a few times before.

She wore it.

That could mean anything. Or everything.

I whisper, “Why did you wear it?” No answer.

I slide my palm along the curve of her waist, her shirt riding up just slightly. She still doesn’t turn. But her breath—her breath shudders.

Maybe she’s mine already.

My lips are close to her ear now. “I’ve always been with you. Every night. Every time you left the light on. Every time you opened the curtain instead of closing it. I watched.”

“I watch you every night,” I whisper against her hair, my lips barely grazing it. “You’re so predictable. So perfect. The way you brush your hair, the way you bite your lip when you read, the way you tuck your leg under when you write in your journal.” My hand slides lower, slow, tracing the outside of her thigh. “You always wear these. These little panties. Like you want me to see. Like you know I’m watching.”

I pause. Listen. Nothing. But I can feel her body heating under my touch.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” I murmur. “How many nights I’ve stood behind that glass, begging myself not to come in?” I lean in closer, nose grazing the back of her neck. “I was good for so long. I waited. I left you little pieces. I warned them. Every man who looked at you, who smiled like he had a right.”

I smile to myself. “They won’t anymore.”

My hand slides beneath the hem of her shirt, fingers splayed across her bare stomach. She’s trembling. Just slightly. I press my lips to her shoulder.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you. Ever. I want to ruin you for anyone who tries. I want to be under your skin. Inside your head. In your blood.” My fingertips brush the waistband of her panties. I don’t move further—just rest there. “You’re mine,” I breathe. “You always were. You just didn’t realize it.” I pull her body closer, molding mine to her from behind, lips still at her shoulder, fingers still just holding. “And if you ever try to leave me… I’ll follow. I’ll find you. Again and again. Until you finally understand there’s nowhere you can go where I’m not already waiting.”

My hand glides down, bold now, fingers slipping beneath the band of her panties. She’s warm. Soft. Her body twitches under my touch, just once. Not away—just reacting. My mouth finds the nape of her neck, open now, hungry. I press my lips there, slow and deliberate. Breathing her in like something sacred. I feel her body draw in a breath and hold it. “Shh shh… it’s okay darling.” I press my growing erection into her ass, growling softly.

“You feel that?” I whisper, voice low. “This is what you do to me. Every time you walk past. Every time you lie here like this, curtains open, body begging to be seen.”

I slowly press my fingers against her budding clit, gently as I grind against her. I leave soft kisses across her neck as I let out quiet groans, my desire building up, bound to explode any moment. “I’d burn down everything for you,” I murmur, teeth grazing her shoulder. “I’d ruin anyone who lays eyes on you. I’ve done it already. You just don’t know how far I’ve gone.”

I undo my pants, slipping my erect cock through the opening and pushing her panties to the side. I slowly run my tip across her folds, pushing barely against her cunt. “My god, so wet for me..” I grunt as I feel her arousal spread across the head of my cock, gripping onto her tighter. Her body breathes under my hand—slow and measured, as if she’s holding herself still just for me. Each second she remains silent, every twitch of her muscles beneath my palm, feeds something terrible and beautiful in me.

The storm outside is dying, but something wilder is building inside me. A need I’ve buried too long. A craving I’ve fed only with distance and glass. Now I have her. Close. Warm. Unresisting.

And the pressure inside me fractures.

I let out a near animalistic growl as I push into her cunt, her wet, gummy walls suffocating my cock. I bite her neck gently as I begin to rock my hips back and forth, the lewd squelching of her wet cunt and my groans are the only sound in the room. I feel her walls clench around me as she begins to let out quiet little sounds. I fuck her slowly, deeply. "Is this what you want?" I murmur against her ear. "My cock filling your tight little pussy?" I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer, tighter. My body moved with a primal urgency, each thrust a desperate plea answered, as I quickened the pace. The craving for her was all-consuming. Her hands grip the sheets as she arches her back, pushing her hips against mine. Her breathing becomes ragged, her moans louder. I can feel her body tensing, her muscles tightening. “Fuck baby…even in your subconscious you desire me..so why do you deny me?” I continue to rub her clit as I thrust into her, feeling her walls tighten around me even more. She's so wet, so hot, so tight. It's almost too much to bear. But I want more. I want to feel her come undone around me. I want to feel her shatter into a thousand pieces. I want her to feel what I feel.

I begin to lose control, starting to pound into her relentlessly. I let out deep moans, pushing myself into her, her cunt sucking me in.

She stirs slightly as her eyes flutter open and her moans begin to turn into squeals. I use my free hand to reach up and cover her mouth. “Shhh baby.” Her eyes widen as she pushes back against me, her walls still fluttering around my cock. “Take it like a good girl.” She falls back into me, as I push myself against her body, holding her in place. “I’ve been so so good for you.. now it’s your turn to be good for me.”

I moan into her ear, feeling myself get closer to my climax, my entire body on fire. “Fuck..! Do you feel me baby?” I push myself harder and faster into her, chasing my release. “I don’t want to love you gently. I want to sink so deep into your life that you can’t tell where I end and you begin.”

I uncover her mouth enough to grab her face and pull her vision towards me. “Look at me while I fuck you.” I become desperate and leave sloppy kisses against her lips, feeling her tremble beneath me. “Say my name. Not because you have to—but because you know I’m the only one who’d burn for you like this.” She whispers my name in a quiet moan, her eyes welling with tears as I feel her juices running down my cock. I kiss her harder with a passion hotter than a thousand suns. “You don’t realize it yet, but your body already knows me. It reacts before you speak. Before you think. That’s not fear—it’s recognition.” She whimpers quietly, a single word leaving her lips before she cums all over my cock, her walls gripping me tightly.

I moan out her name, holding her so tightly I think I might crush her, painting her walls with my cum. Buried so deep in her, I let her cunt suck in each last drop, leaving soft kisses on her neck and shoulder. I stay inside her and wrap my leg over hers, keeping her close as I rub small circles on her hip. “You were mine before you even knew it...”

She’s silent for a few seconds, before a soft whisper is leaving her lips, “I’m yours…” I smile contentedly as I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, the raging desire satiated within me.

[neochan]

DESIRE (M) — PART ONE

he wants you. you want jeno. desire is a jealous little thing, isn't it y/n?

PAIRING. slytherin!haechan x hufflepuff!reader ft. gryffindor!jeno

WC. 12.1k

GENRE. harry potter au!, smut

WARNINGS. cursing, drinking, depictions of breaking a bone, solo male smut, haechan is sort of a perv in one (1) scene, oral male receiving, just really sloppy head <3, haechan does fuck someone in detail and he's mean abt it, but it's not y/n (oops spoiler of sorts), blonde!haechan, he's not a good person, so don't expect him to be. he's a big ole meanie with a longtime crush on reader.

A.N. this has been in the drafts for like three years. i want it out, so i'm splitting it into two parts :)

The Mirror of Erised - The mirror shows the most desperate desire of a person's heart, a vision that has been known to drive men mad.

He loves you.

But he fucking hates it.

First year he was holding hands with you, sitting next to your huddled body on the train, and later sharing a meal in the great hall. Second year he saw you clinging onto him as he flew you over the quidditch field. Third year he watched the both of you sneak out to explore the restricted section in the library and run around the castle late at night. Fourth year he saw you in a beautiful dress as he took you to the yule ball. Fifth year he was kissing you on the astronomy tower. Sixth year you went down on him, and all he could do was watch and pretend that his hand was your mouth.

Now it’s seventh year.

Though the actions changed, it was always you he saw in the mirror, and he fucking hated it. Ever since first year, when all he knew was that you were cute and funny, there you were, taunting and teasing him in that godforsaken mirror.

And yet, he always comes back to sit and watch. 

Just like tonight.

The train only arrived an hour ago, but instead of filing into the great hall to see which house the first years would be sorted into, he’s sitting on the floor in the room of requirement, back against a dusty chest of drawers, and eyes narrowed down to slits as he watches the scene unfold in the mirror before him.

It always starts with you appearing out of thin air. You’re wearing your house colors – a small grey skirt, barely covering the swell of your ass and a yellow button up. You’re rid of the required tie, but only for a second, only until Haechan shows up to stand behind you in the mirror with it stretched between his fists.

He shifts in his place on the ground. It wasn’t real, but lord have mercy, he wished it were.

In the mirror he watches himself loop the tie around your wrists, which were set behind your back. You were so beautiful, smiling up at him with those luminous eyes, and your lips parted in a sinful smile.

Under his robes, his hand inches across the flat of his stomach, towards the growing bulge in his pants. It was becoming hotter in the room, almost stifling, but if someone were to come in, he couldn’t be caught half naked. He’d have to get by fully clothed. 

God, he despised the way you made him feel; so desperate for any sort of friction, anything to help relieve himself of the aching lust he felt in the pit of his stomach.

When his reflection is done tying your wrists together, a desk appears. He recognizes it as the one from potions class. His mouth drops open in an O as he watches himself back you up, so you were sandwiched between the desk and his broad chest.

His hand disappears under your skirt, and he could only imagine what his reflection was doing. Could only imagine how good you probably felt clenching around his fingers, gasping at his touch. Feeling pleasure because of him.

Your body arches against his, head dropping down to rest on his shoulder. He watches his lips move against your ear, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Biggest fucking curse of the century.

Stupid mirror should come with speakers, he thinks.

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep his composure, skin slick with sweat, and hands buzzing with the temptation to touch himself.

Fuck you, y/l/n

He watches as his mirror persona spins you around and pushes you flat against the desk, yanking your skirt up around your waist to bare your glistening pussy.

It’s never been this explicit, and he can’t help himself. Tentative fingers wrap around his cock. He throws his head back and hisses between his teeth; it felt too fucking good. His eyes snap open. There was no way he was going to miss the rest of the show, not when it was just getting good.

In the mirror, his cock replaces his fingers. He watches himself inch his way into you slowly. Watches your mouth loll open, eyes glazed over. You were already fucked out and he had barely started.

Haechans hands stroke himself under his robes as he watches the scene in front of him. He was having a hard time keeping his hips still, bucking up into his fist. He softly groans to himself when he sees his reflection grab your tied hands and pull back, fucking himself into you faster.

It was so unfair, so embarrassing, that he had to resort to getting off in front of a mirror displaying his deepest fantasy. It was so unfair that it was always you.

So Haechan sits there, watching the mirrored version of himself completely ruin you, while trying to pretend that his hand is your dripping cunt. He sits there thinking of all the things he would do to you if you would give him the time of day.

Fuck you y/n.

The first years had already been sorted by the time he arrived. In fact, dinner was almost over.

He makes his way to the Slytherin table where his friends were loudly joking. Renjun was the first to notice when he sat down and slides him a half-eaten piece of pie.

“Where were you?”

Through a mouthful of blueberry pie, Haechan acknowledges him, “I had to take care of some things.”

He shuts the discussion down quick. No need for them to know he shoved in a dusty room with his cock in his fist, and his mind full of you.

Speaking of which...

His eyes scan the great hall till he sees you sitting with your roommates, Jihyo and Mina. He almost chokes on the next bite when he realizes you were wearing the same outfit you had on in the mirror.

“Fucking hell man, don’t die,” Chenle slides him a glass of water, “We thought we were gonna have to sneak you some food back to the dorms.”

He gulps down the water and taps the glass with his ring clad pointer finger, automatically refilling it. The silver metal makes a tink sound against the glass. “Well, like I said, I had some things to take care of.”

Why the fuck did his friends have to be so damn nosy. A guy couldn't disappear for an hour?

“And was Y/N one of those things?” Chenle snorts.

The rest of the table bursts into laughter, louder than the entire great hall combined, and it makes you peek your head in their direction. Haechan drops his gaze away from you, grabs a stray spoon and chucks it at Chenle, hitting him square in the chest, “Shut up.”

“Dude, we all know you've been sweet on her since, what, first year?” Renjun snickers.

Chenle wipes the gunk that splattered off the spoon from his robes, ‘Yeah, we’re not blind man. I mean, she might be, but not us.”

"Sweet on her? What the fuck is this Renjun, the nineteen-fifties?" Haechan doesn't do anything but scowl. He hates how his friends knew. Hell, pretty much all Slytherins that knew him, knew.

His eyes flick up and catch yours. A soft smile forms on your lips, and he returns it. He hand twitched up for a wave, but Jeno, the infamous Gryffindor Seeker, sits beside you and steals your attention away.

“Ah look, now you’re too late.”

“Could’ve had a chance dude.”

Haechan turns to his friends and gives them a death stare, “Next word out of you guys and I’m gonna stuff the rest of this pie down your fucking throats.”

With a roll of their eyes, they turn their heads and start to talk amongst themselves about the new school year. Haechan can’t immerse himself in such conversation. His attention is pointed solely on you and the kiss ass that was Lee Jeno.

One of his arms sat slung around your shoulders, his face dangerously close to yours, but for some reason, you weren’t pushing him away, you were laughing.

Why weren’t you pushing him away?

Something in Haechan snaps when he watches Jeno lean his forehead against yours, both of you sharing wide smiles. It’s as if his heart was set on fire, the heat threading itself through his body and taking home in his hands. Oh, how he wanted to go punch that smile right off of Jeno’s lips. Smash his fist in his face and leave a nice mark, bloody broken gums bleeding.

Bet he wouldn’t smile at you then.

Haechan knows it’s insane. He does, but he quite honestly doesn’t give a single broom-flying fuck.

With determination, Haechan stood, pushing his chair back, and ignoring the calls from his friends. Everybody he walks past is enjoying their first-day-back meals, but Haechan has something else on his mind.

He walks by your table, hearing the pretty lilt of your voice chatting away with your friends as Jeno hangs off your side. Haechan’s tongue pokes his cheek in jealousy, but he walks right past without a word, no matter how much his brain is screaming at him to just hit Jeno.

Making it to the doors that seal off the great hall from the main corridor, he draws his wand out from his robes and flicks his wrist.

“Aguamenti”

A jet of clear water shoots out from the tip of his wand and smacks the side of Jenos head, effectively drenching him from head to toe.

Haechan stays for a split second, just to watch you and your friends erupt in a fit of giggles while Jeno picks at his wet robes.

He smiles triumphantly before slipping out into the hallway and sprinting to the Slytherin dormitory.

Haechan 1, Jeno 0

The first night back at Hogwarts; The first night back home.

You and your dormmates lounge in the common room and stare into the fire whilst making small talk. It had been a while since seeing them, but you had kept in touch out in the muggle world.

Jihyo hung her head over the arm of the couch, the rest of her body sprawled out and cozily covered with a blanket, attempting to toss popcorn in the air and catch it in her mouth. Her success rate, however, left the floor scattered with smashed pieces and kernels.

Mina sat on the end of the couch with Jihyo's feet in her lap, occasionally contributing to the conversation but mostly engrossed in her textbooks. It wasn't even the first day of actual classes, yet here she was, staying ahead. If you didn't know her kind nature, you'd think she belonged in Ravenclaw.

You were slung in the other chair opposite of them, fiddling with your wand. The end was slightly cracked from where you had accidentally stepped on it one day and it was worrying you. The last thing you needed right now was another trip to Olivanders.

“I’m just saying Y/N, I think Jeno really does like you!” Jihyo insisted, throwing another piece of popcorn in the air only to get hit in the face with it seconds later.

Mina snorts without looking up and Jihyo makes a face at her that she doesn’t see but leaves you giggling. You twist your wand around your fingers, something you learned back in second year, “Well if he does, he hasn’t said anything.”

Mina hums in agreement but Jihyo thinks differently, “He wouldn’t have offered to take you broom flying after hours if he didn’t like you.”

Shrugging your shoulders you turn to the fire, the burning warmth spreading over your chest. “Maybe he just wants some pussy.”

“Well, you better take the chance before I do. He can show me his broomstick anytime.” She winks in your direction sending you into a giggle fit. Mina rolls her eyes but continues reading her textbook. The both of you were used to Jihyos sexual jokes, but they never failed to make you laugh and Mina cringe.

A brief silence passed before you spoke, “Okay, but you have to agree, whoever splashed him at dinner tonight has it coming.”

“What do you mean whoever it was?” Mina piped up, giving you an inquisitive look.

“I didn’t see who it was, did y’all?” you asked, mildly confused. The water had seemingly come out of nowhere, and everyone around Jeno had denied responsibility. With everyone denying it, you suspected it might have been one of the lingering spirits.

“Are you kidding me, Y/N? He couldn’t have been any more obvious,” Jihyo said incredulously, sitting up to look straight at you, abandoning her bag of popcorn.

Were you supposed to have known who the culprit was? You were too busy watching Jeno splutter and gasp to have paid much attention to your surroundings. One thing she said caught your attention, “He?”

“Haechan? Lee Donghyuck?” Mina says slowly.

Jihyo chimed in, “He was walking toward our table all angry, and then when he made it to the doors, he turned around and used the Aguamenti spell.” Your mouth dropped open with every word she said, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?!”

“I didn’t!” you argue defensively.

“Oh, and before that, he was staring at you.” Mina added, closing her textbook and standing up, dumping Jihyo's feet on the ground.

“I knew he was staring.” You say, chewing on your bottom lip, “Are you guys for sure he was the one?”

“I’m telling you,” Jihyo starts, “We both saw him.”

Emotions bubble in your chest. You were pissed off for sure. Who did Haechan think he was getting in your business like that, especially given the history, or lack thereof.

Ever since you met the Slytherin boy, he had despised you. There was something about you that completely irritated him, and no matter how hard you tried, he just wouldn’t be your friend. He wouldn’t even talk to you, only stare and mess with your relationships. Every time you were getting close with a boy, he would get in the way, first with Mark and now Jeno? This was becoming an issue, and one that you needed to correct soon.

“I’m heading to bed.” Mina says, waving goodbye and heading off to her room.

You and Jihyo are left to stare at each other. She narrows her eyes down to slits, “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I’m not,” you spun the wand faster around your fingers, twisting and spinning it until it dropped into your palm, “I’m just going to remind him who the hell I am.”

“That’s not very Hufflepuff of you.” she giggles, reaching for more popcorn and shoving it in her mouth.

Your grip your wand tightly, “Hufflepuff or not, Lee Donghyuck needs to learn who he’s fucking with.”

As you pondered your next move, Jihyo leaned back and said, "You know, a well-placed hex might jog his memory."

"No. Not a hex. He get's one warning. His only warning."

Haechan knew you were after him.

The past couple days consisted of him dodging your every attempt at waving him down. After classes dismissed, he was up and out the door in the blink of an eye, he never showed his face at the great hall, and when you caught sight of him during his quidditch practice, he disappeared while everyone else headed to the locker rooms.

Three days after the water incident, you catch him.

The professor asked him to stay back after class, supposedly to discuss his recent test scores. So, when the bell rang, you lingered outside the classroom door. A couple of minutes later, Haechan emerged, his blonde hair paired with a scowl etched onto his face. He made a beeline in the opposite direction, but you had other plans.

“Lee Donghyuck!” you shout, attracting stares from the other students milling about the corridor. You scurry over to him and tug his arm, his eyes shooting down to where you made contact “We need to talk.”

He glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, and cleared his throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The threats you had rehearsed - the biting warnings you promised Jihyo you'd give him...they all catch in the back of your throat when you look up and make eye contact. It was almost condescending the way he looked down at you, without even saying anything, he made you feel small.

"I—um, I want you to leave me and Jeno alone," you managed to say, attempting confidence but knowing there was little force behind the words.

He knew it too.

His eyebrows shoot up, “I’m sorry darling, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

Oh, how good he was at feigning innocence.

Too bad you knew he was a big fat fucking liar, “The whole Aguamenti spell you did the other night in the great hall? Yeah, I know it was you.”

His jaw clenches and he reaches for his wand to twirl around his finger – something he did when he was nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit Haechan. Me and my friends saw you do it.”

As more people stared at the confrontation in the middle of the hallway, you considered finding a more private place, but you knew he wouldn't follow.

“What do you want me to say? I’m telling you I didn’t do it.” his voice is a low growl, his demeanor darkening and body slightly leaning towards your own. You wouldn’t be surprised if the next words out of his mouth were, ‘now get lost you little freak’.

Deciding to stand your ground, you stared up at him defiantly. However, instead of backing down, he laughed straight in your face, deflating any hope of setting him straight.

“Good one, Hufflepuff.” With a roll of his eyes, he palms his wand in thought. How could a girl like you go for a guy like Jeno? Didn’t you know he was an asshole?

Speak of the devil, he thinks.

A heavy arm wrapped around your shoulders, accompanied by a sweet and cheery voice. "Y/N! Just the girl I needed to see." Jeno's crescent eyes and beaming smile were inches from yours.

Haechan rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He needs to leave; He should leave, but his feet don’t move when he tries. It felt like he was under a spell.

Yeah, if jealousy was a fucking spell, the thought bitterly.

“I hope you don’t mind me talking to your girl.” Jeno acknowledges Haechan and playfully punches him in the shoulder. The older boy just sneers.

“Oh, I’m not his girl” you declared adamantly.

A derisive scoff rumbles in the depths of Haechan's throat, and a fit of coughing seizes him, forcing him to double over.

“Careful there buddy.” Jeno smirks, harshly slapping Haechan’s back as way to help him catch his breath.  

When the older boy straightens up, a look of pure hatred crosses his eyes and you giggle, “I’m fine, buddy.”

Jeno looks from left to right confused at Haechan’s hostility, but shakes it off and turns to you instead, “I wanted to invite you to the Quidditch game tomorrow night.” A ‘no’ forms on your lips but Jeno is quick to shut it down, “Look… I’ll play better if you’re there. You can be my good luck charm!”

A fake gag sounds from the back of Haechans throat and you stare daggers into him until he throws two hands up and takes a step back.

You turned to Jeno with the intention of declining, citing the need for studying, but his trademark smile was plastered on his lips. Wasn't the point of this conversation with Haechan to be something with Jeno someday?

“I’ll go.” You smile, and Jeno's face lights up like a kid on Christmas.

One second, you were on the ground, and the next, you were in Jeno's strong arms, spinning around. "Yes! You won't regret this, Y/N! You can even wear my jersey if you want!"

He slows down and sets you back on your feet, your head slightly spinning, “Jeno… you do realize you’ll need your jersey on the field.”

“Oh right.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Didn’t think of that.”

Haechan makes an unamused snort, and you notice his hands are balled into fists at his side.

How could Jeno do that right in front of his face?

“I guess it’s the thought that counts.” Haechan spits, and turns on his heel, robes flying behind him as he hurriedly walks away.

“Wait! We still have to talk!” you shout after him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps walking until he rounds a corner and disappears.

Why did he have something against Jeno? He hated you anyways. Was his job to make you miserable your entire Hogwarts life? Why was he always in your business?

Jeno startles you out of your thoughts, “Come on, I’ll walk you to class.”

A smile formed on your lips, and you murmured an 'okay' as Jeno looped your arm in his. Unfortunately, Haechan was long gone, along with any hope of setting him straight.

Hopefully he got the message, you think.

It’s the last thought of him before Jeno is tugging on your arm and walking you to class, the smell of cinnamon on his robes and his jovial tone taking home in your head and root in your heart.  

He can’t stomach the sight of her face, but that doesn’t stop him from fucking her.

Who was she? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. She was wet enough and that was all that mattered. Thrusting into her sopping cunt was what she was here for, nothing more, nothing less.

His mind drifts while he pounds into her, the image of Jeno dragging you away, his arm slung over your shoulders driving Haechan to fuck harder. The girl hollers in pain but doesn’t tell him to stop, just grits her face and bears it, and he doesn’t check to see if she’s okay.

She said she wanted him to fuck her, so that’s what he was doing.

“Hy-hyuck.” She whimpers, fingers digging into his dark green sheets.

A harsh smack lands on her ass, “What, can’t take it Y/ -”

He stops himself before finishing your name. How stupid could he be. This wasn’t you; this could never be you.

Whoever the girl was, she doesn’t notice, too rung up on his cock pushing into her over and over again to understand that he didn’t give a single fuck about her.

Poor girl.

Her legs start to shake, an overwhelming orgasm washing over her right before Haechan pulls out and rolls off the bed, hastily putting on his pants. She’s left to catch her breath on his bed, peering at him from between parted fingers, “You didn’t finish.”

“Don’t need to.” He throws his sweater over his head and starts to fix his tie, “Here.” He picks her yellow robes off the floor and tosses them onto the bed next to her.

“Let me suck you off or something.”

His response is instantaneoous, “I’m good.”

Her voice is soft when she speaks up again, “It’s because of that girl isn’t it… the one in my house, Y/N?”

Was it obvious to everyone else but you? This random fucking girl knew, but you couldn’t catch on? Fucking ridiculous.

His eyes narrow down to slits, “I got to get to class. You better be gone when I get back.”

The door slams behind him, the echo being the only indication he was there in the first place.

Robes askew and papers flying out of your hands, you rush into potions class at the last possible second.

Jeno is already seated at your shared table, something that’s become normal these last few weeks. Out of the corner of your eye, you take note of Hyuck slumped over a piece of paper, furiously scribbling—probably homework.

Thankfully, the professor nods you off without issuing you a detention slip.

Slamming your books on the flat black table, you hop onto your stool.

“Thought you weren’t gonna show y/l/n” Jeno’s smile stretches from ear to ear, his fingers twirling a quill between them.

“I may not be a Ravenclaw, but I’d never miss a class.”

“Couldn’t bear to miss me?” His flirtatious comments always make your heart skip a beat. Your pulse becomes increasingly erratic, face flushed. A snort sounds from behind you, and when you swivel around, you see Haechan’s face adorned with a sneer. He doesn’t deserve a response from you, no matter how much you want to flip him off.

You turn back around, “I guess I couldn’t…” The blush on Jeno’s face is unmistakable and it warms your heart.

From the front of the room, the professor claps his hands, “Alright class, today we will be doing something I’m sure you’ve done before.”

“Please don’t say truth potion.” You mutter under your breath.

“Not quite, Ms. y/l/n. Today we’ll be brewing amortentia potions! All your ingredients should be in the back of the classroom, gather them and begin brewing! The instructions are on page 287 of your textbook! The first group to accurately brew their potion gets five points on the chapter quiz this week.”

The professor calling you out would be enough to send you into an embarrassed state of tucking your chin against your chest and keeping your head down for the rest of the class, but the mention of extra points on the quiz has you leaping up off the stool and waltzing to the back of the classroom.

Jeno doesn’t even have time to say anything. You’ve never done this potion before, but you know the ingredients by heart, just waiting for the day you get to brew it.

You make it to the ingredients table first, followed by Haechan, who’s furiously flipping through his textbook, trying to find the ingredient list. When he notices your empty hands, he narrows his eyes, “Don’t you need to know what to put in the potion?”

Grabbing various vials and jars of dried leaves, you snort, “Don’t need to. Jealous I know it by heart?”

His eyes slide to yours while he follows your lead and picks up a jar of blue rose petals, “Me? Jealous? Yeah right. That’ll be you when me and Chenle win the extra points.”

“Don’t count on it Hyuck.”

The nickname has him tensing, knuckles going white when he accidentally grips a vial of milky substance too hard. He puts it under his arm and reaches for another vial. Coincidentally, you were reaching for the same one, both of your hands brushing against each other's. Neither of you is hasty in withdrawing.

His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, nervousness flitting across his brow. Before you can make note, he clamps down, and his expression goes stoic again.

Heat pools in your stomach. A sickeningly sweet feeling that leaves you confused when Haechan plucks the vial away and whips around, his robes fluttering out behind his body.

Other students begin crowding the table, so you grab a different vial, the interaction leaving you all too confused.

When you get back to the table, Jeno has already begun heating the cauldron.

The ingredients spill from your hands.

“Have you ever done this before?” Jeno asks, “You didn’t even need the textbook.”

Your voice comes out mumbled, “No. I just know it by heart.”

His own textbook is splayed out in front of him, one finger rubbing down the page to read the ingredients list. Why don’t his hands make you feel like that? Sure, it makes you feel all cozy inside, but it isn’t… hot like that. There;s no heat when Jeno walks hand-in-hand with you in the hallway. Why?

“… petals.”

His voice peeks through your thoughts that were flitting around your skull at a million miles an hour.

“Huh?”

“Why did you grab blue rose petals? It doesn’t say we need them in the book.” He teeters on the edge of his seat as if he wanted to take them back to the ingredients table at the back of the room.

A smirk plays on the edge of your lips, “Haechan was copying what I was grabbing, so to trip him up, I grabbed those. Hopefully, he doesn’t pay close attention to the textbook like you…”

Jeno laughs, “Never would have struck you as the type Y/N.”

“What, too much of a Slytherin thing?” You bite back.

“No…No, I like it. It makes you… I don’t know… hot?”

Your eyes go wide, a laugh sticking in your throat. You cough it up and turn to the spread of ingredients in front of you, “Let's, uh… let’s start so we can get those extra credit points.”

Jeno turns around and so do you.

What you don’t notice is Haechan, who had become immensely interested in your conversation after hearing the word Slytherin leave your lips. The jealousy flickering through his nerves is hotter than the boiling substance in front of him. Oh, how he wishes this was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He’d love to put Jeno flat on his ass.

You and Jeno effortlessly master the brewing of amortentia in just twelve minutes, a symphony of perfectly blended scents swirling in your cauldron.

Chenle and Haechan shoot you annoyed glances as their potion turns into a goopy, blue disaster, nowhere close to the enchanting pink hue of yours.

The professor strides over, congratulating the two of you with a smile. He hands each of you golden slips of paper, designating you as the undisputed masters of amortentia potion-making.

Haechan stands with arms crossed, bitterness etched across his face as he joins the students gathered around your table. His jaw clenches when he witnesses Jeno pulling you into a snug side hug.

“Alright! As the first pair to get the potion right, you get the pleasure of telling us what you smell.

Fuck.

His jaw unclenches and instead is replaced by a shit-eating grin.

“W-What?”

Other students nervously chuckle, eager to see if Jeno, the star of Gryffindors quidditch team, would possibly smell their scent.

“I’ll go first y/n. Don’t sweat it.”

Carefully, Jeno leans over the cauldron and lets the steam waft up into his face. He takes a sniff. Another one. Another one. And finally a deep inhale.

“It’s smells like cherries… um, vanilla, I think… and, sweets? Like baked sweets?”

The professor applauds, “Good! Sounds like someone's after a Hufflepuff!”

All eyes turn to you. It's true, the Hufflepuff dormitory is adjacent to the kitchens, but why must everyone assume? Why must it be you?

The professor continues, “You next Y/N!”

Haechans doe eyes follow your figure closely, drinking in the way you lean over the cauldon, the top button on your blouse having come undone, breasts peaking through the top. He feels like a pervert, but he can’t help the stiffness rising in his slacks.

He should’ve had that girl suck him off.

You sniff one, twice, and a third time. Haechan watches as the blood drains from your face.

Why couldn’t it be cinnamon and firewood? Why not something to complement Jeno? It had to be that.

“I smell apples… and, and, um, caramel, and qu-quidditch gear.”

You don’t even have time to assess Jeno or Haechans faces. Jeno knew it was Haechan’s scent. Haechan knew it was his scent. Everyone knew. How could they not? Slytherins best asshole was known for smelling like caramel apples.

Fuck.

Your eyes are downcast, contemplating whether or not to do that chin tuck.

“Alright! Who’s next?”

“It’s not like it’s our house that’s playing.”

Slumped on the common room couch and stuffing your face with leftover popcorn (thanks Jihyo), your argument doesn’t come across as very convincing – to yourself, or Mina, who stands in front of you with her hands on her hips. “And anyways,” you raise a skeptical eyebrow, “Don’t you have to study or something. You’re not one for quidditch games.”

She reaches for you, snatching the snack bowl out of your hand and plopping it down on the coffee table. “I’m two weeks ahead in every single class. I can afford to skip a day of studying.”

For a moment, you shoot her a glare, sensing there's more to it. “Jihyo put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“Why do you say that.”

“Because I know her.”

“Okay, yes.” She sits down next to you, grabbing your hands. “But come on! Jeno invited you to watch the game and then go to the afterparty. You know how hard it is to get invited to those parties!” She drags out the last syllable, pretending to beg, “And Jihyo said she’d kill me if you bailed.”

You sigh. Jeno did invite you, and he had that killer smile on his lips when he did it. The reminder sends butterflies in your stomach fluttering about. The only reason you were planning to skip out was because you were nervous. And what happened in class yesterday. But that didn’t matter! Gryffindors seeker asking you to come watch him play, and then walking you to class? That made you more than friends, right? You didn’t know how to navigate that without being awkward… and you’d hate to disappoint him.

“Fine, I’ll go.”

Mina squeals next to you and pulls you into a hug. “You won’t regret this! But hurry up, I wanna see if I can spot Renjun before the game.” She smiles to herself, a light blush dusting her cheeks that she tries to conceal.

“Renjun… Isn’t that the boy you’re tutoring in potions?”

She hums in response, a dreamy expression so evident on her face you could almost make out hearts in her eyes. It's like a real-life cartoon.

“You have a crush on him!” you tease, giggling when she holds her arms out defensively and tries to deny it. “That’s why you’re going to the game today! Not because you don’t need to study, but because you wanna see Renjunnnnn.” You draw out his name like you used to do when you were first years.

“Don’t tell Jihyo.” She groans. “She’ll give me hell for it, and I want this to progress naturally on its own.”

“I won’t, I’m just shocked our Mina has a crush!”

You feel happy for your friend. Happy that she’s found somebody who could actually drag her away from being holed up on a Saturday afternoon – it's real progress.

“Enough about me! Go get ready!”

She throws a pillow at you when you leap off the couch, and it hits you square in the chest, both of you thrown into another fit of giggles.

The stands were so jam packed with students, you thought there was absolutely no way you were going to grab a seat.

That was until you spotted Jihyos yellow Hufflepuff cap sticking out in a sea of Gryffindor gear. It was against house rules to wear anything outside of your house colors, so while you wanted to wear red to support Jeno, the best you could do was the red handheld flags they were passing out at the gate to the field.

A first year Slytherin tried to hand you a green flag, but you upturn your nose and brush him aside. You didn’t hate all Slytherins, but you’d be damned if Haechan caught sight of you supporting his team, especially since it was him pitted against Jeno. It saddened you that he was a seeker like the boy you were there to support; he didn’t deserve the position.

Mina grabs your hand and drags you into the thick of the crowd where elbows jostled you every few seconds and your cheeks were being whipped with waving flags. You duck your head down and try not to trip, a sigh of relief rushing past your lips when you make it to where Jihyo is sitting front row, batting away a couple who were trying to sit in the seats she was keeping for the two of you.

“See!” She yells, gesturing wildly to the two of you walking up, “My friends are here, and these seats are now occupied!” She grabs your wrists and tugs you to sit down.

The couple rolls their eyes and move on to find another seat.

“Bitches.” Jihyo curses under her breath.

“Thanks for saving the seat.” You breathlessly laugh, adjusting your jacket so that you were bundled up. Hogwart winters weren’t for the faint of heart.

Jihyo smirks, “Had to fight off about half the Gryffindor population for this good of a view, but it was worth it.”

On the other side of Jihyo, Mina laughed and clapped her hands at the commotion on the field, right before every other student erupted in cheers, hoots, and hollers.

From your midfield position, you saw the Slytherin team filtering out on the green, brooms in hand.

“WELCOME ALL FACULTY AND STUDENTS TO THE FIRST HOME GAME OF THE SEASON!! PLEASE WELCOME OUR SLYTHERIN TEAM!” The announcer's voice boomed, rattling through the entire stadium.

As much as you resisted cheering, Mina was there to support Renjun, so you gave a few half-hearted claps on her behalf, earning dirty looks from the surrounding Gryffindors. You were in the wrong section if you wanted to support the snakes.

You weren’t looking for him, but Haechan’s blonde hair immediately grabs your attention. He’s smiling, all sharp and smug, and you can make out green face paint dotting the side of his neck. It irked you that he was soaking in the cheering – you bet he got off to on the attention. What? With him being the infamous Slytherin seeker? It went straight to his head, and you knew it.

The team hopped on their brooms and flew around the students, tossing Slytherin gear into the stands as they weaved in and out of the sections. When Haechan passed, he blew you a kiss and winked, infuriating you to the point your face flushed hot.

“Ignore him.” Jihyo rolls her eyes and gives your hand a squeeze, “He’s trying to get you mad. Jeno will put him in his place.”

The thought of Jeno putting him in his place warms your heart. Oh, how good that’ll feel.

Once the Slytherins stopped showing off, the crowd went relatively quiet, waiting for the real star of the show to come out. A thrumming chant started somewhere opposite your section, and soon enough, the entire student body was collectively roaring for Gryffindor.

“WE WANT BETTER, WE WANT MORE, SHOW US GRYFFINDOR!!”

A rumble goes through the crowd right before cold air whips your face and a sea of red jerseys flies over your head. It makes you laugh giddily, and your eyes desperately search for number seven – Jeno.

It takes a second, but soon enough your eyes are locked on his lean figure which presses forward on the thin broom stick. He looked good.

Jihyo goes fucking wild beside you, “There’s your man!” she screeches, and you let out a belly laugh. You both watch as he makes his rounds around the towers filled with cheering students – each and every one until he gets to yours.

“You look beautiful” he shouts, and a dozen girls around you squeal in adoration. He was talking to you though, and you knew it. His eyes sparkle when he gives you a wink. “Wish me luck.” he mouths.

“Omg how cute are you two!?” Jihyo swoons.

You pressed a kiss to your palm and then blew it to him – a signal of your affection. With a wide eye-smile, he grabbed it out of the air and pressed it to his lips.

It was then and there that you decided you were going to kiss him after the match. All too quickly, he flew away, and you watched as he went.

Not two seconds later, a new Gryffindor player was in front of you, balancing on the tail end of his stick. Johnny, you remembered his name.

His jersey was tucked between his teeth, his abs on full display, which sent the hoards of girls around you into a screaming fit. You caught a quick glimpse before he spat the hem out of his mouth.

“Y/N, you want us to win?” He asks, his voice a deep timbre.

You were shocked that he was talking to you – let alone that he knew your name.

Gingerly, you nod your head.

“I bet. You coming to the party after?”

This interaction was so bizarre, and all Jihyo and Mina did to help was stare at the six-foot, built, fine specimen lingering only three feet in front of you.

“Jeno invited me.” For some reason, a blush settles on your face, and you fight the urge to cover it.

“Bet you’re gonna have a fun time with him after.” A dazzling smirk plastered itself on Johnny’s face. “You should ask him if he’ll let you ride his broomstick. I heard he’s a good teacher. It should be fun.” He flew around so quickly it left you blinking in his wake. Over his shoulder, you heard him call out, “See you after, prize girl.”

The entire twenty-second conversation left you reeling, and you tucked a mental note away to ask Jeno about it later.

From across the field, a certain Slytherin seeker was seething. Both his hands grabbed the broom so tightly his knuckles turned white. If he applied any more pressure, it would have broken.

The fuck was Johnny talking to you about? Did it have to do with Jeno? What did you see in him anyways? What did Jeno have that he didn’t? Did he have to prove himself? Yes, he thinks. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll win this match to prove to you that he’s better than Jeno. Maybe then you’ll truly see him – and give him a chance.

Game on.

Two minutes were left in the last quarter, and it was neck and neck.

Green and red jerseys fly around each other.

The stadium echoed with the thunderous cheers as the Quaffle exchanged hands between the opposing teams. The bludgers were like rogue comets, threatening to disrupt the fluid dance of the players. Jeno and Haechan had their eyes fixed on the glittering snitch.

A collective gasp filled the arena as Haechan executed a daring spiral dive, narrowly avoiding a bludger. Simultaneously, Jeno executed a swift roll, evading a clever attempt by the opposing team to intercept him.

The golden snitch continued to flit teasingly ahead, leading the seekers on a merry chase.

You grip onto Jihyo and Mina as the game comes to a crescendo.

It happens so quick you almost miss it, but in three seconds everything changes.

Three.

Jeno becomes unbalanced, teetering sideways on his broom that keeps flying straight. His eyes are locked on yours when a wave of pure panic engulfs his sweaty features.

Haechan flies past him, one hand outstretched towards the golden snitch that loomed just mere inches from his fingertips.

Two.

He flips over the side of his broom, hands reaching out to try and catch himself. One by one his fingers tap the stick, not able to gain any purchase, and then he’s falling.

The other seeker presses ahead, dodging his teammates who don’t have time to get out of his way with how fast he’s flying.

One.

Jeno’s body slams into the grass field beneath the players, his broomstick landing next to his broken figure. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t scream in pain, doesn’t move.

Haechan's hand closed around the golden snitch, a victorious shout echoing from him and his teammates. He turned, searching for you in the crowd, but your gaze was fixed on Jeno.

Zero.

Shouts and cries erupt from the crowd, half in victory and half in shock. Someone screams Jeno’s name and you’re not sure if it’s your own shout, or if that person was just really close by.

With wide eyes, you watch as a bunch of medical staff rush towards him on the field and surround his body. Your body becomes ice cold and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat.

Please let him be okay; he has to be okay.

The Slytherin team flies around the field, visiting their supporters in the stands while everyone else’s eyes are on Jeno.

Jihyo grabs your shoulders and gasps when a white medical cot is lifted onto the shoulders of a few Gryffindor players.

“He’s okay. He’s okay.” Mina repeats, taking hold of your hand between hers and you almost sob in relief when you see him wiggling around in the cot, moans of pain falling from his lips too low for your ears to pick up.

Haechan watches from a distance, eyes wide in shock when he takes notice of Jeno’s condition and when he looks up, he sees your dormmates consoling you. He wanted to fly over to you and ask if you’re okay, but he knew you wouldn’t want to hear it, not when Jeno was hurt.

Once Jeno and the medical staff made it off the field, the stands began to clear out, but you feel like you can’t move.

“Come on.” Jihyo murmurs, pulling you up and wrapping an arm around you. It was silly that they had to take care of you like this when you weren’t even the one who was hurt.

When you made it to the bottom of the stand, you huddle together in a group.

Jihyo, with her arm still wrapped around you, gave you a side hug. “I’m sure he’s fine.” Mina nodded in agreement, but you started biting your nails – not that there was much to bite, lord knows they were almost stubs as it was.

Another person slides into your tight group, and you don’t notice until you hear his voice, “The scorekeepers say there was no evidence of foul play.”

When you looked up, you were surprised to see who you thought was Renjun. When he noticed your gaze, he gave a soft smile.

“That’s bullshit,” Jihyo declares, “We all know who did it, and he’s on your fucking team.”

Renjun just shrugs and slides an arm around Mina, and despite the timing and circumstance, you raise an eyebrow at her. She waves you off and slides her attention to Renjun, “Everyone knows it was Haechan.”

“Well, the scorekeepers say otherwise.”

You felt like screaming and crying and running away all at once, but you just stood there, biting your nails.

“I know I probably shouldn’t be asking right now,” Renjun's eyes flickered to you before looking away quickly, “But, I wanted to invite you guys to the after-party. I don’t need an answer, just show up if you want to, and I’ll have Chenle watching for you guys at the door. It starts in half an hour.” He started to pull away from the group but turned back at the last second. “By the way, Y/N, I’m sorry about Jeno. Just because I’m on the opposite team doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad.”

A hum falls from your lips and then he’s off.

“Well, if I need anything right now, it’s a fucking drink,” Jihyo joked, but one look at you, and her laughter died.

Mina is more concerned with you, “We won’t go if you need us.”

“No,” you blurted, dropping your hands from your face. “I –” A particularly loud shout jarred your attention away, and when you looked around to find the culprit, you saw the entire Slytherin team gathering to your right. Haechan stood in the center only long enough for you to make out it was him, then he was being hoisted onto his teammates' shoulders. His eyes met yours, and he smirked, lifting a hand to wave at you. It took everything in you to not storm over there and punch the absolute shit out of him. He wished he was your fucking priority, but that wasn’t the case.

“You sure?” Mina asks, snapping you out of your murderous thoughts.

“I gotta go check on Jeno.” You give a small smile, “Save me a drink?”

Jihyo and Mina both nodded, and before you walked off, you threw a middle finger at Haechan, who caught sight and clasped his chest like he was dying.

It pissed you off, but you had bigger priorities right now.

Haechan would have his turn.

As the cheering fades, the screams take over.

Deep, guttural screams of someone in agonizing pain echo through the empty castle halls leading right to the medical wing. They come in bursts; long strings of curses, grunts, and broken yells, and it makes you inwardly cringe because you knew who they belonged too.

“Jeno…” you whisper, after hearing a particularly jarring shriek.

After rounding the corner, the tall double oak doors loom in front of you, inviting you to join Jeno in his agony, or at least be there to comfort him. Pushing them open, you reveal a large, brightly lit room sectioned off by blue plastic curtains and medical cots. On the left side of the room, you see a nurse tending to who must be Jeno, but you can’t see his face.

You can hear him though.

His voice is amplified ten-fold now that you were in the same room, and instinctively you raise your hands to plug your ears but shake it off. Tentatively you walk over.

“Goddamn Slytherin.” You hear him groan, legs twisting in discomfort when the nurse applies pressure to his arm. It’s evident he’s never been in this much pain before.

“Jeno?” You whisper, startling the nurse who accidentally puts too much pressure on his arm, causing him to jerk away from her, a yelp passing his thin lined lips.

Her hands pepper over his body in apology, not turning her head to look at you, “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“I know.” You whisper, and she doesn’t press any further on why you’re there or ask you to leave, so you stay.

Jeno doesn’t even seem to notice you, but that doesn’t matter. You shift around the bed slightly and catch sight of his face. Both his eyes are shut, one ringed in purple and his bottom lip split in two separate places. His nose seemed to get busted in the fall as it was surrounded by dark red, almost black, dried blood. A few droplets splattered on his shirt, accompanying the grass and dirt he had slammed into after falling thirty feet from the sky,

As bad as it may sound, you’re glad Jeno only broke his arm. A fall from that height could have meant paralysis or worse, death. He truly got lucky.

You stand quietly, watching as she shifts Jeno’s arm into a sling, securing it with a couple items you don’t know the name for and then popping a few muggle meds in his mouth. Lifting a glass of water to his lips, he groans, knocking back the pills.

It never sat right with you how the nurses used muggle methods of healing when there were more than a fair share of spells that could work much quicker. It was as if they wanted you to stew in your own misery.

Wasn’t the point of magic to make things easier?

Your thoughts are cut off by the nurse brushing past you, arms full of medical supplies. “Visiting hours are over in twenty minutes. Make it quick.” She warns, before walking away.

“Why are you here.” Jeno groans when she leaves the room, eyes still sticking shut.

“I –”A dull ache lands on your heart and the words catch in the back of your throat, a sudden cough clearing them away.

His lip curls into a sneer, “Spit it out y/l/n,”

The aggression radiating off of him makes you stumble back but you don’t let it scare you. You knew Jeno and he wasn’t scary… or so you thought.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” You speak quietly, like any word above a murmur would startle him and hurt him worse.

“Obviously, I’m not fucking okay.” His voice is nasally, mocking you, “But you don’t care, do you? Bet you’re just here to make sure I don’t snitch on your little boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Your eyes narrow down to slits. It angered you that Jeno thought you would give any time of day to the little prick who kept messing with you.

“You should tell him that.”

His eyes snap open and home in on you, glaring from his spot on the bed. Uncomfortable in his position, he squirms a bit, trying to right himself, but he grunts and falls back down, the pain too much for him.

‘You should tell him that.’

The words bounce around the inside of your skull. Did Haechan think you were together? Think he had some kind of weird ass claim over you?

"Jeno –”

“You know I can’t even play quidditch now that my arm is broken. My fucking arm Y/N.” Tears form in the corner of his eyes, whether from the pain or the prospect that he was out for the season, you weren’t sure, “He knocked me off my broom. That’s like… that’s like attempted murder!” he splutters, a crazed expression overtaking his face.

As much as you disliked the guy, there was no way he was capable of murder. No, this was due to his unrelenting jealousy, and someone needed to set him straight.

“Oh, come on, it’s not attempted –”

Jeno’s free hand is shoved in your face, one finger pointing at you patronizingly, “Yes, it is. You and I both know he’s a crazy son of a bitch, and he obviously has something for you so stay the fuck away from me.”

“Really, can we just talk?”

He shakes his head, “No. Get the fuck away from me and keep your little boyfriend in check.”

“For the last time, he’s not –”

“I don’t care what he is! The both of you need to leave me the fuck alone.”

Your heart breaks.

It wasn’t because you liked him. No, that wasn’t it. You just thought this could have been the start of something new since your love life had been wrecked for years thanks to the one and only Lee Donghyuck.

You can’t believe he had the audacity to wreck it again.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out in a whisper, way too low for him to hear, but he waves you off anyway, “I’ll go.”

He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t even watch as you turn your back and walk away, past the blue plastic curtains and out the heavy double doors. The more steps you take, the heavier your heart feels in your chest. Tears burn in your eyes and anger clouds your head with each passing second like poison.

Haechan wasn’t getting away with this, you were going to make sure.

You see fucking red.

Storming through the halls of Hogwarts was a rare occurrence for you, but today was different. People gasped as you briskly brushed past them, your head so hot it felt like smoke might billow from your ears. Annoyed shouts of 'hey' or 'watch it' barely registered as you descended the stairs leading to the ominous 'Slytherin Dungeon.' The air grew colder with each step, mirroring the iciness in your gaze. Thoughts of pounding Haechan's face swirled in your mind, and you couldn't shake the fiery anger fueling your every move.

You knew if Jihyo was here she would make fun of your anger, claiming that you didn’t belong in Hufflepuff with your temper.

Too bad she wasn’t.

Maybe she could have calmed you down, slowed your racing heart and spoken some sense into your hard head, but alas, she wasn’t, and you were only growing more furious by the second.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, you rounded a corner and collided with a Slytherin you recognized as Chenle, thanks to Renjun's heads up. His light green hair parted down the middle, coupled with the trademark Slytherin resting bitch face, transformed into a smirk upon seeing you.

“Y/N! Glad you could make it!” His voice is deeper than you would have thought, and he was much taller when you walked up to him.

"Yeah, yeah, let me in." Impatiently tapping your foot, you watched as he opened the door, revealing the booming bass of the music inside.

"Say hey to him for me." Chenle grinned, extending an arm to welcome you.

You pushed past him, retorting over your shoulder, "You can tell Renjun yourself." Confusion flashed over his face, but the door slammed shut before further words could be exchanged, sealing you inside.

The ambiance in Slytherin territory starkly contrasted with your dorm. Damp darkness replaced the natural sunlight, and the air carried the scent of spicy cologne rather than the comforting aroma of food.

Thank God I wasn’t placed in Slytherin, you think.

Music reverberates off the walls and lands loudly on your eardrums, a soft green glow emitting from the end of the hallway. Conversation and laughter can be heard just slightly above the music, and you follow it till you’re at the end of the corridor and in the den of the snakes.

Green.

There’s green everywhere.

But your dormmates were nowhere to be found. In fact, all you saw in every direction were green robes with the occasional pop of yellow and blue.

No Gryffindors, interesting.

A hand lands on your arm and you jump back at least ten feet.

"Woah, it's just me." Renjun's eyes crinkled with a smile as he extended a drink towards you. You accepted it with a silent 'thank you.'

"Your friends are in the bathroom, I think, but I can wait with you if you like." Renjun's politeness caught you off guard. This has got to be the nicest Slytherin boy you’ve ever met.

As you took a sip of the bitter liquid, you mused, "No need to wait with me... I came to see someone real quick, and then I'll be on my way."

"I know he deserves it, but go easy on him, okay?" Renjun's words hung in the air, causing you to stare at him with disbelief. Sensing your anger, he quickly stepped back, raising a hand. "You know what, forget I said anything."

Cocking your head, you smiled, "Know where I can find him?"

Renjun simply pointed behind you.

Turning around, you spotted the boy in question, lounging on a couch stripped of his robes. Clad in a white button-up shirt and black slacks, Haechan exuded an air of arrogant nonchalance. Two girls clung to either side of him, and a few friends surrounded him, exchanging laughs and banter.

"Thanks, Renjun." You mutter, not bothered to look behind you and see that he wasn’t standing there anymore.

You down the rest of your drink in one gulp and leave the plastic solo cup on a random side table as you stalk over to where the blonde headed boy was lounging. When you push past his friends, his eyes snap to you.

“Glad you could make it.” He beams, eyes washing over your body. You were in that damn skirt, and it drove him fucking wild.

Ignoring him, you placed your hands on your hips. "Get up."

He chuckled, patting his thigh. "Why don't you sit down and enjoy the party?" Laughter erupted from his friends, and the girls hanging off his arms glared at you.

“Get. Up.” You seethe.

“Feisty aren’t you.” He murmurs, shrugging off the girls at his side and standing up.

“Lead the way to your room.”

A few hoots and hollers followed you as he guided you away from the party and into the hallway. "Can't wait to get your hands on me?"

Ignoring him, you followed, your gaze trailing from the back of his neck to his shoulder blades visible through the sheer fabric of his shirt. The muscles rippled as he opened the heavy door of his bedroom, and you had to tear your eyes away before saying something stupid.

The room was as expected, draped in dark green bedding and scattered quidditch gear. The scent of him surrounded you, reminiscent of that damned amortentia brewing session.

While he walks further into the room, you slam the door shut and spin around, “Where the hell do you get off – ”

“Right there.”

“What?” You blink.

“I get off right there.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his bed, “Almost every night, unless I have a match the next day. You know, gotta keep the tension building so I do my best…”

You groan, “You’re unbelievable.” He chuckles a bit and steps closer to you, igniting the nerves that were already high strung, on fire, but you push the thought away, “Why do you feel the need to fuck around with the guys I like.”

“I was trying to win the game. Trust me, you and your relationship was nowhere on my mind.” What a fucking lie, he thinks. “I’m flattered you were thinking about me though.”

“Are you always this full of yourself?” You bite.

He flashes a beaming smile, pearly white teeth on display and you wished you didn’t stare too long at his canines. He had such a pretty smile and you wished you didn’t have to notice it. “When you look like I do, it’s kind of hard not to be.”

“Slytherin suits you, huh?” you sneer.

“Exactly.” He reaches an arm overtop of you and semi cages you against the door and his body, “So now that’s cleared up, can I go back out there and celebrate my win?”

He was so close to you, his lips only inches from your own, and his cologne was wafting up in your face sending you into a daze. God he was so cute, no not cute – hot. He was hot. You wonder what it would feel like to stretch your neck and kiss him. Did he taste how he smelled?

The fucking drink.

Whatever Renjun had given you was reaching your bloodstream way faster than muggle alcohol. You make a mental note to rip his head off later, but for now you turn your attention back to Haechan’s insanely close face.

“You need to realize –”

He cuts you off again, “Look, I’m all for being in here with you, but if you insist on keeping that pretty mouth running, I suggest you put it to good use instead of chastising me.” His eyes flicker from your own to your lips, almost like he was thinking about kissing you just as much as you were thinking about kissing him.

Do it, just kiss me, you think, but different words are said, “You wish.”

“Yeah, I do.” He quips.

“Can’t you be serious for one fucking second you asshole.” A drawn-out groan escapes you as you press your hand against him, hoping to coax him into backing off. Regrettably, he remains a solid wall of muscle and strength, unmoved by your attempts.

“Sorry, it’s just hot when you insult me. Do it again” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and leans in, one hand reaching out to caress the underside of your jaw.

He doesn't know where the newfound confidence was coming from. You were supposed to hate him, yet he had you in his bedroom. The same bedroom where he thought about fucking you. Where he got off to the memories of that goddamn mirror. Where he fantasized about you slotting your thighs on either side of his head, and sitting down on his waiting lips.

You swat his hand away, “Do you have any idea how stupid you are?”

“Not as stupid as you would look with a cock in your mouth.”

Wishful thinking, he muses.

You roll your eyes at his remark, but nonetheless a heat surges between your legs. You would look stupid – but Haechan’s cock in your mouth sounds all too great. “Are you done?”

“Done with what?”

You roll your eyes. Again. “Being an idiot.”

“Would an idiot make you flush so easily like this?” He strokes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips burning against your skin, “See? I make you flustered. You want me. Badly.”

Again, wishful thinking.

“You think I want you badly?” You scoff, a hand coming in contact with his crotch, “You’re the one hard. Do you get off on hurting people?”

“Yes.” He stares into your eyes, a mischievous glint shining in them, “I do.”

“God you’re fucking pathetic.”

He groans and pushes his hips into your hand. “Say it again.”

A loud and drawn-out gasp leaves your lips, “No fucking way you’re getting off on this too.” His dick twitches in his pants at your accusation.

“You talk too much. Just suck my dick already.”

Third times a charm.

Seeing him like that, pliant underneath your hand… it makes your heartbeat erratic and your face flush. You could tell he wanted it, and he wanted it bad, so why didn’t you give in to it? Give in to him? The air around you shifts and whatever it was, it has you lowering yourself down onto the floor so that you were kneeling below him, hands clawing at his belt buckle.

His eyes widen when he realizes what you’re doing. “I was kidd –”

“Is this what you want?” you coo, “Want me on my knees like this?” You slip his belt through the loops slowly and muster up the most innocent smile you could.

“You should stop, I was kidding.” He grunts, forearms tightening when you get his belt off and start on his pants button.

“I think you should shut up.”

He complies and doesn’t say a word while you pull both his pants and boxers down till they pooled around his ankle and he kicked them off.

Lee Donghyuck had a right to be cocky.

His cock sprung up against his abdomen standing tall and hard, clear, sticky precum droplets collecting on his tip. He fidgets under your gaze, but you were in awe at how big he was.

“Are you just gonna look at it?” He whines, one of his hands wrapping around your head and fisting tightly in your hair, “At least kiss it or something.”

You watched him twitch slightly as the cold air met his length, and again when your hand wandered past his thigh to grip him in your palm, squeezing him tightly at the base. He shivers into your touch, “You have a pretty dick.”

“So, I’ve been told.” He all but moans and tries to bring your head forward.

His neediness draws you closer, and you take him in your mouth. He was heavy and sweet, so fucking right for you that you don’t think straight and take him all the way in till he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck.” He groans, holding your head down till you were choking and batting his thighs.

When he lets up, you gasp for air though you don’t find yourself mad, instead, you feel the fire in your stomach growing hotter and the wetness in your panties pooling.

“Ke-Keep going.” He stutters, the intent was strong, but his words broke in the moment.

You turn you head and lick from the base of his cock to his tip, relishing the way he bucks his hips into your fist. A rosy blush covers his neck and cheeks when you look up at him. When you meet his doe eyes, they were hooded with lust. For a split second he watches you lick all over him, giving a few small kisses on his tip, before he rolls his head back and closes his eyes.

Messily, you spit on his tip, using your hands to spread it down his length and he groans into the stilled air. “You’re so fucking hot.”

“So, I’ve been told.” You mock his earlier words, and his hold on your hair tightens as a warning.

Rolling your eyes, you take him in your mouth again, leaving your hand to pump his base while you harshly suck at his hot skin. He tries to push into the back of your throat again but knowing that you couldn’t take him again without choking, you dig your nails into his thighs, leaving him to shamelessly whimper out.

“Your mouth feels so fucking good baby.” He grunts, losing himself in the way your warm mouth glides down his length, and the right amount of pressure you’re squeezing around his base. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was your cunt he was pounding into.

You hum around his cock at the praise and repeat your movements, slightly taken aback by his pet name. In the back corner of your mind, you hope it was just a slip of the tongue.

The alcohol had too much of a hold on you to think about anything else other taking his cock down your throat, and loving every second. 

His chest begins to heave, and his legs start to shake bit as you draw him deeper down your throat, and when you look up, you notice his curious eyes watching you. He thinks about unbuttoning his shirt but pushes the thought aside when you erratically rub the underside of his length with your tongue.

“Bet you love the taste of my cock.” He whispers and you moan around a mouthful of him, the vibrations sending him into a euphoric head high.

He wasn’t wrong. You loved this, loved the feeling of having him slightly submissive under you with his dominant nature peeking through a bit.

It felt like a fucking dream.

“Can I cum down your throat?”

You’re shocked that he’s close already, but with the palpable tension beforehand acting like foreplay, you shouldn’t be. You try and nod to the best of your ability and you guess he gets the message because he’s fisting your hair again and drawing you close, a string of curses falling from his lips.

Uncontrollable gasps and grunts leave him as he fucks your throat, leaving you to helplessly take it – take all of him, and before you know it, hot white cum is shooting down your throat, his head thrown back as he snaps his hips against your face.

You felt like a rag doll in his grip but that didn’t matter right now, all that mattered was swallowing his arousal, a bit of it landing on your tongue and while you thought it was going to taste salty, you’re mildly surprised to find its sweet.

“My god, I can’t believe you actually did that.”  He pants, moving to put his slacks back on while you stand up and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “I – Thank you.”

A darker blush flushes on his face and he turns to you now fully dressed. He wasn’t sure what to say now, and that was a first for him.

“Are you happy?” You spit, a bout of spite coming out of nowhere, “Did you get what you wanted? Will you leave me and Jeno alone now?”

He stumbles back like your words had a physical effect on him, “What are you talking about? You dragged me in here?”

Where did the sudden flip of emotion come from? One minute you had his cock in your mouth and the next you’re yelling at him again. The both of you can’t come up with an answer, but somewhere in your brain you knew it was your way of trying to convince yourself the rising feelings you were having towards him weren’t a thing; would never be a thing.

“Just leave me and Jeno alone now. Okay?”

You straighten your blouse and fix your hair before opening the door behind you and storming out. He tries to follow you, half stumbling through the hall till he was out in the party again where his friends clap him on the back, congratulating him on ‘hitting that yellow tail’, but he can’t find it in himself to smile and jeer back. All he does is watch you storm away, his friend Renjun reaching out for you. Your dormmates try and stop you but you blow past them and round the corner where the door to the stairs were.

Should he let you go?

Or should he follow?

"Fuck this."

TAGLIST. @txpxwxk @sunshinedhyuck @honeym4rk2 @saenora @peachjaem00 @grassbutneo @capri-cuntz @seajae @kenmathegreat @aliceinwhateverland @fraechan @monyuno @meowniee @ggukkyu @quarter-life-crisis2 @nominsgirl @dewydew @httpxelysian11 @rainyjeno

[httpxelysian11]

I’ve waited for this moment.. and it did NOT disappoint 😍😍 and I KNEW it wouldn’t! They’re so good 🖤🖤 I luv it, so ik you will too. Read it!