#It comes out on a Wednesday man I have school that day

[bloumiiss]

Gay Cookies Confirmed. /j

If you don’t hear from me for weeks after the update comes out, assume I exploded from excitement, or I’m cooking up the most delicious works of ShadowVanilla art and pestering Bloomie to make more angsty fanfics. ((o(^∇^)o))

[cressidagrey]

Didn't come up

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary:  5 times another driver/teammate of Oscar found out about Felicity or Bee. 

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Logan Sergeant - 2016 - Formula 4 UAE 

Oscar Piastri had just finished reviewing telemetry with his engineer when Logan Sargeant flopped down beside him on a folding chair like he’d been personally wronged by the concept of humidity in Abu Dhabi.

“You guys always this sweaty in Melbourne?” Logan asked, swiping at his forehead with a water bottle and missing.

Oscar smirked. “Not unless you’re karting uphill in January.”

Logan leaned back, rocking the chair onto two legs. “You’re weirdly calm for someone who just overtook half the grid on turn three.”

Oscar shrugged. “Had to. The inside line was open.”

Logan whistled low. “You Aussies are built different.”

There was a beat of silence, filled with the clatter of wheel guns and distant shouting from a team manager on the other side of the paddock.

Then Logan nudged him. “You bringing anyone to the next round? Girlfriend? Family?”

Oscar blinked. “Uh, no, she’s in school.”

Logan perked up. “So you do have a girlfriend.”

Oscar nodded. “Her name’s Felicity.”

“Oh, fancy,” Logan said, smirking.

Oscar just shrugged again, but this time it’s a little more self-conscious. “She’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. Like… scary smart.”

Logan laughed. “Dude. You’re literally doing physics problems between sessions.”

“Yeah, and she’s the one who checks them.”

That got a double take.

“Wait, how old is she?”

“Fifteen. Same year as me.”

“And she checks your work?”

Oscar looked at him, deadpan. “She once rewrote my entire MATLAB script for a school project because the code was inefficient.”

“...I don’t even know what a MATLAB is.”

Oscar finally cracked a grin. “Exactly.”

Logan leant back on his palms, looking vaguely awed. “Damn. Is she into racing too?”

Oscar’s face softened. “She watches every livestream. Even the janky ones that lag and buffer every five seconds. Says she likes seeing how I figure things out under pressure.”

“Supportive and a genius?” Logan whistled. “You’re punching, man.”

“I know,” Oscar said without hesitation.

And that’s the thing — he said it without irony, without doubt, like it’s just fact. Like Felicity  was a fixture in his life the same way racing is. Like even here, on the other side of the world, in a sport designed to chew you up, she was still his anchor.

Logan watched him for a moment, then grinned. “Alright then, Piastri. Guess I gotta step up. You’re out here with a rocket science girlfriend and a podium finish.”

Oscar shrugged again, but there’s a glint of pride in his eyes. “She’s not into big shows. Just… likes when I try hard.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Sounds like she keeps you grounded.”

“She does,” Oscar said. “She’s the reason I remember to eat lunch most days.”

“Bro,” Logan said, mock serious. “Marry her.”

Oscar didn’t laugh.

He just sips his water, quiet for a beat.

Then: “I might.”

Logan blinks. “You’re fifteen.”

Oscar shrugs. “Still might.”

***

Max Fewtrell - 2018 - Formula Renault Eurocup

Max Fewtrell had exactly three things in his race day ritual:

Complain about the weather, regardless of what it was actually doing.

Eat like he hadn’t seen a carb since Wednesday.

Steal food off anyone who had a better lunch than he did.

So when something absolutely divine — chili, soy, sesame, and maybe the faintest whiff of wok hei — drifted across the Renault Eurocup paddock, Max paused mid-wrap-unfurl, frowned at the damp tortilla in his hands, and began scanning the area like a bloodhound on a mission.

He didn’t have to look far.

Under one of the team canopies, Oscar Piastri was seated like a picture of tranquility. Legs crossed, back straight, Tupperware open on his lap. And, insult to injury, the kid was using actual chopsticks, not a spork like the rest of the peasants.

Max narrowed his eyes. He knew that smell.

“…Is that char kway teow?” he asked, tone already accusatory.

Oscar didn’t look up. Just plucked another glistening noodle from the box like this was a tea ceremony and not a war crime.

“Yes,” he replied, bone dry.

Max was already halfway to him. “Where did you even get that? We’re in France. I’ve had nothing but beige food for a week. A week, Oscar.”

Oscar finally glanced up, entirely serene. “My girlfriend made it. Sent it with me.”

“Wait, you have a girlfriend?”

Oscar nodded. “Felicity. She’s in school back in Britain. Singaporean-Chinese. Makes the best food I’ve ever had.”

Max stood there in silence for a beat, the betrayal setting in.

Oscar, sensing it, took another elegant bite.

Max’s mouth opened. “Does she—”

“No,” Oscar cut in, flat as a carbon fiber board. “I’m not sharing.”

Max stared. “That’s not very sportsmanlike of you.”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Neither was that last overtake into Turn 4, but here we are.”

Max scowled, reached into his sad lunch wrap, and hurled a bit of limp lettuce at him.

Oscar dodged it with the kind of slow ease that made it worse. “Also,” he added, “she packed chili crisp and garlic oil in the bottom layer. You’d cry.”

“I’m already crying,” Max muttered, slumping into the folding chair next to him. “Mate’s got a literal food goddess and refuses to share. Unbelievable.”

Oscar, not even looking up from his noodles: “Get your own Felicity.”

***

Frederik Vesti - 2020 - Formula 3 

Frederik blinked blearily across the team truck as Oscar Piastri walked in looking like the ghost of someone who used to sleep.

His hair was sticking up at odd angles, his hoodie was inside out, and there was a faint stain on his jeans that looked suspiciously like dried milk. He held a coffee cup like it was an IV drip.

“You okay, mate?” Frederik asked cautiously, watching as Oscar shuffled toward the breakfast table and missed the toaster by a good six inches.

Oscar made a sound that might have been “fine” or might have been “fire,” but either way it came out in a low rasp and was not convincing.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Six days,” Oscar muttered, blinking like he was trying to reboot.

Frederik laughed — and then froze.

Oscar didn’t laugh back. He just stood there, buttering toast in slow motion, like a man trying to remember what gravity was.

“…Wait. Are you actually serious?”

Oscar nodded faintly. “She sleeps during the day. But at night she just…screams. And if she’s not screaming, I keep checking to see if she’s breathing.”

“She?”

Oscar blinked again and finally looked at him. “Bee.”

Frederik stared.

Oscar seemed to realize something. “Oh. Right. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what, exactly?” Frederik said very slowly, like he was trying to diffuse a bomb.

Oscar sipped his coffee. “That I’m married. Or that I have a baby now. Probably both.”

Frederik dropped his spoon. “YOU’RE WHAT?”

Oscar looked vaguely apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. It wasn’t exactly a press release moment.”

Frederik gaped. “How do you have a wife? We’ve been teammates all year. You’ve literally never mentioned her.”

Oscar shrugged. “We’ve been married since I was 18. Felicity. She’s private. Doesn’t like attention.”

Frederik opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Okay. Wow. But… a baby? When? How?”

“She was born two weeks ago. Her name’s Bee. Emergency C-section. Heart surgery twenty-three minutes after birth.  NICU for a bit. My wife nearly died.  They’re home now. I’m… here.”

Frederik stared.

“You’re telling me that over break, you became a dad, your baby had surgery, your wife almost died, and you just—what? Came back to work like it was fine?”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair and yawned so hard it looked painful. “Felicity told me to. Said she wanted something to feel normal again.“

Frederik sat down heavily next to him. “And you’re just here. Like it’s nothing.”

Oscar stared blankly at the table. “It’s not nothing. But if I stop moving, I think I’ll fall apart.”

Frederik nodded slowly. Then slid the entire plate of toast in front of Oscar and said, “Alright. First of all, you’re eating. Second, I’m buying you a real coffee. And third—what the hell do you mean your baby had open heart surgery?”

Oscar’s voice was quiet, but steady. “She has a congenital defect. Total anomalous pulmonary venous return. They caught it late. If they’d waited ten more minutes, she wouldn’t have made it.”

Frederik swallowed. “Jesus.”

Oscar looked down at his hands. “She’s so small. But she’s alive.”

And for the first time that morning, Oscar smiled—just a little. Not smug, not tired. Just real.

Frederik exhaled hard, then clapped a hand on his teammate’s shoulder. “Okay. That’s a lot. But… Bee, huh?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

“…Short for anything?”

Oscar finally laughed. “Beatrice Nicole. I call her Bumblebee.”

 “And your wife? Is she okay? ”

“She’s… alive. Still recovering. Scared the shit out of me.” Oscar’s voice cracked a little, not enough to draw attention unless you were really listening. “Bee’s okay too. She’s so small. Looks like her, though. Stronger than both of us.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was heavy, with the weight of things too big to say.

Finally, Frederik said quietly, “You could’ve told someone.”

Oscar just shook his head. “Didn’t want anyone to look at me different. Didn’t want it to be a thing. I just… wanted to drive. And go home to them.”

Frederik swallowed. “You’re completely mental.”

Oscar let out a soft, tired laugh. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Frederik: “Do you… have pictures?”

Oscar blinked at him, surprised. Then, slowly, he reached for his phone. “Yeah. I do.”

He opened the gallery and held it out.

Frederik stared at the screen. A baby, impossibly small, swaddled in tubes and wires, and then later — the same baby, wide-eyed and soft-cheeked, curled up against a woman who looked tired but alive. Felicity.

Bee.

“Holy shit,” Frederik said softly. “She’s beautiful.”

Oscar smiled — faint but real. “Yeah. She is.”

Later that night, Frederik found an unopened tin of Danish butter cookies in his suitcase — his mum’s habit. He wrapped it in a tea towel, walked down the hotel hall, and left it outside Oscar’s door.

There was a note on top:

For Bee’s dad. You’re doing great. Also: eat something that isn’t caffeine and stress. – F.

He didn’t expect a reply.

But the next morning, Oscar showed up to the track with a new glint of determination — and crumbs on his race suit.

***

Robert Shwarztman - 2021 - Formula 2 

Robert was halfway through complaining about the catering — again — when Oscar, staring down at his phone with the vaguely amused look of someone reading a text that was either romantic or absurd, said casually:

“I’ve gotta head off soon. I’m having dinner with my wife.”

Silence.

Not dramatic silence. Not shocked silence. Just the stunned, mechanical silence of Robert’s brain hitting the brakes so hard it metaphorically flew through the windshield.

“…your what?” Robert said, voice slightly higher than normal.

Oscar glanced up, blinking innocently. “My wife. Felicity. She flew in this morning.”

Robert stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re married.”

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

Oscar just shrugged. “2019.”

Robert’s brain promptly short-circuited. “You’ve been married for two years and you’re telling me now? After how many plane rides? How many post-race meals? You didn’t think to mention, ‘Hey by the way, I have a wife?’”

Oscar shrugged, annoyingly calm. “Didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up,” Robert echoed, scandalized. “You once spent forty-five minutes explaining tire degradation to a hotel receptionist, but telling me you’re married ‘didn’t come up’?”

Oscar made a mild face. “She doesn’t like the attention. We keep it private.”

“And what? One day you’ll just casually mention a kid and expect me not to die on the spot?”

Oscar, very blandly: “I have a daughter too.”

Robert actually choked on his water. “YOU WHAT—”

Oscar patted him on the back like he wasn’t the cause of the sudden respiratory emergency. “Bee. She’s a few months old.”

Robert’s eye twitched. “You’re twenty. You have a wife. A baby. You’re leading the championship. What the hell, are you trying to speedrun adulthood?!”

Oscar shrugged again. “I like being married.”

Robert stood, flailing slightly. “I’m going to dinner alone with my phone and my disappointment. And you’re going to dinner with your secret wife. Which is apparently a normal Tuesday.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “You want to meet her tomorrow? She bakes.”

Robert froze.

“…What kind of bakes?”

Oscar’s smile deepened. “Everything.  Banana Bread. Muffins. Cookies. Sometimes Russian tea cakes, too. She made kuih lapis once.”

“…Okay,” Robert muttered, sitting down again like he wasn’t suddenly plotting to steal baked goods from this phantom wife. “But I’m still mad.”

Oscar nodded, texting again. “She says hi, by the way.”

Robert groaned.

***

Arthur Leclerc - 2021 - Prema Racing

Arthur was late.

Not by much — just ten minutes — but enough that René had already scolded him and a camera guy gave him the “we’ve been waiting” look as he jogged into the main corridor. He adjusted his team jacket, made a face at his reflection in the nearest window, and was mid-yawn when he nearly collided with someone in the hallway.

“Oh—sorry—"

Then he stopped.

Because Oscar Piastri — reigning Formula 3 champion, king of emotional neutrality, man who once did an entire sim race in silence — was standing in front of a wall of sponsor boards, holding a baby.

A real, actual baby.

A little girl with soft wispy curls, round cheeks, and a pale pink hoodie with a cartoon duck on the front. She had one hand gripping Oscar’s suit collar and the other stuffed into her mouth, wide eyes peeking curiously over his shoulder.

Arthur blinked. “Uhh… Oscar?”

Oscar looked up like this was entirely normal. “Hey.”

Arthur pointed at the baby. “Is that… Are you… Is that yours?”

The little girl turned her head toward the sound of Arthur’s voice, then immediately buried her face in Oscar’s neck like she’d seen enough. Oscar just patted her back gently and said, “Yeah. This is Bee.”

“Bee,” Arthur echoed, stunned. “You have a secret kid?”

Oscar blinked. “She’s not a secret. I just don’t usually bring her to work.”

“Right,” Arthur said faintly. “Of course. Naturally. And the mother?”

“My wife,” Oscar said casually. “Felicity. She’s finishing her finals this week. We couldn’t find a sitter. Bee’s very well-behaved, don’t worry.”

Arthur blinked so hard he lost a second of vision. “Your wife. You have a wife and a child. At twenty.”

Oscar glanced down at Bee, who had gone back to watching Arthur like he was a strange bird. She was perfectly quiet. Just blinking with wide dark eyes, cuddled into her father’s chest like she’d been born there.

Arthur lowered his voice. “She’s… really cute.”

Oscar’s whole face softened. “Yeah. She’s the best.”

Bee made a little hum and patted Oscar’s jaw with one tiny hand. Then Bee let out a soft, babbly coo, and Arthur’s heart actually melted.

Like. Melted.

He wasn’t even a baby person, but this one? This tiny, polite, shy creature who clung to Oscar like a koala and looked like she might cry if anyone but her dad so much as waved? She was precious. Immaculate. Possibly the best-behaved human he’d ever seen.

“Can I say hi?” Arthur asked, voice softening instinctively.

Oscar glanced at Bee. “Bee, you wanna say hi?”

Bee peeked at Arthur again from the safety of Oscar’s shoulder. Considered him. Then blinked, solemn, and shook her head no.

Arthur laughed. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“She’s just shy,” Oscar said. “She’s been great all day. Napped during media briefings. Didn’t touch anything. I think she thinks she’s undercover.”

“Mate,” Arthur said, stunned, “if I ever brought a baby into this building, she’d be on the pit wall with a wrench in her mouth in five minutes.”

Oscar just smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “She’s used to being around cars. I think the engine noises soothe her.”

Arthur had so many questions. So many.

But instead, he stayed a respectful distance away, and said, “Hi Bee. I’m Arthur. I drive too.”

Bee blinked at him. Then, very quietly, said, “Papa drives fast.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. “She talks?”

Oscar nodded, utterly casual. “She’s started picking up words. Mostly about food and racing. Priorities.”

Arthur put a hand to his chest. “I’m gonna cry. Why is your kid so perfect?”

Oscar just bounced Bee gently in his arms and said, “Because she’s her mother’s daughter.”

Bee gave a soft coo, and when Oscar shifted her gently into a little carrier wrap on his chest, she snuggled in like this was her natural state of being: attached to Papa and silently judging anyone else in the room.

Arthur just shook his head and muttered, “I’m still not over this. You’re not allowed to be this good at racing and parenting. It’s unfair.”

Oscar looked down at his daughter, kissed the top of her head, and said simply, “She’s the only trophy that matters.”

And Arthur, who had come to media day ready to talk about tyre degradation, now had to pretend he wasn’t this close to tearing up in front of the marketing team.

***

[alanisstonedd]

busted | singledad!ony x teacher!reader

an: so cute! i love themmmm. i’ve had this one in the drafts for a while now yall, please enjoy! send me ya nasty asks

cw: fluff, suggestive themes, black!reader, cussing, single dad

you hear a soft knock, blinking up from your laptop a little confused. it’s 1:30 and your kids are in science, currently grading with the little free time you do have today - you certainly were not expecting any meetings.

but when you focus your eyes on the figure at the door, you don’t even know why you didn’t expect that shit. amira’s father is once again standing in your classroom doorway, shoulders broad as hell in a white tee and grey sweats, clutching a little pink jacket in one thick hand. go figure.

you squint, not only at his unplanned appearance at 1:30 on a wednesday, but more so at the jacket “it’s… 85 degrees.” you can already smell the con he came in here tryna fool you with

he shrugs, biting his lip like he don’t even care about the excuse anymore. but he locks eyes with you and steps in slowly like he hasn’t been here a million times already. “mm — yeah, she said she was cold earlier. y’know kids. gotta be on go.”

you fold your arms, smiling despite yourself. he really is relentless — this is like the fourth time he’s been in here this week and you’re only three days in. “they in the art room right now, ony.” you sing-song, standing up and rounding your desk to give him your full attention. i mean he’s already here, smelling like you wanna climb him until your legs are around his head… it would be rude to not give him at least a second of your time.

“oh, word?” he steps farther in, looking around like he’s seeing it for the first time or something. “well… I could just leave it.” he mumbles, licking his lips at you, and it feels like he just turned the heat on in here.

this is precisely why you hate him coming in here like this — because as soon as you see that big ass frame tryna bust out of that white tee, that sweet smile that also somehow says “i’ll man-handle you and wear yo ass out”, and what maybe or may not be a bulge inbetween two huge thighs that you’re unsuccessfully trying to avoid… you fold like a damn chair. your will power is never strong enough to withstand this man and his apparently unyielding desire to see you.

but he doesn’t “just leave it”, of course, the man always has another plan.

instead, he sets it on amira’s desk and plops into the nearest tiny chair. you almost bust out laughing at how ridiculous he looks — this ass big man, all thick thighs and grown-man muscle, folded into a desk built for 7-year-olds.

you lean against your own desk, raising an eyebrow. you can’t help but smile at him grinning up at you like he’s so happy with himself. but he knows you already folded.

“you good, mr. ony?”

“mhmm.” he tilts his head, eyes trailing over your frame. drinking you in. wishing you’d move a little closer so he could reach for those hips. “you look real good today miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧. real professional. definitely too fine to be up in this school single…”

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “you here to flirt with me or to bring your child’s unnecessary outerwear?”

“it can’t be both? you know i need my miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ time…” he says, full grin, unabashedly and very obviously undressing you in his head.

“mhm, you a piece of work ony.” you’re trying to keep it together — you really are. hut this man’s sitting there all big and broad, sweats straining against his big ass legs in that tiny chair, hand stroking his sexy ass beard while he watches you like you’re art — eyes shining like the things he’s imagining doing to you right now have no place in this classroom

“so how’s your day been, miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧?” he asks, and all the sudden you’re hot with just those simple words, his voice all low and seductive. “you eat somethin’ today? drink your water? anybody holla at you yet or i’m the first lucky man?”

you tilt your head, snickering. “is that how you talk to every teacher?”. you sass back, fronting like you don’t want his flirting but you can’t deny the fanny flutters you get when he comes in thirsty for you.

he leans forward, tryna reel you in even closer than you already are, resting his arms on the tiny desk like it’s the most natural thing in the world. little does he know, you wanna lock that damn door and show him off-the-clock you.

“nah,” he says, eyes glinting with that mischief that makes your clit throb. he knows he got you — or at least got your attention. “just the one i’m tryna take out for dinner… then dessert… and then breakfast.”

your breath catches, and he immediately sees that shit because he’s been watching you like a hawk since he came in here. watching you every move, your beautiful face and all your expressions like he wants to know every single one you have, jealous of the way your hands get to hold your juicy hips and thighs.

he stands up realllll slow, walking toward you, caging you in — close enough that the desk’s edge is flush against your booty, that the heat from his big frame is making your face hot. making all of you hot. you try to stay calm. professional. but his voice drops to that dangerous whisper.

“y’know how hard it is not to grab yo fine ass and kiss you every time I see you?”

you blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck and down into your pussy. his hands on the desk behind you, boxing you in, his hips dangerously close to your hips.

“ony, this is not—”

his hand slides up your thigh slow like he wants you to feel it, hiking your leg up just slightly against his body. he leans in slow enough to show you he’s not scared, lips barely brushing yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s starving. he wants you in his bed already. the holding-back is not for him, but if he keeps this up, he might do something regrettable in this elementary school classroom.

then, suddenly, just as you’re about to lean in and suck his tongue like yall are alone, his hands gripping you up and pressing you against him like he craves to do every damn day —

SLAM.

the classroom door swings open.

you jump against your desk. he steps back lightning fast, not ashamed but… you could loose your job right? ‘course he wants to have you, but ideally without that possibility.

amira skips in like she owns the place, completely oblivious to the little situation happening in there just moments before.

“hi miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧! miss smith said i could come get my water bottle!”

she grabs it off her desk, “oh, hi daddy…” and gives you both a sweet little wave before skipping back the way she came in…

but she pauses mid-skip and turns around…she squints at you both like she knows something, then smiles like the devil. she lets out a little “mhm..” before continuing on her way back to science class.

but not before blurting “quit kissin’ on the mouth with the door unlocked!” you hear a sneaky giggle and then she’s skipping right out the door before yall can even speak.

you and ony are still frozen in shock — then BURSTING out laughing. he collapses forward into you, head on your shoulder, muffling a full-body laugh into your shirt while you wheeze with one hand over your heart. she too smart for her age.

you shake your head, smirking. “you ain’t right, mr. ony. almost got our asses busted.”

he grins into your shoulder, like he doesn’t even care. “she really said on the mouth… we wasn’t even…”

© 2025 alanisstonedd. all rights reserved — do not steal, plagiarize, or modify my content.

hope yall liked this! likes, comments, reblogs and all the rest are much appreciated!!

xoxo, lani 💋💋💋

[vunblr]

Foundations (#2)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms (Bucky).

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 7.7.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

From Monday to Wednesday, Bucky didn’t take Thomas to kindergarten. He had been away on a mission with Clint, retrieving classified data from a transnational drug dealer organization in Canada before it could disappear for good. It had been a tense operation that required more patience than Bucky liked to admit, but they got the job done.

By Thursday, despite the pounding migraine drilling into his skull, he took Thomas to school. He was exhausted, but after three days away, he wasn’t about to keep the kid out of his routine any longer, and he didn’t want to burden Sam and Steve any longer.

As they approached the entrance, his gaze landed on her. She was holding several small gift bags, and just as he got closer, he saw another parent handing her a neatly wrapped package.

“…Really, thank you so much for taking such good care of Flore. We’re going to miss you,” the man said warmly.

Bucky blinked.

Oh.

Goodbye gifts.

It made sense. That was the polite thing to do, a simple gesture of appreciation. Good manners, acknowledgment of familiarity.

And yet, he had neither thought of it nor had the time to get her anything.

When he finally reached the door with Thomas, she greeted him with the same smile as always, showing no sign of expecting anything from him.

“Well aren’t you popular” he tried to joke.

“Being popular doesn’t pay the rent, but is nice.” She high-fived Thomas, ruffling his hair slightly before he ran off to join the other kids. Bucky watched him go, blinking a couple of times as he watched the child merge with the others.

When he turned back to her, she was shifting her weight slightly, grazing the strap of her bag with her fingers as if debating something.

Then, with a quick breath, she asked, “Are you alright?”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“Mr. Rog- Steve mentioned you were working when he dropped Thomas off these past few days, and-” she hesitated, scanning his face. “No offense, but you look a little… drained.”

His lips parted slightly, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. For a moment, he just looked at her, and she felt the creeping sense that maybe she’d overstepped.

“I’m sorry if-”

“Um, no.” He ran a gloved hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. “It’s alright. I just have a migraine and I just…” He trailed off, as if even speaking was an effort.

Her expression softened, and before she could think twice, she was already rummaging through her jacket pockets. “Oh, that’s the worst. Here-“

She pulled out a pair of sunglasses and held them out to him.

Bucky squinted slightly at her, blinking like he wasn’t sure if she was serious.

“Do you have photophobia right now?” she asked, tilting her head as she studied him.

His mouth opened, then closed. “…What?”

“The light,” she clarified, nudging the glasses toward him. “Is it making it worse?”

A beat. Then, reluctantly, “Yeah.”

She stepped just a little closer, enough that he caught the faintest trace of something floral on her scarf. “Take them,” she said. “I won’t be using them until later, and you can give them back when you pick up Thomas.”

Bucky glanced down at the sunglasses hesitatingly.

“They’re unisex,” she added, a small teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You won’t look weird.”

His fingers brushed against hers as he finally took them, and neither of them moved away for a second too long.

“…Thanks,” he murmured, slipping them on.

----

Bucky lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pills to kick in. A blister and a half. He needed his damn metabolism to cooperate for once. Just this once.

He shifted to his side, his landing his gaze on the sunglasses resting on the nightstand.

You look a little drained, she had said.

And he was.

Years ago, he wouldn’t have fought it. He would’ve just rotted in his apartment, letting time blur, barely moving, barely breathing until the serum forced his body to reset. He wouldn’t have eaten, wouldn’t have showered, wouldn’t have cared. Just waited it out in silence, in the dark, until the worst of it passed.

But that wasn’t an option anymore.

Not with Thomas in the house.

He didn’t want the kid worrying about things he shouldn’t have to. He’d already seen how distressed Thomas got when Bucky was too hurt, how his small hands would clutch at his sleeves, how his big blue eyes would fill with silent fear when he witnessed one of Bucky’s episodes.

So, he sucked it up.

He couldn’t rely on Steve or Sam every time. If he was here, he was the only one responsible for Thomas’s care. That was the job. That was what mattered.

Which meant that in the few hours Thomas was at kindergarten, Bucky would do the only thing he could, lie here, breathe through the pain, and hope that by the time pickup rolled around, he’d be functional.

----

By the time pickup rolled around, Bucky had already forced himself out of the apartment. The migraine had dulled into something manageable, not gone, but tolerable. He could function. That was enough.

Still, instead of walking straight up to the gate, he lingered nearby, half-hidden as he watched the other parents pick up their kids, exchanging smiles and small talk. He let the minutes slip by, waiting until only a handful of them remained before finally making his way forward.

He lifted a hand in a small wave, keeping his distance. Thomas spotted him instantly, and his little face lighted up as he ran toward him.

She, however, hesitated. Her brows pulled together slightly as she noticed Bucky wasn’t approaching fully, like he was deliberately keeping himself at the edge of things. But, instead thinking too much into it, she turned back to say goodbye to the remaining children.

Eventually, she moved toward the entrance, ready to grab her things and head out, until Thomas’s voice rang out behind her.

She barely had time to turn before the kid came bounding up to her, gripping a slightly wild but lovely bouquet of daisies.

“These are for you!” he announced, a little breathless from the run.

Blinking in surprise, she knelt down. “For me?”

Thomas nodded eagerly, holding the flowers out with both hands. “We’ll miss you!” Then, with great importance, he added, “Daddy says that if you put an aspirnin-  aspren- aspirine in the water, they’ll stay fresher for longer.”

She let out a soft, surprised laugh before her gaze caught on something tucked between the stems. A small card, slightly crumpled from Thomas’s grip.

Thank you for everything. Barnes Family

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, pulling Thomas into a warm hug. The boy giggled, squeezing her back before darting off toward his dad.

She swallowed, glancing past Thomas toward the gate.

Bucky was still standing back, his gaze unreadable behind the sunglasses she had lent him that morning. When he noticed her looking, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

She smiled, tightening her fingers gently around the bouquet. Then she watched them go, and turned to walk inside, with slower steps.

The flowers had moved her more than they should have.

Almost every parent had given her a small farewell gift: a box of chocolates, a scented candle, a handwritten note. All sweet gestures, all appreciated. But somehow, this felt different. More personal. More thoughtful.

Maybe it was because Thomas had delivered them with such excitement, his little hands gripping the stems like they were something important. Maybe it was that it’s been ages since someone gave her flowers.

Or maybe… it was because he was the one who bought them. And, she liked the idea more than she was willing to admit.

----

Friday morning, it was Steve who arrived at the kindergarten gate with Thomas.

The boy clung to his uncle’s hand, his usual energy was dimmed, and when he saw her, he only offered a small wave instead of his usual eager greeting.

She crouched slightly, offering him a gentle smile. “Good morning, Thomas.”

He mumbled a quiet “Morning” back, shifting on his feet.

Steve exhaled, giving her an apologetic look as he handed over the sunglasses she had lent Bucky the day before. “He wanted to stay home with his dad,” he explained. “Bucky’s… indisposed. If he seems a little off today, that’s probably why.”

She took the sunglasses, brushing her fingers briefly against the frame before slipping them into her pocket. “Oh, is he sick?”

Steve hesitated, a fraction of a second too long. Then, with an tight smile, he nodded. “Still dealing with that migraine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t the full truth, either.

The truth was more complicated.

Since coming back from the mission with Clint, Bucky had suffered a couple of seizures, probably triggered by stress and fatigue. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Just another mark Hydra had left on his body, a collateral damage from years of forced resets in the chair.

The migraines, the memory lapses, the muscle spasms, Bucky had learned to live with those. But the seizures were the worst. They left him wrecked afterward, his body aching like he’d been through a fight he didn’t remember.

So no, he wasn’t just indisposed.

But Steve wasn’t going to tell her that.

Not when Bucky would rather chew glass than let people see him vulnerable.

----

Thomas was quieter than usual that day. He followed the routine, sat in his usual spot during storytime, and played alongside his classmates, but there was a certain way in his movements, like his mind was elsewhere.

During free play, as she helped a group of kids build a tower with wooden blocks, Thomas suddenly looked up at her, furrowing his little brows in thought.

“Um Miss…?”

She smiled. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do adults get more hurt than kids when they fall?” he asked, tilting his head. “Because they’re sooo tall?”

She chuckled at the logic. “It’s about the same for everyone,” she explained gently. “Sometimes kids bounce back quickly, and sometimes adults do, too. It just depends on how they fall.”

Thomas pursed his lips, considering that. Then, after a pause, he murmured, “Oh. That’s good. I was afraid Daddy was hurt.”

Something in her chest tightened.

She kept her voice even. “Why’s that, honey?”

Thomas didn’t seem to think much of the question, busy stacking blocks on top of each other. “’Cause sometimes Daddy falls a lot.” The words were so casual, so absentminded, that it took her a second to process them.

Her grip on the wooden block in her hand tightened slightly. “He does?”

Thomas nodded, completely unaware of the weight his words carried. “Not all the time,” he added quickly, as if to reassure her. “Just sometimes. And then he gets really tired after.”

She swallowed, keeping her expression neutral. “I see.”

Thomas hummed in response, satisfied with her answer, and went back to his building, already distracted by something else.

But she wasn’t.

She watched him for a moment longer, as her mind quietly turned over what he’d just said. Something about Thomas’s words unsettled her, but at the end of the day, it wasn’t really her business.

It would be weird to ask Steve, and even if she did, what could she say? Hey, Thomas mentioned his dad falls a lot, should I be worried? No. That wasn’t her place.

So she let it be.

But the thought kept occupying her mind. Especially because today was her last full class with the kids. The festival was over the weekend, and then that was it. Monday would come, and Jane would take over.

Maybe that was why, glancing around to make sure the other kids weren’t watching, she pulled two lollipops from her pocket. With a little wink, she placed them in his small hands. “Make sure your dady gets one, okay? And… I hope he feels better soon,” she said gently.

Thomas nodded, tucking the candies into his pocket. “Thank you, me too.”

----

Steve arrived to pick up Thomas just in time, jogging to the gate to greet the boy and ruffle his hair. Then he turned toward her. “How’d he do today?”

She smiled, though there was something… sad in it. “Pretty good, considering he was feeling a little down. I uh- hope James is recovering well.” she stuttered a little. Then, with a small smile, she added, “It’d be wonderful to have you both at the festival. Steve smiled. “But in case you can’t make it, and we don’t see each other again…” she fidgeted lightly with the strap of her bag before she continued, “I just wanted to thank you for helping us with the booths.”

Steve quirked a brow, puzzled.

That’s when she realized, he didn’t know.

Of course, why would he? It’s not like Thomas’s father would go out of his way to mention her to his friend.

“Oh, um… I’m just the substitute teacher,” she explained, suddenly feeling awkward. “The titular returns on Monday.”

Steve’s jaw ticked slightly. “Oh. Bucky didn’t- that’s a shame. After all these months, the kids must be super attached.”

She exhaled a little, nodding. “Yeah, it’s tough to leave them.”

He tilted his head. “Do you… have another school lined up?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m still looking for openings. In the meantime, I mostly fill the idle time nannying.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly like he was filing that information away. “Makes sense.” Then, with an easy smile, he clapped Thomas on the back and said, “Well, ma’am, I’ll definitely be coming tomorrow for those pies, Bucky or no Bucky. And who knows? Maybe I’ll bring some people along.”

There was something in his tone that made her blink, like he was already planning something she wasn’t in on.

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Should I be worried?”

Steve just grinned. “Nah. Just keep an eye out.”

-----

Bucky shifted on the couch when Steve and Thomas entered the apartment,  resting his elbows on his thighs as he leaned forward. He offered the kid a tired smile. “Hey, bud. Go wash your hands and I’ll make you some cocoa.”

Thomas nodded obediently, padding toward the bathroom.

The second he was out of earshot, Steve dropped onto the couch next to Bucky. “So… Tommy’s teacher told me she’s leaving.” He stated casually.

Bucky’s jaw clenched and then grunted. A non-answer.

Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You going to the event this weekend?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “I should take Thomas, yeah.”

The blonde continued to watch him with intent, almost without blinking.

Bucky looked up, tensing his shoulders. “What?”

“Are we going to pretend it’s not the last chance to see her?”

Bucky’s expression hardened and his posture turned rigid as he looked at his friend. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Steve didn’t even blink. “You know it's not my forte.”

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Look, I appreciate this… need you have to push me forward, but I don’t need it, Stevie. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” there was an edge in his voice, a weight that made Steve’s shoulders drop just slightly.

“I know you do,” he said, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s face. “But maybe that’s why-”

“Don’t.” Bucky’s voice was firm and final. “Just… don’t.”

Steve sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the couch. “Man, you are stubborn.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, and his voice snapped low and controlled, careful not to carry to the bathroom where Thomas was washing his hands. “You’re overthinking something that isn’t even a thing.”

Steve’s calm expression didn’t change, which only made Bucky’s jaw clench tighter. “You know damn well my few attempts at dating were a disaster,” he continued, sharply. “And I only did it because you kept pestering me about it.”

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky didn’t let him get a word in.

“You don’t get it.” His voice dipped lower, rougher.

His shoulders hunched just slightly, his gaze dropping. “No sane person would look at me and think… and she’s not into me. I’d know.”

Steve’s face softened, as he took in the slumped set of Bucky’s shoulders, the way his hand stayed fisted at his side like he was holding himself together by only force of will.

“Bucky…”

But he just shook his head, standing up abruptly. “Just drop it, Steve.”

And with that, he walked off stiffly as he moved toward the hallway.

-----

Saturday arrived, and the festival was bursting with people.

The courtyard buzzed with laughter, music, and the scent of baked goods wafting through the air. Families crowded the booths, with hands full of cupcakes, crafts, and raffle tickets. The children dashed between the stalls, their little faces painted with colorful designs, excited.

And, of course, a noticeable crowd gathered around three particular men.

Steve had shown up with Sam and Clint in tow, and Sam -being Sam- had tweeted about it. That was all it took to draw in curious onlookers and eager fans who wanted to catch a glimpse of the Avengers in civilian mode. Some were bold enough to ask for selfies, which Sam graciously agreed to with his signature charm. Steve kept it low-key, smiling politely while Clint grumbled but still posed when cornered by particularly persistent fans.

The buzz from their appearance did wonders for sales. The bake sale sold out twice, and the raffle tickets were gone in record time.

She watched it all from the distance, with a pleased smile on her face. It was turning out even better than she’d hoped.

Then, she caught sight of Steve talking with the director, shaking her hand as he discreetly handed her an envelope. Even from afar, she saw the way the woman’s eyes widened before her hand flew to her mouth, clearly struggling to keep her composure. It didn’t take a genius to guess whose name was on that check. Things were going well, better than well, and that was good. The festival was a success, the kids were having a blast, and the school would benefit enormously from the donations.

She was happy. Truly.

But… she also couldn’t ignore the twinge of disappointment she felt as the day passed by. She’d hoped to see him there. Maybe standing in a corner, lurking on the periphery with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, and shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to take up less space.

But as the afternoon wore on and the sun began to dip lower, she had to admit to herself that it wasn’t going to happen.

She wouldn’t see him again.

Oh well. It was just an innocent crush, after all.

Nothing serious. Nothing life-altering. Just a harmless infatuation from observing and interacting with him on a daily basis, the same way she did with any other parent.

With the little difference that she didn’t go to work every morning wondering if any other parent would be wearing that blue henley that suited him so well. Or if his hair would be left loose, or pulled back in that short, neat ponytail that made his sharp features even more striking.

Or if maybe she might find an excuse to have some trivial physical contact. A casual brush of fingers when giving him a paper, a brief touch on her arm to get her attention.

Stupid, she chided herself, shaking her head as she moved to straighten the crafts table. It wasn’t like that. It couldn’t be like that.

----

Eventually, she found herself chatting with Steve and company before they took their leave.

They were… surprisingly normal.

Mr. Wilson -Sam- had a warm, easygoing demeanor. He complimented the cinnamon rolls with genuine enthusiasm and asked questions about the neighborhood, curious about the local community.

Clint, on the other hand, was… well. He made a big show of browsing the crafts table, holding up a knitted cat plushie with a serious expression. “So, if I get this for my dog… how long before he tears its head off?”

She stifled a laugh. “Depends on the dog, I suppose.”

He nodded solemnly, turning the plushie this way and that. “Yeah… Lucky’s got a soft spot for cat toys. Rips ‘em to shreds out of love, y’know?”

Steve rolled his eyes, muttering, “Pretty sure he eats them out of spite.”

Clint gasped in mock outrage. “How dare you accuse him of malice!”

They were good people. Easy people. And for a second, she understood how Thomas could be so fond of his father’s companions.

As they said their goodbyes, she almost asked Steve about him. The words were right there, hovering on the tip of her tongue. How’s James? Is he… alright?

But she swallowed them back.

----

After the Avengers trio left, the festival slowly quieted down. Without the crowd magnet that was Sam’s tweet, the streets grew calmer, and the noise of conversation softened as people trickled out. The streetlights flickered on, casting warm glows along the sidewalks.

She was absentmindedly rearranging a set of crocheted coasters on the table when a familiar voice sounded behind her.

Low, a little rough.

“How much for the coasters?”

Her heart gave a startled jolt as she turned around.

There he was, hands in his jacket pockets, hair pulled back neatly, the streetlight casting a soft glow over his tired features.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “I- uh…” She cleared her throat, her smile slipping out before she could stop it. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Where’s Thomas?”

“He’s already playing with that girl… Fiona, or Flora,” Bucky replied, glancing toward the playground. “Apparently, she just got here. Same as us.”

She followed his gaze, watching the children chase each other, laughter echoing through the yard. “They get along well.”

“Yeah.” His eyes softened, lingering on the kids before he looked back at her. “Thank you for the sunglasses, by the way.”

Right. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said quickly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “I get migraines, too, so I know how it can be sometimes.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Yeah. They helped.”

She rocked back on her heels, brushing the edge of the table behind her with her fingers. “I’m glad.” He nodded, dropping his gaze for a moment. “And-” She couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across her face, “thank you for the flowers.”

His lips twitched, just enough to soften his expression as he lifted his gaze toward her. “Not too old-fashioned, I hope.”

Her eyes widened. “No, I… loved them,” she declared, almost too earnestly. She felt a little silly, but the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “The last time I got flowers was… well, a friend brought them when I was in the hospital for appendicitis… like five years ago.” She chuckled lightly, brushing the edge of the table again, a nervous habit she didn’t even realize she had.

There it was. The opening he should have ignored.

But he didn’t.

“And… what presents do your boyfriend give you on special occasions then?”

The question came out more casual than he felt. He kept his posture relaxed, like he didn’t really care about the answer. But his eyes were locked on her, sharp and unwavering.

Her mouth parted, and her eyes widened as heat flooded her cheeks. She looked down, fidgeting with the table’s edge again. “Oh, um… I’m not… I’m not seeing anybody right now.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted, and his teeth clenched before he relaxed them. His body unconsciously leaned just a fraction closer. “Oh.”

She looked up then, and their gazes met. His were piercing, framed by dark circles that spoke of exhaustion, but seemed to intensify the blue.

So, not seeing anybody. His throat bobbed, and his shoulders stiffened. He hadn’t expected to get this far. He exhaled, slowly and measured. “Right.”

Her gaze flickered down, suddenly finding the space between their feet very interesting. A strand of hair slipped from behind her ear, falling across her cheek, and she pushed it back again.

Before either of them could say another word, Thomas came running, voice loud and cheerful as he yelled. “Miss Y/n! Look!”

They both turned, and the spell broke as the child waved a giant cookie with excitement. “Flora’s mom gave me this!”

She forced herself to laugh. “Wow, that’s huge! You better save some for your dad.”

Thomas grinned, already taking a big bite. “No way!”

Bucky huffed, as a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. “Figures.”

The kid then scampered off, cookie half gone before he even made it back to the playground.

The moment gone, Bucky shifted, and his body tensed when he realized how close he was standing. He took a step back, squaring his shoulders. “I, uh… better keep an eye on him.”

She nodded, finally letting go of the table. “Yeah… of course.”

Before he walked away, she hesitated but found her voice. “I’m glad you came.”

His posture stilled and he straightened himself before slowly turning to face her. His gaze softened, his always-present guarded look slipping just for a moment.

“…Yeah. Me too.”

----

After their conversation, Bucky found himself hovering on the edges while keeping an eye on Thomas, his gaze instinctively drifting back to her as she moved between the booths, helping kids pick out treats, chatting easily with parents, her laughter blending into the warm evening air.

He lingered longer than he meant to, always just a few steps away but never quite close enough. Every time he tried to approach her again, something got in the way.

A parent pulled her aside to thank her. A kid called out her name, needing help. Another teacher waved her over, asking her opinion on where to store the leftover banners.

Bucky’s mouth would open, half-formed words on his tongue, but then he’d shut it again, stepping back, tensing his shoulders as the opportunity slipped away. Time slipped by, and the evening grew cooler as the crowd began to thin. Booths were closing up, the parents gathered their kids, and the buzz of excitement slowly winded down.

Eventually, Thomas tugged at his sleeve, his small voice pulling Bucky from his thoughts. “Daddy… I’m bored.”

Bucky blinked, looking down at him.

The kid’s eyes were drooping, since the day’s excitement clearly caught up to him. “Can we go home now?”

Bucky exhaled, resigned. “Yeah, kiddo. Let’s go.”

Thomas nodded, and then looked back toward the crafts booth, scrunching up his face. “Wait… I wanna say goodbye to Miss Y/n.”

His throat felt dry. But he swallowed it down, nodding as he squeezed his son’s fingers back. “Alright.”

He straightened his posture, forcing his shoulders to relax, willing himself to push past the stupid, adolescent feeling twisting in his gut. This wasn’t about him. It was for Thomas. Just for Thomas.

So he took a breath and walked toward her.

She was at the crafts booth, boxing up leftover yarn and packing away the crocheted coasters. When they approached, she looked up, and her eyes widened before a warm smile softened her face. “Hey, Thomas.” Then her gaze flicked to Bucky, lingering for a second too long on him before she looked back at the boy. “And James.”

Bucky’s chest tightened again, but he gave a curt nod, unconsciously squeezing Thomas’s hand just a bit tighter.

Thomas stepped forward, and tilted back his head to look up at her. “You’re really leaving?”

Her smile faltered, and she crouched down, “Yeah, buddy. I am.”

Thomas’s face fell, and his lips curled into a sad frown. “But… who’s gonna read the stories now?”

Her eyes shimmered, but her smile stayed firm. “Miss Jane will. And she’s really good at funny voices, too.”

Thomas’s nose wrinkled. “But I like your voices better.”

A laugh broke through her lips, soft and warm. “You’re gonna be just fine, kiddo. And hey, maybe I’ll come visit sometime, okay?”

Thomas’s eyes brightened. “Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

Thomas beamed, stepping forward and wrapping his little arms around her neck. She stiffened, just for a moment, before hugging him back, closing her eyes as she held him close.

Bucky’s chest ached. He looked away, trying to ignore the sting of it all. This was just for Thomas.

When she finally pulled back, she ruffled his hair. “Take care of yourself, okay? And be good for your dad.”

Thomas nodded, his smile wide and sincere. “I will!”

She stood up, drifting her gaze back to Bucky. “Well, again, I’m glad you two could make it.”

His shoulders tensed, and he flicked his gaze to the side. “Yeah. Figured Thomas would want to… y’know.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together, a shadow crossing her face. “Of course.”

For a second, the words were right there. The things he wanted to say, the things he knew he should say.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just gave a stiff nod. “Take care.”

Her smile faltered, and her hands fidgeted with the edge of the box. “You too, James.”

Thomas tugged at his hand, his little voice breaking through the moment. “Come on, Papa. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Bucky murmured. “Let’s go.”

He turned around, guiding his son away.

He didn’t look back.

Not even when he wanted to.

-----

A couple of weeks passed, and their daily life settled into a certain rhythm. Thomas adjusted well enough to the new teacher. According to him, she was “nice” and “funny,” but then he’d always add, with a little pout, “But Miss Y/n was better.”

Bucky didn’t have much to say to that. He just ruffled his son’s hair and changed the subject, pretending like the kid’s words didn’t affect him.

He felt drained again. It was getting harder to balance parenthood, missions, and the neurological bullshit that seemed determined to make his life a living hell. The migraines were more frequent, and the muscle spasms in his shoulder were more stubborn. And there were days when the exhaustion sank so deep into his bones, that he felt like he was drowning.

His temper was shorter. His mood was broodier, and that was saying a lot.

Not in front of Thomas, of course. He forced himself to keep it together around the kid, to push down the irritability and the tension coiling under his skin. But that meant the rest of his social circle got the brunt of it.

Steve noticed. They all did.

And Steve -being Steve- decided to stage an intervention ambushing in his living room.

“You need to find a nanny,” he said one evening, firmly.

“No,” Bucky snapped, not even looking up from his coffee. “I’m not letting a stranger into my house.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Buck, you can’t keep this up. Eventually, you’re going to have to do something about it.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened, tightening his grip around his mug.

Steve’s voice softened, but his resolve didn’t waver. “We’re all here for you. But we’ve got our own responsibilities, too. Our own missions, our own lives.” He paused. “You’re not a burden. You’re not in this alone, but you’ve got to figure out a way to make things work, not only for Thomas, for you too.”

The words settled like stones in Bucky’s gut.

He knew Steve was right. He knew he was leaning on the team too much, burdening them with his fucked-up life and his chaotic mind. But hearing it out loud stung in a way that made him feel like a failure all over again.

----

That week, he had to travel with Clint to Canada for a mission. He had made arrangements with Steve for Thomas to stay at his place. It felt like another burden to drop on his best friend, but he didn’t feel he had another choice.

Things ended a day earlier than expected, and Bucky didn’t bother going back to his apartment first. He was bone-tired, dirty, and stiff from travel, but he just wanted to see his kid. Make sure he was okay.

He called Steve, but there was no answer. Not unusual, but still irritating.

Grumbling under his breath, he made his way to his place and rang the doorbell twice before he heard footsteps approaching.

The snarky remark he’d been ready to throw died in his throat the second the door swung open.

Because it wasn’t Steve standing there.

It was her.

Wearing a floral apron, hands dusted with flour, and a faint streak of it on her cheek as she blinked up at him in shock. Her mouth opened, then closed, her eyes wide.

Bucky’s brain shut down. His body locked up, as he looked at her, so familiar and yet so impossibly out of place. He barely managed a croaked, “What… what are you doing here?”

She blinked again, then straightened her pose, wiping her hands on the apron. “Oh- um… Hi, James.”

Hearing his name on her lips again made him feel things, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

She cleared her throat, glancing over her shoulder. “Steve had to run an errand, and he asked me to watch Thomas for a while.” Her eyes flicked back to his, “I… didn’t know you’d be back today.”

Bucky stood there, frozen in the doorway, his tired mind struggling to catch up. His voice was rough, edged with something he didn’t understand. “Yeah. Came back early.”

She shifted her weight, playing nervously with the edge of her apron. “Right… well, Thomas is inside. We… we were making cookies.” She hesitated, then added, “He said they were your favorite.”

Bucky’s heart did something stupid, something he didn’t like, and he had to clear his throat to shake it off.

“Yeah. He’s… he’s right.”

She smiled then, soft and warm, relaxing her posture. “Well… come in, then.”

He stood there for half a second longer than he should have, as his brain still struggled to process the fact that she was here, in Steve’s house, baking cookies with his kid.

“Where’s Thomas?” His voice came out rougher than intended, low and gravelly as he moved past her, already unfastening the straps on his tactical vest.

She blinked, momentarily stunned before she managed to answer, “In… in the bathroom.”

Bucky grunted, not even looking at her as he pulled a knife from his thigh holster, the blade catching the light before he tucked it into an old cupboard by the hallway. Then came another knife, a handgun, and an extra clip, all disappearing behind the tiny wooden doors.

She knew it was rude to stare. She knew it.

But it was the first time she’d seen him like this.

The tactical suit made his broad shoulders seem impossibly solid, and the black fabric hugged his body, emphasizing the lines of his arms, as the curve of his biceps strained under the worn seams. The vest molded against his chest, doing nothing to hide the muscular expanse beneath it, or concealing just how strong he was.

His thick thighs were framed by those dark cargo pants that clung to him as he moved. Even weighed down by holsters and utility belts, he moved with a lethal grace. And his hair -God, his hair- disheveled and muddy, framing his face and somehow softening the hard cut of his jaw.

There was dirt smudged across his cheekbone, and a faint bruise along his jaw, evidence of whatever fight he’d been in. His lips were pressed in a thin line giving him an edge of danger.

Danger.

That was the word. He looked dangerous. And damn, if that wasn’t… hot.

He ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?” He turned to her, his blue eyes sharp and piercing. “Where’s Steve?”

She straightened, nervously brushing her fingers against the fabric of her apron before she crossed her arms, tightening her posture. “I don’t know, sincerely. He said he had things to do and asked me to babysit for a couple of hours.” Her chin lifted just slightly. “I told him the last time we saw each other that I’d be doing this until I found a spot in another kindergarten.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed.

“He said he asked you for my number,” she added, just a touch defensive.

He shifted his posture, narrowing his eyes. “Did he now?”

She tilted her head, pulling her brows together. “Didn’t he?”

He didn’t answer and flicked his gaze to the side, jaw working as he realized what happened. That punk.

Steve must’ve swiped her number from his phone at some point since he hadn’t deleted the contact yet.

His teeth clenched, and his body went rigid. Of course, he had planned this. He could practically hear that self-satisfied voice in his head, calling him out for being stubborn.

“Um… is everything alright?”

Her voice broke softly through his thoughts. Her arms were still crossed, and there was a crease of concern on her brow, as she pressed her lips together while she watched him.

Bucky exhaled slowly, relaxing his stance just a fraction. “…Yeah. Everything’s fine.” For a second, he didn’t know what to do. How to stand. What to say.

Silence.

Awkward, heavy silence.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another, nervously twisting the apron’s hem. “Well, I’m… I’m going to check on the cookies.”

He gave her a stiff nod.

The moment she rounded the corner and got out of sight, he let out a slow, shuddering breath. His shoulders sagged, and his head dipped forward as he pressed his fingers to his temples.

Fuck.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t fantasized about the possibility of seeing her again. Hell, the way his chest stuttered when she opened the door was proof of that. But the fact that Steve had the nerve to call her without letting him know bothered him.

He knew this wasn’t accidental. Not by a long shot. Steve didn’t do accidental when it came to him. The punk knew very well about the nightmares. About the shitty migraines and the episodes that left Bucky feeling like his body was betraying him. About the way he was falling behind, failing to balance it all.

He had been on his case for weeks about getting a nanny, and now… this? Her of all people?

His fingers curled into fists.

Damn it, Steve knew. He knew, and he’d gone behind his back, meddling in things he had no right to touch. He’d give the punk a piece of his mind for this.

Just as soon as he could breathe normally again.

“Daddy!”

Bucky’s head snapped up just in time to catch Thomas barreling toward him, flinging his little arms around his waist with all the force his tiny body could muster.

The impact made Bucky stumble back half a step before kneeling and wrapping his arms securely around his son.

He let himself sink into the moment, holding Thomas close, shutting his eyes for a second longer than necessary. The kid’s head was buried against his chest, warm and solid, real.

He stayed like that, resting his chin on the child’s messy hair until the boy started chattering excitedly.

“Daddy, we made cookies! Y/n let me mix the dough and everything!” Thomas pulled back just enough to look up at him, with bright eyes. “Uncle Steve was busy, but she came, and it was so much fun!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to smile, nodding along as Thomas continued to recount his afternoon. His little voice was so cheerful, that Bucky couldn’t help but soften, brushing his fingers through the boy’s hair.

“I’m glad you had fun, buddy.” His voice was calm, even if his thoughts were anything but.

Meanwhile, she was still in the kitchen, apron in hand, tracing absentmindedly the floral pattern with her fingers as she leaned against the counter.

She didn’t know how to face him. Not after that awkward, clipped conversation. Not after the way his body had stiffened, and his eyes had narrowed as he realized she was there.

There was definitely something going on.

When Steve called, his voice had been chirpy and casual. He’d said he remembered her mentioning she was open to babysitting, and he asked if she was available for a few hours.

She’d said yes without a second thought.

They set a day and time, and she showed up expecting to watch Steve’s kid, or maybe a relative’s. She never imagined that Steve lived alone in his apartment and she’d walk in and find Thomas there.

He had been vague -really vague- when she asked who she’d be watching. He hadn’t lied, exactly. But he’d definitely led her to believe it would be his responsibility she was taking on.

When she arrived, Steve explained to her that Bucky was away, and he was in charge of the kid for some days. But then, some important things came up -again, he’d been vague about the details- and he couldn’t leave Thomas with just anyone.

“So I remembered what you told me,” he’d said with a disarming smile. “and asked Bucky for your number. He instantly agreed to it, he was so thrilled when I told him you were the one watching after the little guy.”

It had made sense at the time. He’d seemed so sure, so confident when he’d explained it all. And of course, it felt good to see Thomas again.

But then Bucky showed up at the door, tactical suit half undone, weapons dropping from his holsters, and she realized he didn’t look thrilled.

His expression had been guarded, his body was totally tense and his words clipped and cold. Not exactly the reaction of someone who had agreed to this arrangement. But then again… why would she suspect anything when Captain America himself had stood there, looking her straight in the eye with that earnest, honest gaze of his, and told her everything was fine?

And now here she was, hiding in the kitchen, debating whether she should leave or stay until Steve came back, since, technically, he was her employer for the day.

And, well… she needed the money.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.

Perfect. Just perfect.

How the hell did she get herself into this?

She looked toward the hallway, hearing Thomas’s cheerful voice as he babbled to his father. She could just make out the low, rumbling sound of Bucky’s replies, his tone softer and calmer than when he spoke to her.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she started to transfer the cookies from the cooling rack to a tray, arranging them with a precision that bordered on obsessive. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to avoid thinking about the man who was currently standing just a few feet away.

Bucky heard her curse under her breath, quiet but unmistakable, and something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

None of this was her fault.

He exhaled through his nose, raking a hand through his grimy hair, wincing as his fingers caught on a tangle. He needed a shower. He needed sleep. He needed to not be in this position, trying to smooth over a situation Steve had thrown them both into.

But here they were.

Steeling himself, he walked toward the kitchen, feeling ridiculously out of place in his tactical gear against the warm, homey scent of cinnamon and sugar.

She was still standing by the counter, transferring the cookies onto a tray, tense. So tense. He hesitated for a second before clearing his throat.

“Hey.”

She startled slightly but didn’t turn around.

He stood in the doorway, blocking some of the fading daylight, with his broad body.

“I, um…” He scratched at the back of his neck, brushing his fingers through tangled hair, already regretting how awkward this was. “Can you pass me a glass?”

Finally, she looked at him and nodded, moving to the cupboard and reaching up on her toes, grabbing one and handing it over without a word. Her fingers brushed his, soft and warm, and his grip tightened on the glass just a little too hard.

He filled it from the tap, taking a slow sip, using the seconds to gather his thoughts.

“I forgot…” He sighed, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Steve asked me for your number when I was out of the country. My mind was… elsewhere.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders relaxed, and the tension in her expression eased just a bit. Were her eyes a little glassy?

Oh, he was definitely going to strangle Captain Jerk the minute he saw him.

“Yeah… so, sorry if I was rude back there.” He exhaled heavily, setting the glass down on the counter. “I know it’s by no means an excuse, but I’m tired-”

“Don’t worry,” she cut in softly, with a gentle voice as she shook her head. “Really. It’s fine.”

His lips parted slightly, surprised at how easily she let him off the hook.

“I can’t even imagine…” She waved her hand up and down, gesturing at his disheveled state. The dirty tactical suit, the bruises blooming under his jaw, and his wild, tangled hair.

Her gaze lingered a little too long on the way the fabric stretched over his chest. Luckily, he didn’t notice since his gaze drifted toward the tray of cookies.

Her lips curved into a smile. “Want one?”

He looked up, his gaze met hers, and for just a second, she forgot how to breathe. His blue eyes were softer now, warmer.

“…Yeah.” His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah, I do.”

Her heart skipped, and her fingers trembled just a little as she tilted the tray toward him.

He hesitated just for a second like deciding which one to choose, then his eyes flicked again to her face. And there, sensing the warmth of his body standing so close to her, and his scent -sweat and leather, dust and something distinctively him- filling the small kitchen, she realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was in so much trouble.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira

[mggslover]

Hey I loveddddd the legging pervert!spencer fic, I’d love another one, maybe a part 2, or maybe just another with the same reader and perv!spencer. I love your fics!

SWEAT FOR ME ´-

In which Spencer has a different kind of workout in mind.

pairing perv!spence x leggings!reader genre smut (18+) cw reader is part of the bau + certified gym rat, gym semi public sex, male masturbation, fingering and oral (f receiving), p in v, fwb relationship wc 3,8k a/n we have an official reader! yippie! this is not a pt. 2 but another story in this universe. tysm for this request! feel free to send in more for them :)

Being a loyal gym member came with its set of advantages.

The tenth anniversary of your membership at Quantico’s “Fit4FBI” was coming up. When you joined the BAU, you had signed yourself up for the FBI’s designated training center. Though it was essential for your job to be in good condition, this gym also had the natural pattern of people massively joining during the first weeks of January and collectively giving up around the holidays. 

You were one of the few customers that visited regularly. To be specific, every day that you weren’t out on a case. The gym felt like a refuge to you, a place to blow off steam and clear your head from the gruesome cases that seemed to always be on your mind.

You were quick to befriend the owner, Mr. Isaac Dalton, a man in his mid-sixties (but don’t be fooled by his age; there is no trainer as encouraging and persistent as him). It all started with your suggestion to introduce a boxing lesson as a break from the usual Wednesday Pilates classes. It seemed like a small thing to you — boxing has been part of your life since childhood. But to him? It meant everything. 

From that day on, you were his favorite customer. Hell, his favorite person even. You gained access to the staff dressing rooms, even to the staff showers — which were a huge upgrade from the shared customer spaces that made even a high school gym look good. Yes, it was that bad. You now knew where they were cutting on the budget to be able to afford the tablets and private jet.

But the best benefit that came with being a star customer was getting the title of rightful owner to a spare set of shiny keys. 

Going to the gym after closing hours was the best thing that could happen to you. You were sure that the handover of the keys was a moment that not even your future wedding or the birth of your first child could ever beat. No more eyeing the Smith machine while walking the treadmill, waiting for the right opportunity to take a sprint and claim it before someone else did. No more cleaning of seats because the people before you were too lazy to wipe their sweat away. And thank God, no more annoying people complaining in your ear about how exhausting working out is. Well… besides Spencer. 

“I- I can’t,” he panted, letting the dumbbells fall to the ground beside him. In moments like this, you couldn’t help but regret offering him personal training when the gym was supposed to be closed.

You placed your hands on your hips, not hiding the look of judgment as he lay on the training bench, chest heaving like he had just climbed Mount Everest. On heels. 

“I truly wonder what you did to pass the physical exam.”

“I was in a remedial training program,” he put his hand on his pounding heart, taking a deep breath before continuing. “They needed new agents in the field, so they made me an exception.”

Well, that explains it. 

You shook away your thoughts, extending your hand to help him up. With a groan he stood, legs wobbly as he held onto your shoulders. Your skin felt soft and cool, in contrast to his clammy hands. 

Naturally, he started massaging your shoulders, causing a small groan to leave your lips. Spencer was about to slide his fingers under the band of your sports bra, but you stopped him. 

“We should do a leg exercise next. Maybe your legs are stronger than your arms.”

Now it was his turn to groan. “Have you seen me? I’m not even standing straight right now.”

“I know, Bambi,” you chuckled jokingly. “People usually find leg extensions one of the easier exercises. You’ll be fine.” 

“That makes sense. Your legs are part of your body’s largest muscle groups. Studies have shown that your creatine kinase and myoglobin levels increase significantly after an arm exercise compared to a leg exercise.” He explained as you walked to the equipment at the back of the gym. 

You raised an eyebrow. “And that means?”

“It means that your arms are easier to get sore than your legs. They’re also easier to get damaged and heal after an extensive workout.”

You hummed, saving the information to the back of your mind. There must be a day when these random facts will come in handy.

Spencer continued his info dumping as you changed the amount of weights on the machine, putting the pin into 80 lb — a standard beginner’s weight. 

You clapped your hands when you were finished. “Okay, you’re all set up.” 

“What do I do?” He asked cluelessly.

“Take a seat.”

He did as you said, waiting for further instruction.

“And now you place your feet under the lever and lift it up. You can hold onto the handles for support.”

Spencer followed your instructions, holding onto the levers before he lifted his legs. He paused them at the top for a moment before slowly lowering them back down.

“That’s it. Good job.” 

Spencer didn’t respond to your compliment. Concentration was etched onto his face. His eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth slightly agape as he repeated the motion. His tongue poked out to the side as he counted the reps in his head, occasionally wetting his lips.

You looked at him. First to make sure he was executing the exercise correctly, but you quickly got distracted. Sweat dripped down his neck, the droplets falling into the white tank top that he wore. At this point it wouldn’t have made a difference if he wore a shirt or not, the fabric being so translucent that you could see the color of his skin. 

Your eyes traced him until they landed on his arms. He had a tight grip on the handles, making the veins that decorated his arms and hands look prominent. 

Your gaze fell even lower — and it really shouldn’t have — because now you noticed how his shorts have ridden all the way up to his thighs. It wouldn’t surprise you if they dated back to high school. The material clung tightly to him, and every time he tilted his legs, the shorts bulged around his crotch. 

To put it simply, he looked hot. Extremely hot. 

Get your head out of the gutter. He’s here to train, to gain more confidence in the field. Not to be your personal eye candy. 

You were supposed to stay with him the entire time, as a personal trainer does. But you don’t think you can stand here for a second longer trying to fight the urge to jump him.

“I’m going to do some sets on the Smith machine,” you pointed toward the device that stood a couple of feet away, still in clear sight. 

Again, no response from the still focused Spencer. 

You made your way over to the machine, picking out the weights that you wanted to add to the bar. In routine, you positioned yourself under the bar, placing your feet at shoulder-width, before bending your knees.

In the meantime, Spencer had completed his set of reps. He grabbed his water bottle from the ground next to him, feeling like a real gym jock as he gulped the contents down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his fist.

He looked up to find you. And he was so grateful that he had swallowed, or there’d be a fountain of water bursting from his lips right now.

He didn’t know what a Smith machine entailed, but he definitely didn’t expect to find you in a squatting position yet again. His eyes went to your ass first, obviously. Seeing how perfectly you filled out your leggings, the fabric clinging to every curve, giving the illusion that it could rip at any given moment. 

But then his eyes snapped to your upper back. How the muscles in your shoulders flexed as you lifted the bar of weights. There was something so enticing about how strong you were. He thought back on all the times he had pinned you down underneath him, not having realized that you could easily spin him around. Dominate him.

A shiver soared through his body, straight to his pulsing cock. He looked down, embarrassed to find himself twitching, the tip of his cock begging to escape from under his shorts. He placed a hand on his bulge — meant to stop himself — but with the way you kept bending down, he had no choice but to rub his hand over his length. 

A breathy moan escaped his throat as he watched you. He imagined lying down on the ground beneath you — germs and safety hazards be damned — holding you by your hips as you’d press your bare cunt into his face. He’d make sure to make the most out of every squat, licking your folds and kissing your clit, before you stood back up.

Spencer didn’t know during which set his hand had found its way into his shorts, only that he struggled to keep quiet as he tugged on his length. His eyes rolled back as he circled his tip with his thumb, collecting precum and using it as lube to stroke the rest of his cock. 

He fantasized about you walking up to him, holding onto his shoulders as you’d climb on top of his lap. How you would free his cock from the restraints of his boxers. The way your mouth would open in a gasp at the sight of his throbbing length springing free. You would grab him by the shaft, rubbing his tip against your puffy lips before sinking down onto him. His hands would clasp onto your ass, massaging the flesh like his cock would massage your inner walls as he pumped his length into you. 

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, flicking his wrist faster as his gaze remained burnt on you. 

He had his eyes closed shut, nearing the brink of an orgasm, when he heard the loud clang of the bar attaching to the machine. At record speed, he adjusted his length, tugging his tank top over his shorts in an effort to hide how hard he was. He then wiped his hands on his shorts, just in time before you walked up to him.

“Hey,” you said, out of breath. “How did it go?”

“Good! Good. I completed all the sets, actually.”

A beautiful, bright smile tilted at the corner of your lips. It almost distracted him from the way your breasts pushed up in your sports bra, shining in a light coat of sweat. Almost. 

“I thought of another exercise we could do,” Spencer suggested.

Curiosity filled your mind. “Okay, gym rat. Let’s hear it.”

Spencer walked you to the hip abductor, a machine that trains the muscles of your inner thighs and glutes by sitting down and spreading your legs against the resistance of the padded weights. 

You waited for him to sit down, but he remained standing behind you. Your neck flushed with goosebumps as he leaned in, breath tickling the skin. “I want you to use it.” 

“Okay,” you chirped, trying not to show how much his proximity was affecting you.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he tsked as you stepped forward. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. And that’s when you felt it. His erection poking at your lower back. 

“You can’t possibly work out in an outfit like this,” he said, fingers playing with the waistband of your leggings.

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”

His hand slid lower into the fabric, fingers grazing your hip bones. “I think you should take these off. Don’t want it to be ruined with sweat, or you know, something else.”

You raised your eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Reid?” 

“You never seemed to back down from one before,” he dared.

A glint of mischief flickered in your eyes. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of your leggings, and you swore you could hear him take in a sharp breath. 

You bent over. In an agonizing slowness, you pulled your leggings down, revealing the plumpness of your bare skin. 

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” Spencer praised, eyes scanning the curves of your nude ass and legs.

You slipped away from his grasp, grinning as you took your place at the seat of the machine. As the manual explained, you spread your legs, grateful that you kept the weights at beginner’s level. 

You threw your head back laughing as Spencer kneeled in front of you, finally making the connection on what he was about to do. “You are absolutely insane. Do you know that I could crush your head with these weights?”

He hummed, not really caring about the possible consequences as he was face to face with your spread-open pussy. “It’ll be worth it.”

He reached out with his finger, drawing a line up your slick folds. “Also — considering your expertise in exercises like this, and the fact that the weights are way less heavy than the ones you’d usually choose — I estimate that my chances of not dying are pretty high tonight.” 

Before you could give a clever response back, he pressed his finger down on your clit. A shudder coursed through your body, accompanied by a flutter of butterflies.

“You’re so wet already,” Spencer mused. “What have you been thinking of?”

“Same thing as you,” you responded, thinking back on how hard his cock was when he pressed it against you. 

He continued trailing his fingers up and down your slit, warming you up, before halting them at your entrance. “Ready?”

You nodded hastily, anticipation pulling at your core. 

Spencer slipped a finger inside of you with ease, groaning at the sweet sound that escaped your lips. Being fingered never felt special before; that was until you met Spencer. Though it wasn’t fair to compare him to any of the other people you’ve been with. His fingers were heavenly: long, slender, soft. He pumped it in and out of your pussy before leaning in and capturing your clit with his tongue. Surprise washed over you, but you didn’t have time to adjust to the feeling. He clouded your mind by switching between flicking his tongue and sucking on the bundle, while his finger matched the steady rhythm. 

“Need more,” you whimpered, rolling your hips into his face. He hummed against your clit, the vibrations sending tingles through every part of your body. 

When he pulled back, his lips were glistening with your juices. “Can you handle another finger?” He asked as he swiped his tongue over his lips.

You quickly nodded, not even needing him to ask for permission. He stretched you out by inserting another finger, not stopping until he was knuckle-deep inside of you.

“I like this machine,” he stated, curling his digits up to your g-spot. “I don’t need to hold your thighs open to keep you from squirming.” 

You softly cried as the tips of his fingers hit your pleasure point, increasing his pace in a way that made you see stars. 

“You look so pretty. All spread out for me, letting me use you how I want.” He muttered, more to himself than to you, before he attached his lips back onto your pussy. 

The pleasure felt overwhelming. Spencer stimulated you with his hands and mouth in all the spots that he could. He was good at this. Too good at this. You felt almost sad when you felt the familiar heat building up, not wanting it to be over yet. 

Still, you gasped, “Just like that!” Your hands were gripping the handles of the machine for dear life as the tip of his tongue drew figure eights against your clit. 

Everything cut to white noise, your abdomen tightened, and your hips started spasming until you finally cried out his name.

Your body trembled in aftershocks as Spencer made sure to lap up your juices, not wanting a single drop to go to waste.

He stood up, taking his time as he lovingly grazed your cheek with his clean hand. “Felt good?”

You hummed in response. Your eyes fluttered to the obvious tent in his shorts, not able to ignore it. “That looks painful,” you observed.

“I really want to be inside of you.” He confessed. 

His words made you chuckle. Spencer always made sure to satisfy you first, before thinking of his own needs. Even when his achingly red tip had been leaking precum ever since he saw you in that gym outfit earlier today. 

“Where do you want me?” You purred, making a groan escape his throat. He loved the way you let him take direction, how you made it seem like he was the one in charge — when you were both completely aware of the fact that you could have him on his knees at any given time and at any place that you’d like. 

His eyes scanned the gym, landing on an empty bench. 

“That one.” He decided, like he chose some Sour Patch Kids in a candy shop. 

You got up — used to having shaky legs due to working out every day — and took Spencer’s hand in yours, guiding him to the sole bench next to the colored kettlebells. 

Spencer was glad you were holding his hand, or otherwise he’d have stumbled against every surrounding object, too entranced by the way your hips moved from side to side with every step that you took. If he wasn’t so hypnotized by the sight, he would’ve given your ass a slap — more like a tap — not enough to cause you pain, but enough for you to squeal. Enough for you to move to your tiptoes in reflex. Enough to see your ass shake. 

As if born ready, you laid down on the bench, spreading your legs that bent perfectly due to the position you’d just held for minutes. 

Spencer didn’t waste any time, pulling his shorts and boxers down in a single, swift movement, his cock jumping free from its confinements. You grinned when he also got rid of his tank top. You bit your lip as you looked at him, wet curls of hair sticking to his forehead and his chest glistening in a light layer of sweat.

His large hands wrapped around your ankles, holding you in place. He then tilted his hips until his length lined up with your needy pussy. A drip of precum spilled from his tip, cock aching as he took in how perfect you looked: your clit still swollen from his tongue, and your soft thighs glittering from the wetness that was still leaking out of you. 

In a single motion, he pushed himself in. His cock disappearing all the way in between your folds.

Your brows furrowed and your mouth hung open as he started moving his hips, not giving you the time to recover.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled. “You just feel too good. So warm. Couldn’t wait.”

Your hands gripped around the air, needing something to hold onto as he fucked you deeply.

You settled on your tits. Cupping them through your sports bra, pinching your nipples that were so hard they poked right through the layer of fabric.

“Oh fuck, baby, you look so hot like that.” Spencer moaned. “I’m so lucky,” he said in awe. 

He opened your legs further — surprising you with your flexibility — as he hovered above you. His cock slipped in even deeper, your pussy swallowing him to the hilt. You could feel every vein as he massaged your inner walls, relieving you of your aching. He was close enough for you to dig your nails into his shoulder blades. He didn’t attempt to muffle his whimpers when you pressed little half-moon indents into his back. Your in-sync moans and the colliding of bare skin were the only sounds that echoed off the bare gym walls.  

Spencer anchored you in place with his length while his hand reached out to pull the cup of your bra down, freeing your breast. In a second his mouth was latched onto your nipple, sucking on it like he was a man starving. 

“Kiss me,” you whimpered, hands tugging at his hair. You needed to feel those soft, pink lips on yours. 

As much as he loved your tits, he obeyed in an instant. Hungrily locking his mouth with yours. He placed his bent arms on either side of your head, large hands cupping your face as he kissed you intensely. His tongue swiped against yours in the same exquisite way as the tip of his cock swiped the place inside of you where you needed him most. 

“Legs hurt,” he whined against your mouth. 

“Count it- fuck,” you moaned as he thrust deep into you. “Count it as an exercise.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “This might be the hardest one yet.”

Literally, you thought. But the word couldn’t make it past your lips, transforming into a high-pitched moan as he upped his speed.

“Just like that, please, Spencer,” you cried out.

There was no bigger motivation than your sweet pleas filling his ears. With all his might, he slammed into you, your pussy pulsing around him, making his vision hazy. All that was on his mind was you. How you felt. How you tasted. How he needed to spill inside of you. 

A string of yes’s repeatedly left your lips, signaling to him that you were close. 

“I’m going to come inside of you,” he announced, swallowing your moans by pressing his lips back to yours. 

You clawed at his back, bucking your hips up into him until a jolt of electricity shot through your body. Your back arched off the bench as you gave yourself over to the all-consuming feeling. It was not even a second later when Spencer’s legs gave out. His cock twitching as spurts of white filled your insides. 

He collapsed on top of you, feeling your racing heartbeat against him. For a moment you lay down like that, on the way too narrow bench. Enjoying each other’s presence as a comfortable silence filled the air.

Once his breathing had calmed down, Spencer seemed to notice a small, red flickering light that was attached to the ceiling. A security camera. 

“Hey,” he started, asking for your attention.

You made a small sound, too exhausted to speak. 

“You have the keys to the office, right?”

“No, just to the entrance. Why?”

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

“reconnecting”

"Fridays are not always the best day of the week, you can vouch for this one at least. It's Emma's birthday party and you're not sure you two still vibe together or not after all this time. And coming home... you don't expect Jungkook to be awake, especially not with your cold war going on. But he is."

next | index | wc: 9,6k

↪︎author's note : WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!! Okay so here's Chapter 17—aka the chapter where all of you start collectively projecting your unresolved issues with your high school best friend, your fuckboy roommate, and your local pastel/goth lesbian duo. I say that with love. About this chapter!! So my initial plan was for Nix to buy Jungkook an actual vinyl player… until I did the research and realized those bitches go for 150-300 bucks even secondhand. Be fr. They are NOT in a relationship. This man is her hot emotional disaster roommate who's been beefing with her for three days and literally slammed a door at her. I would not spend a single euro on that man beyond what is legally required. Fifteen dollars for a John Mayer record? That's the sweet spot. It says "I hate you but I know what music you like and I think about you when you're not around and that makes me want to bite drywall." Also: if you know that Inside Wants Out is an early acoustic EP that's kinda slept on but has a few gut-wrenching tracks about vulnerability and romantic ambivalence… well. Have fun. Now shut up because I love writing female friendships and this chapter is my offering to the goddesses of sapphic chaos. Yeji and Irya being absolute queens??? We love. But also EMMA. Emma and that awkward tension of do we still fit? Did we ever really know each other or was it just proximity and hormones and being stuck in the same suburban hellscape? That shit is SO REAL. Reuniting with old friends is like a spiritual liminal space and I needed to capture that gnawing weirdness. AND JIMIN. The eyeliner scene??? I almost CRIED writing it. I had to pause. That man is so soft it makes me want to shove him into a pillow fort and protect him from the world. He's so good. He sees her, without wanting anything in return. You better analyze it or I'll strangle every single one of you. Now. Regarding the very tense bathroom cologne scene. I was actually going to drag the cold war out longer, truly. I had plans. But Jungkook opened his slutty little mouth and said, "No, actually, I'm feral and I've been suffering in silence and she smells like sex and nostalgia and I must act." And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Please. I have 0 narrative agency here. That much is clear. Also his birthday is coming. So like. I didn't want to enter that subplot with them still fake-ignoring each other like divorced parents. You're welcome. ANYWAY. The next few chapters are slower paced but VERY important. It's all those little moments where the characters start changing without realizing it. The kind of growth you only see in hindsight. The slow part of the slow burn. But I swear to god I'm obsessed with how it's turning out and I just want to share it with you and roll around in the angst like a dog in grass. Okay that's all. I love you. Go scream in the comments or eat drywall. Or both! <3 Mwah.

Fridays aren't supposed to sneak up on you like a debt collector with something to prove.

Usually, you spend the whole week crawling toward Friday like it's an oasis in the desert of your existence. Monday is hell. Tuesday is hell's waiting room. Wednesday offers a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the week won't actually kill you. Thursday is its own special brand of torture—so close to freedom you can taste it, but still trapped in the purgatory of obligation.

And then: Friday. 

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

Except this one. This one materialized out of nowhere, ambushing you with its presence and the sudden, horrifying realization that you have exactly zero hours to prepare for what's coming.

So here you are, somehow already standing in a flea market that smells like mothballs and questionable life choices, watching Yeji hold up a fishnet... something against her body while Irya coos over crystals that probably came from the dollar store.

"What do you think?" Yeji asks, draping the fishnet monstrosity over her shoulders. "Is it giving 'fashion-forward' or 'I found this in a dumpster'?"

"Definitely dumpster," you mutter, eyes scanning the crowded stalls without really seeing them. 

Because your mind? Your mind is elsewhere—specifically on the fact that you still need to find a birthday gift for your insufferable roommate.

Jungkook. 

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench. 

It's been three days since your argument, and the apartment has been a cold war zone of pointed silences and aggressive door closing. 

He wants to be petty? Fine. You can be petty right back. Twice as petty, even. So you’re not talking to him either.

"Hello?” Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been staring at that old guy selling taxidermy squirrels for like, two minutes straight. Should I be concerned?"

You blink, refocusing. "What? No. I'm just... looking."

"For what exactly?" Irya appears at your side, a small purple crystal clutched in her palm. "You said you already got Emma's birthday present."

"Just browsing," you lie smoothly. "Flea markets are full of... treasures."

Yeji snorts. "Since when do you care about 'treasures'? Last time I dragged you to a vintage store, you said it smelled like 'dead people's closets.'"

“No I didn’t.”

"Right." Yeji doesn't look convinced, but she's already distracted by a display of chunky silver rings. "I'm gonna check these out. Meet you at the food trucks in twenty?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to browse alone. Not that you have any fucking clue what to get Jungkook. What do you buy for someone whose entire personality seems to be "brooding film student with inexplicably good taste in coffee"?

It is like an abandoned warehouse, this flea market—stalls crammed together in haphazard rows, hipsters and bargain hunters elbowing past each other, haggling over everything from antique doorknobs to hand-knitted beanies that look like they were made by someone's cat…

You wander aimlessly, passing stalls selling vintage cameras (too expensive), artisanal coffee beans (too obvious), and leather-bound journals (too pretentious, even for him). 

Nothing feels right. 

Not that it matters—it's just a stupid obligation gift. You shouldn't care this much.

But you do. And that's annoying as fuck.

Then, a rickety table stacked with milk crates catches your eye—or rather, the handwritten sign that reads "RECORDS $5-20" in faded Sharpie. 

The elderly man behind the table looks like he's been selling vinyl since before your parents were born, his weathered hands carefully flipping through a box as a customer asks about some obscure band.

You wait until they leave, then approach, trying to look like someone who actually knows something about records. The crates are dusty, disorganized, with no apparent system. Just hundreds of albums crammed together like sardines.

"Looking for anything specific?" the old man asks, voice gravelly from what you assume are decades of cigarettes.

"Just browsing," you say, already flipping through the nearest crate.

Most of the covers are faded, corners bent, some with water damage or mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. You recognize maybe one in ten artists—a lot of jazz, classic rock, some folk singers your dad probably listened to in college.

This is stupid. You don't know what you're looking for. Jungkook collects vinyl but doesn't even own a record player. What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? It's like buying books just to display them on a shelf without reading them.

You're about to give up when your fingers pause on a familiar name.

John Mayer.

The album cover is slightly worn at the edges, but otherwise in decent condition. 

"Inside Wants Out," it says in simple white letters against the picture of a dude (you guess it’s John) in the background. 

You don’t recognize it at all.

But Jungkook listens to him. His vynil collection is basically a shrine to him. 

So you ask "how much?", holding up the record.

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

Fifteen bucks. Okay, that’s... actually reasonable. Not so expensive that it seems like you care, but not so cheap that it looks like an afterthought. 

Just a casual, "hey, saw this and thought of your weird vinyl collection" kind of gift.

Perfect.

"I'll take it," you say, already digging in your bag for your wallet.

The man slides the record into a paper sleeve, takes your money, and hands you your change with a nod. 

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

You tuck the record under your arm, feeling oddly satisfied despite yourself. It's just a record. Just a stupid birthday gift for your annoying roommate who thinks he knows everything about everyone, including your taste in men.

But as you weave through the crowd toward the food trucks, you can't help but wonder if he'll like it. If his face will do that thing—that brief, unguarded thing where his eyes light up before he remembers he's supposed to be all cool and detached.

Not that you care. You're just fulfilling a social obligation. That's all.

That's absolutely all.

"Did you actually buy something?" Yeji asks when you reach her, eyeing the record under your arm. "Since when are you into vinyl?"

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

Irya peers at it. "John Mayer? Isn't he like, your dad's music?"

"He's not that old," you find yourself saying, then immediately wonder why you're defending John fucking Mayer of all people. "And anyway, it was cheap."

"Whatever you say." Yeji shrugs, then holds up a small paper bag. "I got those earrings we saw last week. The ones that look like little daggers."

"Nice," you nod, grateful for the subject change. "I'm starving. Can we get food now?"

As you follow them toward the food trucks, you resist the urge to check the record again, to make sure it's not too scratched or damaged. It doesn't matter. It's just a record. Just a gift.

Just something to cross off your to-do list before Emma's birthday tonight and Jungkook's surprise dinner tomorrow.

Nearing the trucks, suddenly everything smells good. Too good. The kind of good that makes decision-making a fucking nightmare.

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

One truck’s got sizzling skewers of grilled meat, charred at the edges, dripping onto soft pita. Another is doing fresh arepas, the scent of melted cheese thick and indulgent in the air. A few feet away, some guy with tattooed knuckles and an unreasonably aggressive beanie is ladling out steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho.

And then there’s the birria taco stand—because of course there is—and the line is criminally long, people clutching Styrofoam trays of consommé like their lives depend on it.

Your stomach rumbles.

By the time you settle on something—one of those ridiculous but beautiful smash burgers, glossy brioche bun soaking up all that greasy, caramelized goodness—you barely get your wallet out before Yeji hip-checks you out of the way.

“I pay, I pay, I pay,” she announces, tapping her phone against the card reader with swift finality.

You blink. “Okay, what?”

Yeji grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well, I’m obviously paying for my beautiful girlfriend, and I kinda figured I’d put you in the package deal.”

You snort, giving her a shove. “Fine. But beers later on me.”

“Deal,” she says easily, tossing the receipt onto the counter like a Wall Street exec closing a million-dollar deal.

Irya latches onto your arm, steering you out of the way so Yeji can continue flirting with the guy behind the counter—some blue-haired, too-many-rings kind of guy who’s already leaning into it, smirking as Yeji compliments his “artistry” with the grill.

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

Irya hums, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she grabs your food, balancing her own order on top of yours. “Just my type of ridiculous.”

You shake your head, leading the way toward a set of old picnic tables at the edge of the food truck lot. The wood is worn, graffiti-scratched and dented from years of use, but it’s clean enough. You drop into a seat, setting your tray down, and Irya follows, sliding in across from you.

She sets her elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm, and smiles. A lock of blonde hair falls loose, catching the light, and she tucks it back behind her ear absently.

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

You unwrap your burger, glancing up at her. “Yeah.”

She studies you for a second, eyes warm. “Excited?”

You hesitate. 

“Yeah,” you say again, but it comes out different this time. Not untrue, exactly, but not as sure as it should be.

Irya notices. Tilts her head slightly, patient, the corners of her mouth tugging into something knowing. 

“You don’t have to be.”

A breath of something close to laughter slips out of you.

 “I mean, I am excited,” you say, because you are. “It’s just—it’s been a while. We used to be really close in high school, but then, you know… life.”

Irya nods, thumb idly tracing the grain of the table. “She’s in Columbia, right?”

“Yeah. I stayed in-state for a bit before moving here. Different cities, different schools, different everything.” You shrug, picking at the edge of the wax paper lining your tray. “We tried to keep in touch, but it’s not the same when you’re not living through the same things anymore. And then you just… don’t talk as much. And then that becomes normal.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s in the city, and I guess we’re both trying to reconnect.”

“That’s good,” Irya says, and she means it. “It’s nice when people want to find their way back to each other.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down at your food, pushing a fry through the puddle of ketchup on your tray. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

“She’s inviting a lot of people, right?”

You nod, grateful for the slight shift in direction. “Yeah. Told me to bring people, too, so I figured you and Yeji. Maybe Jimin.”

“Jimin would love that.” Irya grins. “He’s been in study-group hell all week. He deserves some fun.”

“You think?” You manage to say whilst chewing on the potato. “I thought I wouldn’t be doing him any favors. Like, he’s the type of person to say yes just out of obligation. And I didn’t want to pressure him into anything.”

Irya makes a soft sound of amusement, propping her chin in her palm. “Nah. If Jimin really didn’t want to go, he’d find a way to say no without actually saying no.”

You pause mid-chew. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’d do that thing where he apologizes like, three different ways in the same sentence, but somehow, you still walk away not totally sure if he said yes or no.”

You snort, swallowing. “Okay, yeah. That sounds about right.”

Irya grins, poking at her fries. “And anyway, he actually likes going out. He just overthinks it first.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” she says breezily. “I have classes with him. I watch it happen in real time.”

“Real time?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, someone invites him somewhere, and you can see him start to spiral. Like, ‘Okay, but what if I go and I regret it? But what if I don’t go and I regret that instead? But what if I go, but it’s not fun? But what if I don’t go, and it was fun, and now I’m missing out?’” She mimics his voice, exaggerated and tragic, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

“It is,” Irya agrees, laughing too. “But the point is, once he actually gets there, he has a good time.” She levels you with a look, half teasing, half expectant. “So invite him.”

You sigh, reaching for another fry. “Fine.”

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

Yeji appears out of nowhere, sliding into the seat next to Irya and dropping a white takeout box onto the table like she’s just secured a goddamn business deal.

You blink. “How?”

She shrugs, already reaching for a dumpling. “Wouldn’t take my money.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Irya hums, all faux-innocent. “Didn’t happen to have anything to do with that very long, very intimate conversation you were having with the guy behind the counter, did it?”

Yeji smirks around a bite of dumpling. “I dunno. Did it?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Men and their non-existent gaydars.”

“Right? Kinda sucks when she grabs all their attention,” Irya smiles, reaching for a dumpling of her own.

“Not my fault he was easy to entertain,” Yeji says, looking entirely unbothered. “Anyway, eat. They’re fresh.”

You don’t argue. The dumplings are good—warm, crisp at the edges, the filling rich with just the right balance of spice.

Yeji watches you for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “So what were we talking about?”

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

Yeji groans. “Ugh. Tragic little academic. Is he still alive?”

Irya nods, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “Barely. But we’re dragging him to Emma’s party tonight, so he might actually remember what fun feels like.”

Yeji quirks an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Emma?” She flicks a glance at you. “Your other friend? Birthday girl?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

Yeji hums, tapping her chopsticks against the takeout box. “Bestie competition, then.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

Irya grins, delighted. “It is kind of serious. High school bestie versus new college besties.”

Yeji tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know, man. Legacy friends have an unfair advantage. History. Nostalgia.”

“Yeah,” Irya sighs, fake mournful. “How can we ever compete with the memories?”

You level them both with a flat look. “You’ve known me for a month.”

Yeji leans back. “It’s been a whole month already? Woah.”

“We’re joking. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Irya adds.

You snort, shaking your head.

Yeji watches you for a second, still smirking, but then the expression shifts—just a little. 

“Are you excited?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s… genuine.

You pause, setting down your cup. 

“Yeah,” you say, slower this time. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while, so it’ll be—nice. A little weird, maybe. But nice.”

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You groan. “Oh my god, what is that supposed to mean?”

Yeji shrugs, reaching for another dumpling. “I mean, if she’s bestie material, we gotta vet her.”

“Shouldn’t she be the one vetting you two? She’s known me since I had braces and a regrettable side bang phase. Feels like she’s got seniority here.”

Yeji gasps. “Wow. So you’re saying we have no authority in this situation?”

“We really don’t.” Irya muses, almost singsonging.

“I don’t know,” Yeji muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “I feel like we bring some very important qualifications to the table. For example, we met Y/N when she was already in her fully realized, evolved form. We didn’t just settle for her because we grew up in the same town.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

Yeji nods, completely serious. “Yeah, we got to make an informed choice. Handpicked, if you will.”

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

You shake your head, reaching for another fry. “Just… behave.”

“I always behave,” Yeji says, smirking. “You’re just afraid we’ll be better besties than Emma.”

You scoff. “That’s not even remotely the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?” Irya prompts, head tilting to the side.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud feels like giving it weight. Giving it power.

You exhale. “It’s just—there’s a difference between keeping in touch and actually knowing someone after years apart. And I guess I don’t know if we still… fit the way we used to.”

That quiets them for a beat.

Yeji tilts her head, watching you with something unreadable in her gaze. Irya rests her chin in her palm again, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

“That’s fair,” Irya says, voice softer this time. “It’s weird when people grow in different directions. Sometimes you come back together. Sometimes you don’t.”

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

“But hey,” Yeji cuts in, voice as casual as ever, “if she sucks, at least you’ll have us.”

You huff a laugh. “So generous of you.”

She winks. “I know.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter.

You stare at your reflection, one eye perfectly winged, the other a smudged disaster—like your life, really: half put together, half absolute chaos.

You lean closer to the mirror, squinting at your uneven eyeliner with the kind of intense focus that FBI agents would reserve for defusing bombs or something. You've been at this for twenty minutes now, and your right eye is starting to look like it's been drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon during an earthquake.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for a cotton swab. 

Third time's the charm, right? 

Or maybe fifth. 

You've lost count.

From the living room, Griffin's thunderous purr competes with Yeji's animated voice. She's been trying to convince Yoongi to produce some track for her for the past fifteen minutes, her persistence almost admirable if it weren't so clearly futile. Yoongi's monotone responses barely register over the distance, but you can picture his expression—bored, unbothered, probably wanting to kill himself before engaging.

"Orange cats are literally the basic bitches of the cat world," Yeji declares loudly enough for you to hear. "Black cats have personality. They have depth. They're mysterious."

"Tell that to Griffin," Irya responds, her voice warm and amused. "He seems pretty content being basic on your lap right now."

"That's cats for you," Yeji sighs dramatically. "The least person who wants them is the one who gets them."

You smile despite your eyeliner frustration. Because it’s ironic—Yeji, who swears black cats are superior, is now trapped under Griffin's substantial orange weight. 

That's karma, feline edition.

You’re wearing a dress to the gathering—the same one from that night in January. You've worn it exactly once since buying it, and now it's making its second appearance. 

It's not like you planned it this way. It just happened to be the perfect outfit for Emma's birthday dinner. 

(At least that's what you tell yourself as you deliberately avoid examining your motives too closely.)

Emma. Your high school friend. Your only real connection to your life before college. 

Before this apartment. 

Before Jungkook. 

You haven't seen her in months (since that night in January), and there's a strange anxiety bubbling in your stomach that has nothing to do with your makeup struggles. 

You did vibe back then. But… was it a ‘we vibe because we are going out’ situation; or was it because you two actually connected?

People change. You've changed. The question hanging in the air is whether you've changed in compatible ways.

At least you won't be alone tonight. Emma said you could bring friends, so naturally, you are bringing them along.

You dab at your eyeliner again, smudging it further. Great. Now you look like you've been punched. Or crying. Or both.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your silent self-criticism.

"Come in," you call, not bothering to hide your frustration. It's not like anyone in this apartment hasn't seen you in various states of disaster before.

The door creaks open, and Jimin's face appears in the gap, his expression shifting from curious to sympathetic as he takes in your makeup situation.

"Having trouble?" he asks, stepping into the small bathroom. 

The space immediately feels warmer with him in it. Jimin has that effect—like a human comfort blanket.

"What gave it away?" you deadpan, gesturing to your face. "The fact that I look like I let a toddler do my makeup, or the fact that I've been in here for half an hour?"

He laughs softly, the sound gentle and reassuring. "It's not that bad."

"Liar."

"Okay, it's a little uneven," he admits, moving closer to examine your handiwork. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Let me."

Before you can respond, he's taking the eyeliner from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief moment of warmth.

"You know how to do this?" you ask, surprised.

"I have sisters," he says simply, which doesn't really answer your question, but you don't push it. "Close your eye," he instructs, his voice soft but confident.

You comply, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand steadying your face. His touch is light, precise—and you can’t help but feel this is some sort of significant moment. 

"Stay still," he murmurs, and you can sense the smile forming on his lips.

The eyeliner glides across your lid with surprising smoothness. One stroke, then another. No hesitation in his movement. You're impressed and a little confused by his skill, but mostly grateful.

"Where did you learn to—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "No talking or I'll mess up."

You fall silent, letting him work. There's something about Jimin that's always made you curious. He's like a book with half the pages glued together—what you can read is beautiful, but you sense there's more to the story.

"Done," he announces after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. "Take a look."

You turn to the mirror and blink in surprise. The wing is perfect—sharp enough to kill a man, as Yeji herself would say. It matches the other eye exactly, creating a symmetry you couldn't achieve on your own.

"Jimin, this is..." you trail off, turning to face him. "How are you so good at this?"

He shrugs, a small, almost shy grin playing at his lips. "I just have a steady hand, I guess."

There's more to it than that—you can tell by the way he avoids your eyes, the slight flush creeping up his neck. But something tells you not to press further. 

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share. 

You, of all people, know that.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you," you say sincerely. "You just saved me from looking like a hot mess at Emma's birthday."

"Happy to help," he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You look beautiful."

The compliment is simple, genuine, without the weight of expectation or desire that usually accompanies such words from men. 

It's refreshing. Because you feel like Jimin sees you—really sees you—without wanting anything in return.

"We should probably get going soon," he says, glancing at his watch. "Yeji's been threatening to leave without us for the past ten minutes."

"As if she would," you scoff, reaching for your lipstick. "She's too excited about meeting Emma and judging her worthiness."

Jimin laughs. "True. Though I think she's more excited about the free food."

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

You apply your lipstick—a muted berry shade that complements your eyeshadow without being too dramatic. The final touch to your appearance. Not too casual, not too glamorous. Perfect for a birthday dinner.

You've always loved makeup, the ritual of it, the transformation. 

Not because you're trying to hide or become someone else, but because it's an extension of yourself—another form of expression. 

You're so tired of those cliché "not like other girls" characters in movies and books who supposedly wear nothing but mascara yet somehow have flawless skin and perfect brows. 

As if enjoying makeup somehow makes you shallow or less authentic.

The truth is, most girls you know love makeup to some degree. Some for the artistry, some for the confidence boost, some just because it's fun. And you're no different. 

That doesn't make you basic or vain—it makes you human. 

A human who happens to enjoy the satisfying swipe of a good lipstick.

"Ready?" Jimin asks, holding the door open for you.

You take one last look at your reflection. The girl staring back looks put together, confident. 

Whether she actually feels that way is another story entirely, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause. 

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

Jimin nods understandingly, already retreating toward the living room. "Don't take too long or Yeji might actually follow through on her threats this time."

You turn back to the bathroom counter, sliding open the narrow drawer where your collection lives. Four different bottles stare back at you, each with its own personality, its own statement. Your fingers hover over them, indecisive, until they land on one particular bottle.

Amber, its color.

The golden liquid catches the bathroom light, glowing like trapped sunlight inside the crystal bottle. 

You haven't used it since... well, since that night in January. You've been saving it for special occasions, though what constitutes "special" has remained conveniently undefined.

You lift the bottle, turning it in your hand. You apply it to your wrists, your neck, your ears. And before you can overthink it, you bring it to your nose, inhaling lightly.

Memories unfurl instantly, blooming in your mind like clouds puffing up in a winter sky. They tumble through your consciousness, overwhelming and vivid, making it hard to breathe—though you're not entirely sure you want to.

His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to leave phantom marks that lingered for days afterward. 

His slicked chin when he smiled up at you from between your thighs, all smug and proud for making you cum with his tongue. 

His infuriating, satisfied smirk that somehow annoyed you, but also turned you on.

Rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, soft eyes in the aftermath. 

You distinctly remember that was the first time you had thought Jungkook looked cute. Not just hot or sexy, but genuinely cute in a way that had caught you off guard.

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

You nearly drop the bottle, fumbling to catch it before it shatters against the tile floor. Your heart leaps into your throat as you look up, startled.

Jungkook peers inside, and you both freeze, staring at each other like you don’t know which one of you should stay and which one of you should leave. His eyes flick from your face to the bottle in your hand, recognition dawning in his expression.

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

He's wearing a black t-shirt that hugs his frame in all the right places, hair rumpled and messy. His rainy-like scent envelops the cramped space, mingling with the lingering notes of vanilla on your wrist like they’ve always belonged together. 

His eyes drift too. Drop lower, taking in the dress hugging your curves, fingers tightening on the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the pressure. 

You watch the subtle movement, the physical manifestation of restraint, and feel an answering tightness in your chest.

You haven't spoken since Tuesday. Since the fight about Jason. Since he suddenly starting talking about vibes like he’s the type of guy to trust his gut.

And maybe he is. 

And maybe you aren’t.

"Sorry," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't know you were in here."

He avoids your gaze.

You don’t know if that makes you angry or anxious. It’s hard to determine what’s crippling your chest.

"It's fine. I was just leaving."

Neither of you moves.

His eyes drift to the cologne bottle again. Recognition, desire, frustration. 

Then, he masks it. 

But you caught it. 

He remembers the fragrance.

And how could he not? When he constantly praised it that night, how it rested on your skin, how good it made you smell, how fucking good you tasted.

"Going somewhere?" he asks then, interrupting your conflicting thoughts.

"Emma's birthday dinner," you reply, voice tight.

He nods slowly, gaze returning to the dress. The dress from that night. The dress he peeled off you with those same hands now gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.

You should move. You should cap the cologne, put it away, walk past him and join your friends who are waiting. You should maintain the cold war you've established since your fight.

Instead, you find yourself asking, "Did you need something?"

He purses his lips. "Just needed to pee.”

"Right," you say. "I'll get out of your way."

You cap the cologne, and you just know his eyes are tracking your every motion. Because that’s Jungkook for you—when he’s focused on something, it’s obvious.

You move toward the door—toward him—and it’s like suddenly, the small bathroom feels impossibly smaller. Like there’s not enough space for both of you and all the unspoken words crowding the air.

You'll have to squeeze past him. There's no way to avoid it.

His grip on the doorframe tightens further, as if he's holding himself back. From what, you're not entirely sure. Touching you? Yelling at you? Both seem equally possible.

"Excuse me," you murmur.

He steps back marginally, not enough to clear the path completely. 

Like he’s hesitating. 

Like he doesn’t know whether he wants to move for real, or stay rooted in place.

“Jungkook,” you say, and his name feels strange on your tongue after days of not speaking it. “Move.”

“You smell like that night,” he settles for staying instead of moving, voice dropping lower, annoyed. “You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms across your chest, up your neck.

“That’s not—” you start, but the lie dies on your lips. 

Because it is. Of course it is. You knew exactly what you were doing when you reached for that bottle.

You see his jaw work. His tongue peek against the inside of his cheek. His eyes lock into yours like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. 

“Have fun at your dinner,” is all he comes up with, stepping aside. 

The movement feels like it costs him something.

You move past him. Take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Jungkook aside. 

Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about Emma, about reconnecting with a part of your life that existed before this apartment, before him.

But as you step into the living room, you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, can still smell the amber scent on your skin, can still hear his voice in your ear.

You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.

And the worst part is, you don’t know why or how—but maybe that’s exactly what you wanted.

The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, too New York—but Emma’s hug is warm, and that makes up for it.

“Finally.” She squeezes you tight, like she’s trying to merge your atoms together. “You took forever.”

Yeji, behind you, snorts. “Blame her eyeliner existential crisis.”

Emma pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Oh? We still doing that?”

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

She laughs—her laugh. It’s the same as it was in high school, loud and full, like she actually enjoys things instead of just tolerating them. That hasn’t changed. Neither has the way she looks at you, eyes scanning your face, taking you in like she’s checking if you’re still the same person too.

The answer? You don’t know.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you guys,” she says, looping an arm through yours.

You let yourself be pulled in—into the restaurant, into her world, into the crowd of fifteen fucking people all squeezed around a too-small table in the back corner. She moves through the chaos easily, hand on your wrist, steering you like she used to when you were seventeen and invincible.

“This is Yeji, Irya, and Jimin,” you say as you go, pointing them out like exhibits in a museum.

Emma grins at them, all effortless charm. “Your uni friends. I’ve heard so much.”

Jimin, ever polite, smiles back. “All good things, I hope.”

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

There’s a blur of names you won’t remember—Emma’s friends, classmates, people who probably have their lives together in a way you do not. Someone pulls her into another conversation, and you hover awkwardly at the edge of the group, watching her slip back into a world that isn’t yours.

It’s strange.

You used to know everything about her. Every inside joke, every dream, every late-night insecurity whispered over FaceTime. 

But now—now you’re an observer. 

A guest.

Still, when she sits, she grabs your wrist again and tugs you down next to her.

“So,” she starts, picking up her glass—red wine, something deep and rich. “Are you finally admitting that I was right, or are we still in the denial phase?”

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

You exhale through your nose, reaching for your water instead. “We are so not doing this here.”

Emma grins, but she lets it go—for now.

Instead, she leans back. “God, I forgot how exhausting socializing is. I swear, law school is turning me into one of those people who can only function in coffee shops and libraries.”

You snort. “You were already that person in high school.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her glass toward you. “But now it’s worse. Now I actually enjoy tax law. Like, genuinely. It’s fascinating.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Swear on my life,” she says, amused. “You should see me in my internship. I get excited about deductions. I have a favorite tax loophole.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Emma just grins. “Give it time. One day, you’ll come to me, desperate for tax advice, and I’ll be your only hope. And I will lord it over you.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the way your lips twitch. It’s easy, falling into conversation with Emma. Easier than you thought it would be, considering how much has changed since high school.

“So, what’s the plan then?” you ask, nudging your knee against hers under the table. “You still set on Seattle after graduation?”

Emma hesitates. Not in a bad way—more like she’s holding onto something, waiting for the right moment.

“Actually,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Europe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

“Yeah.” She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “I did a summer program there—France, Italy, Greece, Spain. It was insane. I loved it. I don’t know, I just—” She exhales, shaking her head like she can’t quite put it into words. “Seattle was always the safe plan, you know? The practical one. But now? I keep thinking about the Mediterranean coast. The markets, the people. It feels like people there work to live, not live to work like they do here in America.”

You watch her carefully. Emma has always been a planner, a strategist. She doesn’t make decisions lightly.

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

“So, what?” you ask. “You’re gonna become a tax attorney in Greece? Help rich expats avoid paying their fair share?”

Emma snorts. “God, no. If I go, I’d probably work with international firms, corporate law, maybe even consulting. It’s different over there, you know? Taxes, policies, loopholes—everything shifts depending on the country, the treaties in place.”

“You realize you sound even worse now, right?”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “At least I’m passionate about something.”

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

But you can tell, just from the way she says it, that it’s more than a maybe.

It’s funny. The last time you saw her, she was talking about Seattle like it was inevitable. Now she’s talking about the Mediterranean coast with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you think she’s already half there.

People change.

You’ve changed.

And yet, it feels like nothing between you two has changed at all. 

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks. 

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve barely told me anything about your life,” she says. “How’s English? Still planning on breaking the hearts of young, impressionable students as a professor?”

“First of all, no. That is not the plan. And second—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t look the part,” she teases. “The eyeliner? The whole vibe? You’d have students falling in love with you instantly.”

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

You feel it, then—the warmth of familiarity, of friendship. It settles in your chest, light and unburdened, and for the first time in a while, you think:

This is nice.

Even with the changes, even with the time apart, even with the half-truths lingering at the back of your throat—this is still Emma.

“Come on,” Emma nudges your arm, eyes gleaming. “Let me introduce you to my favorite tax nerds.”

You groan, but let her pull you toward the other end of the table. “If I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.”

“They’re fun,” she insists, dodging between chairs and half-full wine glasses. “For tax people, anyway.”

The group is mid-conversation when you arrive—something about offshore accounts, corporate loopholes, and why the ultra-wealthy pay less in taxes than you probably spend on coffee each year. (Fascinating.) Chris and Max, two guys who both look like they were born wearing pressed button-ups, are deep in debate, hands gesturing, voices overlapping.

But the girl sitting across from you—Nina—just listens, quiet, observant.

She clocks you the moment you sit down. And you clock her right back.

Dark brown skin, black curls tucked behind one ear, a delicate gold necklace resting just above the collar of an oversized sweater. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal slender wrists, and she has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to fill space to be felt. 

There’s something measured about her. Something thoughtful. Like she only speaks when there’s something worth saying.

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

But it’s more than that. She’s composed in a way that makes you hyperaware of yourself—your posture, the way you’re holding your drink, the way she looks at you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, accent lilting ever so slightly.

It’s just that—simple. Friendly. Maybe.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

Emma gestures between you. “Nina, this is my friend from high school—the one I told you about?”

Nina hums like she remembers, tilting her head. “The one who thinks tax law is boring?”

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

“She warned me in advance,” Nina says, lips twitching. “Said you might try to stage an intervention.”

You shoot Emma a look, but she’s already sipping her wine, unbothered. 

“Well,” you say, turning back to Nina, “I was going to be polite about it, but now I feel like I have a responsibility.”

That gets a small smile out of her. Just a slight curve of the lips, like she’s amused but won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much.

You don’t know why that makes you want to push, just a little.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “what is it, then? The thing about tax law that actually doesn’t put you to sleep?”

Nina considers this. Takes a slow sip of her drink. And when she speaks, it’s not rushed—it’s careful.

“It’s not about the numbers,” she says, setting her glass down. “Not really. It’s about human nature. About how people behave when they think no one is watching. Governments set up incentives, and people react accordingly. It’s a game of strategy. A reflection of what a society actually values, not just what it claims to.”

You weren’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. “So, what—you think taxes are, like, a moral compass?”

Nina shrugs. “Not a moral compass. But they show you what people are willing to bend the rules for. What they think is worth cheating for. And that’s… interesting, I think.”

You watch her, trying to get a read on her. She’s got this almost effortless kind of intrigue—the kind of person who could make anything sound poetic if she wanted to.

Emma groans. “Oh god, don’t encourage her. She’ll start talking about capital gains tax next.”

Nina lifts a brow. “It’s actually fascinating, if you—”

“Absolutely not,” Emma interrupts. “Nope. I refuse.”

You smirk. “I don’t know, Em. I kind of want to hear her out.”

Emma glares at you. “Do not encourage the tax philosophy.”

But Nina is looking at you again. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams I’m interested. But in a way that’s… present. Attentive. Like she actually finds this conversation worth having.

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

Which—God, why is this always harder with girls?

With guys, it’s obvious. But with girls—well. You think she’s enjoying this. But is she just enjoying it, or is there something else there? Is this just conversation, or is it something that, in hindsight, will feel like a moment?

You have no fucking idea.

The conversation shifts after that—Emma talks about her summer in Europe, Chris and Max start debating New York’s best pizza, someone brings up an upcoming bar crawl.

And then, at some point, Nina glances at her phone before looking at you again.

“You mind if I get your number?” she asks.

Casual. Easy. Nothing in her tone suggests it’s anything more than that.

“Emma talks about you a lot,” she adds, mouth twitching slightly. “I feel like I should probably fact-check at least half of it.”

Emma swats at her, but you barely register it, already pulling your phone out.

You’re not reading into it. You’re not.

But also—

You kind of are.

Still, you hand your phone over, watch as Nina types in her number, then passes it back. Just a name in your contacts now. Simple. Unassuming.

You have no idea if you just made a new friend or if this is something else.

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

“Well, well, well,” Yeji drawls, sliding into the conversation without invitation. “Are we allowed to sit, or is this a tax-exclusive gathering?”

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

“What? We were getting bored.” She drops into the seat beside you, tossing an arm over Irya’s chair. “Jimin’s been overanalyzing the condensation on his glass for the past fifteen minutes, and Irya’s just been smiling at people like a lost pageant contestant.”

“I was being friendly,” Irya corrects, unfazed.

“You were being too friendly.”

“Networking,” Irya insists, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I love people.”

“You do,” Emma says, delighted. “It’s terrifying.”

Irya beams, pleased. Yeji just sighs like she’s accepted her fate.

Nina watches all of this unfold with quiet amusement, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You two are together?”

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

Nina meets her gaze evenly. “No. It’s nice.”

It’s a simple statement, but it rings genuine, like she’s not just saying it to be polite. Yeji studies her for a second longer before nodding, satisfied, and pulling Irya in to kiss her temple.

Emma turns to you, grinning. “Your friends are so much more fun than my law ones.”

You smirk. “That’s because they have souls.”

Chris, still lingering in the tax-law-heavy end of the table, lifts a hand in protest. “Hey.”

Yeji ignores him completely, waving to Nina instead. “So, you’re a tax philosopher?”

Nina looks faintly amused but nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Cool, cool,” Yeji muses, reaching for Irya’s wine and taking a sip before Irya can protest. “And do you also believe that money isn’t real?”

Nina tilts her head slightly, considering. “I think it’s real in the sense that it determines the way the world functions. But I also think it’s one of the biggest shared delusions humanity has ever committed to.”

Yeji brightens. “See? This is the tax conversation I want to be having.”

You roll your eyes, but Nina takes it in stride. She’s good at this, you notice—letting conversations unfold naturally, never forcing her presence but never fading into the background either.

Across from you, Jimin has settled into his usual quiet observation, sipping his drink slowly. He’s not uncomfortable, just taking it all in. He catches your eye at one point, a small look that says ‘you good?’

You nod, barely perceptible.

He doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod back and turns his attention back to the conversation. Just listening in.

Emma leans in slightly, nudging your arm. “I like them,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “Yeah?”

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

It’s such an Emma thing to say—blunt in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, just observant. 

You don’t respond right away, but you don’t need to. 

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

The apartment is quiet when you finally get home, the only light coming from the TV screen where some game is paused. 

Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands, looking like he's been there for hours. He glances up when the door closes behind you, expression neutral.

"It's late," he says, not quite a question.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. "Yeah."

"Had fun?" He unpauses the game, thumbs moving lazily over the controller buttons. His character on screen walks aimlessly into a wall.

"Yeah," you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Emma's friends are cool. We ended up at this bar in Brooklyn after dinner."

He makes a noncommittal sound, still not looking at you.

"Jason wasn't there, though, so don't worry," you add, unable to help yourself.

That gets his attention. His thumbs still, and he scoffs, a short, sharp sound in the quiet apartment. 

“You know I don't give a fuck about that guy, right?"

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen for water. "Because you seemed to have very strong opinions about him on Tuesday."

The controller drops onto the couch as he turns to face you fully. 

“Look," he says, voice tight with frustration. "I don't give a fuck who you fuck or who you date. Seriously. Not my business."

"Yup. Three rules," you start, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle.

"One, no one knows," he recites, cutting you off.

"Two, if somebody asks, we're just roommates," you continue.

"And three," he interrupts again, more forcefully, "no feelings. I know the fucking rules, Phoenix. I helped make them."

You take a long drink of water, studying him over the bottle. His hair is messy in a stupid endearing way, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

"So what was Tuesday about, then?" you ask finally.

He exhales slowly, jaw working. "I told you. The guy gives me bad vibes."

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. Bad fucking vibes." He rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I know how it sounded, okay? But it's not—" He stops, frustrated. "It's not about you. Or us. Or whatever the fuck we're doing."

You consider him for a moment, then set your water bottle down and cross to the couch, sitting on the opposite end. 

"Explain."

"What?"

"Explain these 'bad vibes.' Because from where I was sitting, it sounded irrational."

"It's not—" He stops again, shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. Not my problem."

"Jungkook."

He looks at you, surprised by the use of his actual name.

"I'm trying to understand," you say, softer than you intended. "So explain it to me."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if you're serious. 

Finally, he sighs. "He's fake."

"Fake how?"

"The way he talks. The way he looks at you when you're not watching. The way he touched your arm in the car." His words come faster now. "The way he asked about your schedule, your classes. The way he positioned himself between us. It's all... calculated."

You frown. "That's a lot to read into a few interactions."

"I know what I saw," he insists. "Guys like that... they start small. Compliments. Attention. Making you feel special. Then it's suggestions about what you should wear. Who you should hang out with. What classes you should take."

His tone is raw, really raw, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk like this. 

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

"I'm saying he could be." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Look, I've seen it before, okay? People who seem perfect on the surface but underneath they're just... manipulative. They make you think everything's your idea when really they're pulling all the strings."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. 

"This isn't just about Jason, is it?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. 

"I told you. It's not about you or us."

"But it is about someone."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is confirmation enough.

"Mia?" you ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Okay," you say, respecting the boundary even as curiosity burns through you. "But that's why you're worried about Jason? Because he reminds you of her?"

"Not of her specifically," he says after a pause. "Just... the type. The signs."

You pull your legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. "What signs?"

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much to share. 

"The perfect act," he says finally. "The way everything seems rehearsed. The charm that never quite reaches their eyes." His voice drops lower. "The way they make you feel like you're the only person in the room, but it's not because they care about you. It's because they want something from you."

"And you think that's Jason?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there. But my gut says something's off with him."

You consider this. "Your gut's been wrong before."

A bitter smile twists his lips. "Yeah. More than once."

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s like you’re both still processing the words exchanged.

"I'm still going on the date," you say finally.

He nods, looking away. "I know."

"But I'll... keep what you said in mind. Watch for the signs."

He glances back at you, surprise flickering across his face. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually enjoy being manipulated."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

You kick his thigh lightly with your foot. "Asshole."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Brat."

Silence again. His forearms are resting on his knees, hands crossed together as his gaze remains unfocused.

"So," he says eventually, "how was the birthday girl?"

You're surprised by the question, by his apparent interest in your life outside this apartment. 

"Good," you say. "Different, but good. She's in Economics. Has a serious boyfriend. Wears a lot of beige."

"Sounds thrilling."

You laugh despite yourself. "It was actually nice. Weird, but nice. Like visiting a place you used to live but don't anymore."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Did your new friends play nice with your old friend?"

"Yeji, Irya and Jimin?" You smile at the memory. "They were on their best behavior. Well, Yeji's version of best behavior, which means she only made three inappropriate jokes and only drank half the table's wine."

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Emma liked them, though. I think." You pause, considering. "It's strange, bringing different parts of your life together."

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

You look at him, really look at him, sitting there in the dim light of the TV. For once, there's no smirk on his face, no challenge in his eyes. Just Jungkook, tired and rumpled and unexpectedly honest.

"Why were you still up?" you ask suddenly.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"It's 3 AM. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugs, defensive again. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd play for a bit."

You glance at the TV screen where his character has been standing in the same spot for the past ten minutes. 

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing," you say, but you can't help the small smile that forms. "Just... nothing."

He narrows his eyes at you, but doesn't press.

"I should get to bed," you say, standing up. "It's late."

He nods, picking up the controller again. "Yeah."

You're halfway to your room when his voice stops you.

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

He’s staring at you, but it’s not the usual smirk. No. 

His eyes flick downward. To the floor, like he’s seriously considering his next words—or rather, if he should vocalize them at all. 

But then he looks up at you again, seemingly decided.

"You..." he starts, licking his lips like he’s trying to pull himself together. But he’s failing. "You know you smell fucking delicious, right? Like, it’s so fucking unfair."

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

"The cologne," he says, standing up. "You’ve been driving me insane the whole night. The whole apartment smells like you.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, heavier. "I didn’t wear it for you."

"No?” His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite—like he knows exactly how full of shit you are. "The cologne from that night. The dress from that night. And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?"

"It is," you snap back, defensive even as your pulse betrays you by speeding up.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—or maybe just like he can’t believe you.

“Fuck, Phoenix," he mutters, voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? How much I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on you again?"

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat—an audible hitch that makes his eyes darken further.

"We’re fighting," you remind him weakly.

"Are we?" He steps closer, until there’s barely a whisper of space between you. "Because right now all I can think about is how wet you were for me the first time I smelled that shit on your skin."

You retreat physically; even though mentally you’re honestly already naked for him.

"Four days," he muses, tone dripping with frustration, almost needy. "Four days of smelling your shampoo in the bathroom, that stupid body lotion, and now—now you pull this shit. That’s fucking cruel, Nix.”

"You could’ve apologized," you point out dryly.

"For what?" He scoffs like the idea itself is offensive. "For telling the truth? For saying Jason gives me bad vibes?"

"There it is again," you say, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever energy he’s radiating right now. 

It doesn’t.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking to your lips before moving back up. 

“I’m being for real, Phoenix. Your vanilla shit drives me nuts,” he confesses bluntly.

Then llicks his lips, considering what he’s about to say 

But says it anyways. 

“I jerked off after you left.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"Couldn’t help it," he continues. “The smell of your cologne... seeing you in that dress again... I couldn’t get the image out of my head."

"What image?"

"The first time," he says slowly, like he wants every word to sink into your skin and stay there forever. "In that room. The way you tasted... the sounds you made when I had my tongue inside you."

Your legs threaten mutiny.

"And now?" You force yourself to ask because silence feels dangerous—like it might give him permission to keep going without restraint.

"Now?" He repeats, almost hushed. "Now, I’m… really craving vanilla.”

You should walk away—should turn around and retreat into your room where things are safe and quiet and not vibrating with tension so thick it feels alive—but instead?

Instead, your feet betray you by staying planted firmly in place: "Eat some cookies.”

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

He purses his lips. Tongue drops to lick the lower one. Gaze flickers to your mouth again before they come back to your pupils.

“You don’t?”

And the way he exhales it, like the mere idea of you saying no pains him—it melts through you. 

Especially when his hand finally finds its way to your waist (warm and solid and grounding despite everything else about this moment feeling anything but grounded).

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply. 

And when his lips brush against the sensitive skin just below your jawline?

You realize two things simultaneously:

One: You were never going to walk away from this moment no matter how much logic tried to intervene earlier.

Two: Logic doesn’t stand a chance against lust when Jungkook looks at you like this.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[fairytaleendingss]

Room for One More?

Chapter 11

Summary: James has had time to think during the days he'd been away and through this, has come to a shocking revelation.

CW: Swearing, creepy man being unnerving (nothing inappropriate happens though).

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

This is a shorter one but I just wanted to get something out. I have more of a solid plan now of what I want to happen next to stay tuned for some more updates soon!

--

You started to feel better over the next few days. Remus checked on you periodically to make sure you were making progress while Sirius hovered awkwardly, not quite sure what he was supposed to do whenever the two of you happened to be in the same vicinity.

You weren't sure what had come over him recently, but things between the two of you had been stilted to say the least.

By Wednesday you were back on your feet and back at work, meaning Remus' job was done, however, you desperately hoped that things between the two of you would continue to be civil in the aftermath. Who knows? Maybe you'd even become friends.

James was also getting home from his trip today and you were bubbling with a combination of nerves and excitement. You'd found yourself missing him while he was away. Everything had been strange, to say the least and James was the person out of all your roommates who you were the most comfortable around by far. He just had this light energy about him that was able to balance everything out around your house and without it, things had just felt off. You couldn't quite place your finger on what it was but James Potter just had a way of putting you at ease.

Although, you couldn't help but feel slightly guilty for wanting him there for your own selfish purposes. You knew things had been particularly rough for him after the revelation at New Years and you knew he needed this time to get away from everything and clear his head.

You pondered this concept as you sat back in your desk chair, pen pressed into your cheek and eyes gazing off to nowhere. When did things become so complicated? you thought to yourself.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Mary sang, sliding across the linoleum office floor on her own chair. Mary was always pretty but you took note of it today in particular. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head in a tidy bun and she had a burgundy lipstick on, one that was a departure from the usual neutral tones she went for at work.

You raised a brow at her, choosing to pass by her question.

"You look lovely. Got plans tonight?"

Mary bit her lip as she often did when she was excited.

"It's Lily and I's four month anniversary tonight! I know it sounds silly to celebrate it but if I'm being honest, it's kind of a big deal! Today marks the longest official relationship I've been in!"

"Oh my gosh! Mary, that's wonderful!" you chirped. Then you paused. "Hold on, what do you mean 'official relationship'?"

Mary sighed. "Well, technically there was this guy in high school that I talked to for like a year over Snapchat but he lived in America and we never met in person so it doesn't really count."

You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "You had an internet boyfriend?"

She gave you a gentle slap on the shoulder. "What? I was like fourteen!"

"Okay, fine. Whatever. Congratulations anyway," you replied.

"Thanks girl! Now tell me," she scooted forward slightly on her chair, leaning in as if to share a secret. "What's going on with you and Sirius?"

You sighed thickly. "Unfortunately, there's nothing to tell."

"Really?" she looked surprised. "So you still haven't talked about anything that happened on New Years... or you know, before that?"

You shook your head. "Nope. In fact, honestly, we've barely talked at all recently. It's like he's avoiding me or something."

"That's is odd," Mary muttered. "I mean Sirius isn't usually known for being subtle. For some reason I had it in my head that maybe he would've gone all prince charming and come to your aid while you were ill," she chuckled.

"Ha! No, none of that. Every time we were in the same room, he'd just stare at me like I had two heads and then stutter out some excuse to rush away."

Mary let out a genuine laugh at this. "Yeah, actually that does sound like him. He's uh, not really much of a caretaker."

"No. Well, actually, it was... um, Remus who ended up doing most of the caretaking," you muttered bashfully.

Her eyebrows shot up like rockets. "I'm sorry, WHAT? Did I just hear you say Remus, the man that supposedly can't stand you, looked after you while you were unwell this last week?"

You shrugged but you couldn't deny the way your cheeks warmed at the thought. "He was quite wonderful actually."

A playful smirk overtook her. "Yeah, I bet he was. What? Did he like, bring you soup, and stroke your hair until you fell asleep?"

"Shut up," you joked. "You read too many romance novels."

"Hey! It's not my fault that you're living out the plot of New Girl!"

"You know, it actually kind of is, right?"

She shrugged. "Well, maybe that was the plan all along. I think Remus would definitely be Nick-"

"Anyway," you stated pointedly, before her comparison could get too deep. "You should probably get going. It's after 5 and you don't want to be late for your special date tonight!"

"Oh, shit! You're right," she exclaimed, jumping from her chair and racing to grab her coat.

You chuckled to yourself as you watcher her scramble for her things, calling out a hurried "goodbye" as she headed for the exit.

You took your time packing up that night, both having nowhere to be and also not looking forward to going home. You wondered if maybe Sirius would be out working tonight but you doubted it since James was supposed to have arrived home today and you suspected they'd want to spend some time together.

"Are you heading off now then?"

You abruptly turned on your heel, eyes wide as you noticed Glenn standing closely behind you. You hated when he did that. He was always creeping up on you when you were distracted.

You gave him an awkward smile, hoping he would say a quick goodbye and then leave you be.

He returned the gesture broadly, flashing his perfectly pearly white teeth in a way that you could tell usually worked to make girls swoon. It didn't, however, work so well on you.

"Yeah. Just finishing up now."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Ah. Well I see that Mary has made an early exit. Do you need some company walking out?"

You cringed internally. There was something just so artificial about him. Like he was constantly putting on an act, displaying qualities that he thought people liked to see. But you could see right through it and honestly, it left a bad taste in your mouth.

"That's very kind but I'm okay by myself."

He shook his head stubbornly. "Nonsense! What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you go alone in the cold?"

You restrained yourself from rolling your eyes. Clearly it wasn't going to be so easy to shake him off.

"Okay, then," you relented unwittingly. "Lets go."

The walk from your office on the seventh floor down to the front exit was particularly awkward. Glenn hovered at your side, not saying much but just sending you that unnerving smile of his every so often. As you approached the front steps, you were more then relieved to see a familiar figure waiting by the door.

"James! What are you doing here?"

He looked up from his phone, flashing you a genuine grin, one that made your heart feel warm, instead of causing bile to want to rise in your throat the way Glenn's did.

"Hey!"

He approached with rapid footsteps, engulfing you in his warm arms. You relaxed into his hold for a moment, savoring the feeling.

You pulled away at the sound of a throat clearing beside you. Glenn was looking between the two of you with an unreadable expression.

"Oh! Sorry," James corrected himself, only then noticing the other man. "I'm James, Y/n's roommate. Nice to meet you."

He stuck a hand out towards Glenn, which the latter man shook with a reluctant hesitation.

"Glenn Mulciber. We work together."

You didn't like the way the man was looking at James, something akin to jealously flashing across his eyes in a way that made your skin crawl.

"Well, thanks for walking me out, Glenn but James and I'd better be going. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, right. Okay," was all he said before he turned on his heel and stalked away, his demeanor suddenly very cold.

"Well, he's an odd sort of person," James observed as the two of you began the journey home.

"I'm not a fan of his, to tell you the truth," you responded. "He's weird. He kind of creeps me out."

"Hmm," James muttered thoughtfully, although you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

"You don't have to keep coming to pick me up from work, you know? I'm perfectly capable of making it home myself."

James shrugged. "I know, I just like spending time with you."

You felt your heart swim at his words and had to turn your gaze away from him in the hopes that he wouldn't see the embarrassment on your face.

"Well, um... how was your trip?"

"Good. Yeah. It was good."

He was fiddling with the hem of his coat, looking vaguely off into the distance as he spoke to you. Something seemed off about him. You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering what was going on.

"Is everything okay?" you questioned. "You seem nervous or something."

"Um, well," he hesitated for a moment before turning to face you. "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

You felt your heart sink into your stomach as a slew of worst case scenarios began to run through your mind. You did your best to keep composed.

"Okay, what's up?"

James released a heavy breath as if he was preparing himself for the words to follow.

"So, while I was away, I had a lot of time to think about things,"

"What kinds of things?"

"Well, you know, just everything that's been going on. When I found out about Lily and Mary back on New Years Eve, I was heartbroken..."

You sighed feeling a rush of sympathy. "Yeah, James about that, I'm really sorry. You shouldn't have had to find out that way, I-"

"No! No, it's okay!" he interrupted. "What I was going to say was actually that I was heartbroken at first. But then the more I thought about it, the more I realised, I've been in love with Lily for so long that I think at some point I just started to like the idea of us together more than I actually liked her, if that makes sense."

You sent him a look of confusion.

"That's not to say I don't like her of course," he rushed to amend. "She's a great friend and obviously she's beautiful and a wonderful person and all that but I think that I just got so comfortable with wanting her that I didn't realise when I didn't really want her anymore..."

You couldn't help but chuckle at the boy’s rambling. "James, what are you trying to say?"

Then he stopped walking suddenly and you followed suit. He turned to look at you then, his face serious and eyes ablaze with an unfamiliar friction.

"I think what I'm trying to say is... that night made me realise that I have feelings for someone else."

In that moment, despite the cold of the street, heat began to swirl around you. You felt energy of an unknown source drawing you together in a magnetic pull as James gazed down at you with a look of yearning clouding his dark eyes. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you looked up at him. Your eyes raked over every inch of his face; his sweet smile, the dimples in his cheeks, the stupid curls that he couldn't contain no matter how hard he tried. He was beautiful.

Then, without warning, he leaned in and your lips connected.

It was like the world faded around you. The noise of the cars and the crowds and the hustle and bustle of London in the evening, all just melted away. You didn't care that you were standing in the middle of the street, with icy tendrils of wind piercing your skin. You didn't care that you had a rock in your shoe or that your hair was blowing in your face. In that moment, all you cared about was him and the feeling of his soft lips against yours.

It wasn't desperate and passionate the way it had been with Sirius. No, James' kiss was sweeter, gentler, filled with warmth and comfort just like he was.

When you pulled back, James had a playful smirk on his face. He licked his lips, looking down at you affectionately as he used a finger to push his glasses up on his nose.

"So," he muttered. "Will you go out with me, then?"

You rolled your eyes. "Of course I will, you idiot."

He laughed a little and intertwined your fingers with his own.

"Okay good. I just wanted to make sure."

You scoffed as you began to walk once more, hand in hand and smiles painted on your swollen lips.

--

Taglist:

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[jinusajas]

02/06/25; 05:22pm

sung jinwoo x fem.reader

thinking about meeting sung jinwoo for the first time during college.

despite your university being a larger school, you always took notice of a tall young man with startling, grey eyes named sung jinwoo. he seemed kind enough while sporting a smile that seemed to be as mysterious as the moonlight (not quite reaching his eyes, but always captivating nonetheless.) he was quite popular among your female peers, often being the object of their affections as they tried to gain his attention (almost desperately.)

of course, you were all too aware of how achingly charming jinwoo was: devastatingly handsome while being the star track runner for your university’s team, even if you had the courage to speak to him, there was no way in hell that he’d even remember such a closed off girl like you.

so, you did your best to avoid jinwoo’s line of sight, and it worked for the time being-

that is, until you ended up being in the same philosophy course with him. you had found that out when you had taken your seat in the back row, only to feel your heart physically drop when jinwoo entered the same classroom with a few of his friends.

you duck behind your philosophy textbook, mentally cursing yourself. you really didn’t want to be close to jinwoo, since you had no desire to even get a glimpse of his personality (fearing that you’ll end up yearning for him like the others did.) as you debated with yourself whether to switch out or not, in the end, you chose to stick around, realizing that you didn’t look pretty enough to capture his attention to begin with.

so, the semester was calm for the most part. your philosophy class only met every monday, wednesday, and friday, so it wasn’t like jinwoo would take notice of you during those class times. in fact, he seemed to enjoy talking with his friends, jinho and mincheol, the majority of the time. in a way, you were happy to be able to keep your peace.

that is until one day, you realize that jinwoo had forgotten one of his belongings in class. the sleek black phone was settled on his desk-

and you were the only one that was left behind.

you pace around the classroom, wondering how jinwoo could leave behind something so important like his phone! your eyes kept glancing at his phone, feeling like it was mocking you, since you weren’t cruel enough to leave it behind.

letting out a shuddering breath, you take jinwoo's phone and began your search for the star student, heading outside of the humanities building as you looked helplessly from side to side. despite not having a single clue where he would be, you find yourself walking towards the library. perhaps if you were lucky, you'd be able to find jinwoo studying somewhere.

you enter the library, the scent of printed paper bound into a variety of tomes filling your senses as you began your search for jinwoo. yet when you saw him settled on a table just a few feet away from the library's entrance-

you had a sneaking suspicion that he had been waiting for you.

with a shake of your head, you hold his phone in a tighter manner, walking up to jinwoo as you softly called out to him. "jinwoo?"

he was writing something in his notebook, with his gloved hand settled beside him. he sees your approaching figure and smiles, saying your name in such a gentle tone that it causes the heat to rise to your cheeks. you cough and quickly settle his phone next to him. "y-you left this behind in class."

a series of rich chuckles was heard coming from his parted lips, "is that so? my apologies for being so forgetful then." although he attempted to sound sincere, there was a subtle smirk that graces his features, letting you know that he had intentionally done this-

but for what reason, you couldn't say for sure.

taking a polite step back, you give jinwoo a stiff bow, "w-well, that's all i wanted to do. if you'll excuse me."

not even waiting for his reply, you turn yourself away from him, becoming dimly aware of the sounds of a chair moving as a warm grip felt on your wrist prevents you from moving forward. "wait." you heard his voice in your ear now, making you tremble as you tried to calm down your rapidly beating heart.

time felt like it had stood still when jinwoo slowly turns you around to face him, molten silver eyes drinking in your sheepish expression as he places the pad of his thumb on your bottom lip. you tremble at the sensation of his touch on your skin, feeling like your knees would give in any minute now from witnessing the smug expression on his stupidly handsome face.

"you're always trying to avoid me, it's cute, but at the same time..." jinwoo trails off, his hand now gripping at your chin so that you were fully looking at him, "it bothers me."

words failed you, with your mouth opening and closing as you struggled to find the right things to say. instead, jinwoo just smiles at you, hands caressing at your cheek before confessing to you, "the more you try to hide away from me, the more it fuels my need to chase after you. you're... so different from anyone else i've ever met. quiet, yet kind and beautiful."

your breath hitches in response to his words, earning another grin from jinwoo as he slowly frames at your face with his two hands, "i knew i had to trap you somehow, to get you to notice me... so... i took advantage of your kindness and left my phone behind, knowing that you'll return it back to me."

jinwoo continues to captivate you, and you felt your heart already becoming ensnared by his charm when he leans down to press a kiss against your lips. it was a chaste kiss, one that was no heavier than dew as you felt the sparks begin to fly from beneath your closed eyelids.

and when jinwoo takes a hold of your hand while settling your form next to him, interlocking his fingertips with yours, you knew that you could never get away from him-

not minding this fact one bit as jinwoo tied himself to your life.

end notes: a quick fluffshot for jinwoo before i post my next story

(⺣◡⺣)♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[ladyrosemone]

History does not remember blood, it remembers names

Using Google Translate here, sorry for any spelling mistakes or inconsistencies 🗣‼️‼️

Tw: allusion to child prostitution, prostitution, death of a secondary character, abandonment of minors, allusion to negligence.

It wasn't always like this, you know.

You weren't like this when was younger, when mom would put you hair in those cute braids or dress you up to match her on dress-up Wednesdays, or even when she taught you how to put on makeup instead of buying the bike you wanted, one that you friend Michelle had. It was metallic blue, with white streamers hanging from the handlebars, and you still remembers it clear as the sun because that was the first time you felt envious of something foreign.

You was never blind to injustice, you saw it every day; at school when the teacher took you away recess because some brats weren't silent, at home when mom didn't give you dessert for some stupid reason, but the most recurrent one was the one that took the bread out of their mouths.

You understood it when you turned nine, when you woke and you beloved mother decided it was time for contribute to the household; On you birthday she took you to a fat old man, whom she said was his boss, he dressed you the way her mother dressed on a Wednesday and a Thursday and a Friday and a Saturday and a Sunday and she put so much makeup on you that you eyes burned.

She didn't want to do it, she wasn't going to do it, but when your boss comes to your home to demand protection money and sees you child, what else do you do but make things easier?

That's what adults love most.

She was not a bad mother, she was loving and protective, affectionate and self-sacrificing, but she was also a woman desperate to fulfill the most basic needs of a human, to eat and sleep safely one more night, and if she must use her little girl for that, may God forgive her on his last day.

And you loved her too, but not enough to intervene when you saw being pulled into a car, or asked her boss for help when others did, and you'll be damned if you refuses to be taken to the police station to take a statement, poor baby.

"Is in shock" they say that word a lot, even now "Leave in a foster home, there is no room in orphanages"

Like divine intervention, an old but royal gentleman like a general entered his life.

Alfred Pennyworth took you to a large house one day; He apologized for taking a while to find her, saying that he would never have expected that a child of Bruce Wayne would have been born in a prostitution ring and lived there for eleven years.

Suddenly you had a father and a brother, but it was like you didn't have them at all.

Bruce not a father, never a father was distant, like one of those men who only rented you to pretend to be a therapeutic doll, and Richard was...annoying, angry, lashing out at everyone all the time, a brat who left you without dessert because of his tantrums.

But you were good at something, at pleasing; It was never touched, thank God, but you're observant and you've learned a few tricks to cajole people.

That didn't work in them, not until Jason Todd came along.

He was better than Richard without a doubt, and for a few years he was you best friend; two peas in a pod, vanilla and chocolate, brothers of everything but blood, and for a time you found home in him.

And then Joker took him away.

You were never interested in being vigilante, dressing up as a traffic light and running across the roofs at night, but in those years you wished could have gone with him, to be a Robin just so you could avenge your brother.

Shortly after, Tim Drake arrived, Bruce's shadow, his little chameleon copying his movements, his gestures, his personality and you hated him with every part of your being.

At that time you stopped trying to bond with Bruce, you would never be his son, and quoting what he said;

"I don't have time, not now, not for you"

But yes for Barbara, yes for Stephenie, yes for that spawn of hell with whom you share blood, and yes for her adored daughter, Cassandra.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back, finding out that Jason, your brother Jason, had come back to life and never came to you, the only person who has entered your heart besides your mother, had abandoned you, betrayed you.

And then a metahuman arrives and they open the doors to him as if it were nothing?

Well, fuck them.

Although in reality, it was not your plan to return to your origin, who would have thought that finding your old friend Michelle in an alley after being thrown out of a van on the verge of death was going to give you the biggest reward in Gotham.

Loyalty.

Unlike you, Michelle did not have a millionaire father who claimed her like a carnival puppy, and her fate was no different from that of her dead mother, but she had contacts, people who knew things about more people and that a third spectator like you could use.

And if you learned anything in that damn mansion, it was to sweeten their words, caress egos and say what they want to hear, you learned to deceive and pretend, to disguise your intentions and attack without killing.

You learned to be a snake instead of a bat.

And like sweet karma, divine intervention or whatever you like to believe, starting your business from the brothel where your mother sold you by giving that fat bald guy to his enemies and taking his place, wasn't a bad way to start his story.

"Don't you think that's a brutal origin story?" You ask, looking with amusement at the infiltrated man now slowly bleeding out on your rug, Is it considered a fur rug if it's the skin of the past boss?

—Liar —he mutters in pain, writhing in pain and under the gaze of your cruel eyes — You killed them in cold blood! Your poisonous tongue made us destroy ourselves from within! Two-faced whore!

“I always like how creative they get when they’re dying” you reply, leaning back in your leather swivel chair, because no animal cruelty for you, you are not a monster “Anyway, I hear Ivy needs test subjects for her new fragrances, but I think you’d make a better fertilizer, Michelle dear”

Your right hand opens the door, where two men grab the traitor and take him out while he continues screaming, varying between cursing her and crying out for mercy "I hope it helps Pamela before the hyenas eat him"

Now you're Gotham's super predator, and your heart is hungry.

[calmcoldevening]

Michael Myers with a childhood friend who was always kind and who visited him in the sanatorium

• You were always kind, and Michael didn't know why. Back in elementary school, you were the first to talk to him and share candy during recess. It made him smile.

• Your friendship developed quickly. Although Michael wasn't the most sociable, he was open and curious enough as a child to make a friend. His first and only true friend.

• He often visited your house, and you visited his. You quickly became friends with his mother and little sister. Although Judith just snorted at you and rolled her eyes because you were "small."

• When Michael was taken to a psychiatric hospital, you were confused. How could Michael have done something bad? After all, you knew him from a very good side, even though Michael shared his dark thoughts and even photos with you, but you just thought it was his love for horror movies.

• One day, you were called to the principal's office, where a strange man with a slight beard was sitting. Dr. Loomis. He said that he was Michael's doctor, and that as Myers' best friend, you could help with his recovery. In reality, the doctor needed a push for his lab rat, but your childish brain was too excited to see your beloved friend again.

• This place was white and empty, and you didn't like it. Michael had lost weight and had dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling. He was actually smiling when you entered the dining room. You brought him some soft pencils and some drawing papers. You knew that your friend was creative enough for this.

• You visited him three times a week: Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. Most of the time, Michael just sat there drawing, and you told him stories from your life. You brought him some photos of Boo. Michael enjoyed your voice. He also enjoyed the photo of the three of you, him, you, and Boo. The little girl looked happy.

• You became his only light in the constant darkness, and Loomis enjoyed your interactions, although he was disappointed that Michael still didn't speak directly to him.

• You brought Michael various treats and sweets. He especially enjoyed chocolate. And you were looking forward to going to see the new horror movie Michael had been looking forward to when he got out.

• You even brought Michael your childhood toy one day, saying, "Hug it and pretend it's me until I get back!"

• You didn't get back. Loomis realized that your interactions weren't having any effect. And after Mrs. Myers' suicide, he didn't see the point in you anymore. The doctor told you that Michael needed to be alone for the next couple of weeks due to a new special treatment. You agreed. But the weeks turned into months. You tried to call the number Loomis gave you, but it didn't exist.

----

• Michael was looking forward to your next visit, and he had already drawn a new picture that he wanted to show you, and he had made a mask for your toy so that you could have matching masks.

• But you didn't come. And you didn't come the next time. And Loomis had a too-friendly smile on his face. It wasn't difficult for Michael to put the pieces together. At least he hoped that the man hadn't told you anything crazy about Michael's condition.

• But the breakup was more brutal than the doctor had thought. Michael had completely withdrawn into himself, becoming a shadow of his former self. He spent his days making masks, and the rest of the time he slept in the embrace of a toy. Sometimes he would whisper your name in his sleep.

• Over the years, the pain had dulled, but the desire to find you remained. He thought. He waited. And his thumb gently stroked the photograph of his two most cherished people. You and Boo. He would return. He'll be back and he'll hug you. And he'll show you your toy, because he's kept it. For himself. For you.

[starlemons]

Coffee and Crime ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ PART ONE

Pairing ✦ mafia!bucky x reader

Word Count ✦ 1.6K

Warnings ✦ fluff kind of, just mainly a story setup, mention of a "happy ending", overall story has a 18+ content warning, MDNI

A/N ✦ I've missed writing and wanted to get back into it so figured that the best way to do it was by writing a series.

PART TWO »»» Series Masterlist

I will update the series every 1-4 days depending on my schedule

“Matcha Latte for Sadie!”, you called out to the crowd inside the shop.

A woman stepped forward thanking you and taking the paper cup from your hands. As she turned to leave she slipped a five-dollar bill into the pink ceramic bowl that read “TIPS”. 

“Thank you!”, you said to her, as you turned back to your station.

Wednesday afternoons were usually less hectic, a reason you enjoyed working them, but before you were about fifteen or more drink orders waiting to be made. The small cafe you worked in was crammed with customers, mainly due to the raging thunderstorm outside. 

By now you should have had your (slightly longer than you are supposed to take) lunch break. You could’ve been eating ramen at the shop across the street, reading some more of the new book you just purchased earlier this week. But, here you were, knee deep in orders.

You scrunch your nose up in annoyance, picking up the next ticket and reading the order, four shots of blonde espresso over ice with two pumps of vanilla, two pumps of caramel, two pumps of white chocolate, a splash of soy milk, shaken, poured into a large cup with extra ice. 

With pleading eyes you looked towards your coworker, “Can I please switch off the coffee bar for a bit? I feel like I’m about to lose my mind.”

“I was just about to ask you if you would switch to register for me”, Nat giggled, “I am about to lose my mind talking to people.”

You joined the redhead in her laughter, as the two of you swapped places and you handed her the ticket you had been holding. Her smile turned into a frown quickly, reading the order. 

“Dude, really?"

You shrugged at her and chuckled as Nat rolled her eyes and started on the drink. 

Thankfully the crowd began to dwindle down, until the only customers left in the cafe were a group of teenagers working on a school project. 

“I’m going to go take a break, if that’s cool with you?”, Nat asked.

“Yeah go ahead.”

“You know where to find me if you need anything.”, she said, disappearing through the doorway that led to the back room of the cafe.

You took a deep breath, leaning back against the countertop. Through the large archway windows of the shop you saw that the rain had started coming down even harder. The cold October air scattered the leaves that had fallen to the ground and a bright flash of lightning lit up the sky. A heavy roll of thunder followed soon after, cutting through the sound of the soft lo-fi music playing in the store. 

Your attention was torn away from the windows when you heard the soft ding of the front door opening. Two men entered the cafe, rain dripping off of them. The blonde one of the pair smiled at you sheepishly as if to say sorry for getting water everywhere. 

“Welcome in!”, you called from the counter.

As the two men walked towards you, you looked them up and down. The previously mentioned blonde, was wearing a light grey suit with a lavender button down underneath. A glittering chain sat around his neck, the price of which could probably pay an entire year's worth of your rent. 

Your eyes flitted over to his friend. The other man had longer brown hair and scruff that decorated his cheeks. His black dress shirt and slacks clung to his muscles, leaving little to the imagination. Looking down you noticed a gleaming watch on his left wrist and that most of his fingers had a large ring on them.

Glancing back up, your cheeks flushed in embarrassment as you locked eyes with a pair of stormy blue ones. The brunette man had caught you giving him a look over, smirking at your flustered expression. 

“Um–I–What can I get for you?”, you stuttered out. 

“I’ll take a hot vanilla latte, for Steve, please.”, the blonde man spoke.

“For here or to-go?”

Steve’s eyes glanced at the man next to him.

“For here.”, his friend said.

You finished ringing up Steve, who paid and went to sit down at one of the many tables in the cafe.

“Do you have anything you would recommend?”, the dark-haired man asked.

You thought for a second, “Well it depends, what do you normally go for?”

“Plain black coffee.”

You cringed at his admission. Plain coffee was bitter, gross, and undrinkable in your eyes. 

“Not a fan?”, the man in front of you chuckled at your reaction.

“That obvious?”

“Very.”

Laughing, you started asking him questions, trying to narrow down a drink for him. He did like cinnamon and holiday flavors, not super big on anything overly sweet, and preferred his drinks hot not iced. 

“Have you ever had a dirty chai?”, you asked.

“A dirty chai? Can’t say I ever have.”

“I think you’ll really like it!”, you beamed, “It’s a chai latte with a shot of espresso.”

“Well I trust you so far…”, he trailed off looking down, eyes searching for your nametag, “Y/N.”

You felt a blush rise on your face again, hearing the handsome stranger saying your name. 

“Oh-Yeah can I get a name for your order?”

“Bucky.”, he said, smiling at you. 

You finished ringing him up and he moved to join his companion at the table. 

“I’ll get started on your drinks, they should be out in just a little bit.”

You grabbed two handmade mugs from under the counter and began brewing your espresso shots. As you worked, you would look towards the men every so often. Not that you noticed, but every time your attention turned back to the drinks, Bucky would glance at you. He kept nodding along to whatever Steve was talking about, before he got a sharp jab to the ribs.

“Steve what the hell man.”, Bucky hissed at his friend.

“Would you quit gawking at the barista and listen to me.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“No, Buck I’m serious. This is serious.”, Steve said pointing to his phone screen. 

“Okay, okay.”

Against his will, Bucky turned his attention away from you and to the subject on Steve’s phone. 

A few minutes later you completed putting the final touches on the drinks, latte art for both of them, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top of the dirty chai. 

“Bucky and Steve, your drinks are ready.”

The brunette man quickly stood and headed for the counter. As he neared, you slid the two cups towards him.

“You’ll have to let me know what you think of it.”, you said to him as he wrapped his fingers around the handles of the mugs. 

“Why don’t I just let you know now?”, he brought his drink to his lips, and took a small sip.

You studied his expression hoping that he liked it.

“Damn, that’s really good.”

You smiled, “I’m glad you like it!”

He returned your grin, setting the mugs back down, and reaching into his back pocket, securing his wallet in his hands.

“For such a great suggestion, here’s this for you.”, he removed two hundred dollar bills and placed them into the tip bowl. 

Your jaw hit the floor, looking between the two bills and the man. 

“Thank you so much!”

“No need to thank me doll.”, he gave you another smile as he turned back around and moved towards Steve. 

Shaking your head you snapped yourself out of your dumbstruck daze and reached for the tips. You weren’t going to take any risks of someone running off with either of the large bills and headed into the back to put the tips into the safe. 

Nat was sitting at the breakroom table, feet propped up in the chair across from her and some reality TV show was playing on her phone. 

“Whatcha watching?”, you asked her.

“Real Housewives of New Jersey. I forgot how good this was.”, she looked towards you, “You want to take your break now?”

“Yes please, I am starving.”

She laughed at you, moving to stand up. You went to the safe, unlocking it and grabbing the bag marked “TIPS”. Quickly you counted the cash in your hands before unzipping the pouch and adding the money into it. You set the bag back into the safe and closed the door. 

“How much have we made so far?”, Nat asked. 

“Three-hundred and six dollars.”

Her eyes went wide, surprised the number was so high.

“It helps that this really attractive man just gave us two-hundred dollars.”

“He what now? Did you give him a happy ending with his coffee?”

You balked at her statement, “Or I am just so absolutely stunning he just couldn't help but give me his money.”

“Oh shut up will you.”, your friend laughed, tossing a stray rag at you.

You dodge the towel, laughing as you grab your rain jacket off the wall hooks behind you and slide your tote bag over your shoulder. Nat and you both returned to the front of the shop together. 

Steve and Bucky were still sitting at their table near the front door. The latter watched as Nat pulled your hood over your head, tightening the strings, giving you some sort of pep talk to encourage your escapade into the downpour outside. As you neared the front door, Bucky stood, beating you to the door handle, and opened it for you.

Pulling your hand back from the knob you shyly thank him. 

“See you around Y/N.”, he said.

“See you.”, you say as you tuck your head down and race out into the rain.

PART TWO

I AM OPENING A TAGLIST FOR THIS STORY LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ADDED!

[geddyqueer]

wip wednesday

yay! thanks @setmeatopthepyre for da tag... let's throw it back out there to @ambernotember and @rcmclachlan and @apollabarnes and @liminalmemories21 and @dharmaavocado and @screamlet and @newtkelly and @beanarie. and whoever else wants to. trying to remember who posted something the other day that i was deeply curious about. was it @sad-girl-hours23? well, you're getting tagged anyway. and if you're not tagged here but you want to post please tag me in it anyway...

once again, from this be the verse, which is about 2/3rds done:

"I told some of your family that we're together," Buck says. Tommy nestles his chosen hot dog into his bun and nods. "I hope that's okay."

Tommy gives him an incredulous look. "I walked in here holding your hand. Of course it's okay."

"I just wanted to give you a heads up. They were kind of homophobic," Buck says.

"Evan, they're homophobes," Tommy says. "I would expect nothing less."

Buck frowns.

"Were they shitty to you?" Tommy asks, concern lancing through his voice.

"No," Buck says; Tommy looks at him disbelievingly. "No, Tommy. But they were shitty about you."

"Oh. Well. That's fine, then."

Someone clears their throat behind them, and they turn in unison. It's Seth, holding a bottle of water and looking chagrined.

"I wanted to say sorry," he says. "I guess—I didn't know you were—"

"It's fine," Tommy says, like he's trying to head this off at the pass.

"Man, it's not fine. You know, Carina and I, we're liberal, right? Vote blue no matter who. We're—we're for the LGBT, okay?"

"Thanks?" Buck says.

"I just didn't want you to think that we, you know, wouldn't have your back. Because we do, okay, cousin?" Seth takes a deep breath. "You know when that whole thing went down with your dad we, me and Jeremy and Matt—our other cousins," he says, presumably for Buck's benefit, although Buck could have gathered that from context clues. "We wondered, like, what must have happened for Tommy to do that, you know? Like did you knock a girl up or fail out of high school or get really into drugs?"

Tommy's lip curls, and Buck wishes a medieval piper were here to herald the triumphant return of Bitchy Tommy. "Nope," he says. "Just a good old fashioned heartwarming little coming-out story."

Seth's mouth snaps shut.

"Alright, good talk," Tommy says. "Babe, you want to go see my childhood bedroom?"

"Absolutely," Buck says, following him away from the card table and the crowd.

It doesn't escape his notice that there aren't any family pictures on the walls of this hallway, but the meaning of that doesn't become apparent until Tommy pushes open a bedroom door and stops short.

"Oh," he says.

The room is—empty, for one. Devoid of any traces of personality. The only furniture in there is a twin-sized bed with a blue comforter lain over it and a particularly ugly lamp. There's no photos on the wall, no old school books, no remnants of Tommy anywhere within its borders. It's like they scrubbed him out of existence. Like Daniel, Buck can't help but think.

"Well," Tommy says. "So much for that plan."

"They erased you," Buck says. He tries to surreptitiously wipe his eyes.

"I kind of figured they would. They hate me," Tommy says. He looks over at Buck and his face changes immediately. "Evan, it's not that big a deal," he says, but Buck shakes his head.

"Sorry, it's just—I was thinking about Daniel." Honesty is their new policy and he's not going to break it here, now, even if it's not important.

"Oh, sweetheart," Tommy says, and Buck is wrapped into his arms.

"Sorry," Buck whispers. "Don't want to make it about me."

"I don't mind," Tommy whispers back.

They don't fuck in Tommy's childhood bedroom at his father's wake; instead they do something almost worse: they talk about their feelings, and they cry a little, and they kiss each other so deeply Buck can feel the love coming up from Tommy's diaphragm, and then they compose themselves and head back to the living room.

[bellaxgiornata]

Not Like Before Chapter Four

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader Word Count: 4.3k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Fic Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; nurse!Reader, canon-divergence (no Abel or Thomas), fluff, angst, friends to lovers, eventual smut, girl dad Jax

a/n: I seriously love how excited y'all are for this series, thank you so much for all the love on it! The feedback is always appreciated! Dividers by the lovely @secretlysamcro.

series tag list: @kmc1989 @secretlysamcro @chloe-skywalker @cindsvibes @aussiefangirl95 @sjester42-blog @danzer8705 @uknowmesstuff @mmarysha @shiggynuggiez @stevie75 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @kaydallas21  @orymgraves @unholycheesesnack @livewaspsblog @leather-n-velvet @staley83 @moongirlgodness @shelbyteller @li22ie2017 @ivegotparticulartaste

Emilia skipped beside you on the sidewalk, happily bouncing along the pavement with her gray stuffed bunny tucked beneath one of her arms–Bartleby, her favorite plushie. Her little pink corduroy backpack covered in its white floral pattern hung from one of your shoulders as you walked her to preschool. Raising the tumbler filled with iced coffee to your mouth, you took a sip of the cool liquid, the coffee counteracting the warmth of the spring morning.

You’d come to enjoy your morning walks with Em to preschool over the past few weeks, and you’d noticed how much she enjoyed them, too. It was a pleasant change from the chaotic mornings you’d always had trying to get her to her old preschool back near Fresno. The mornings always used to be a crazy rush to get both of you ready and out the door, dropping her off before you had to high-tail it to the hospital in time for work. 

Since today was Wednesday, it meant that you had the day off due to your weird schedule at St. Thomas. Not that it really mattered what your schedule was like anymore since this hospital had a daycare which remained open on the weekends, allowing you to leave Em there during your shifts. Your previous hospital didn’t have a daycare and had been far less accommodating with your schedule, so you often had to shell out extra money for childcare expenses besides the daycare you paid for during the week–which had already cost you a fortune. The included childcare at St. Thomas had played a massive deciding factor into why you’d moved further north to this small town, especially after how quickly they'd wanted to hire you.

And with Emilia attending preschool every weekday morning until noon, it also meant that today you could walk her to school before having a few hours to yourself–a rarity as a single mom. It was yet another reason you’d begun to like this move to Charming from the Fresno area. You were able to relax at home with Harley, or run some errands without having to tote around a four year old who continually reminded you just how boring it was to grocery shop.

Skipping ahead of you on the sidewalk by a few steps as her school came into view, Emilia turned around and began to walk backwards, Bartleby still clutched to her chest. She grinned up at you as she walked, a bright smile stretched across her face. One that now reminded you of the man you’d just reconnected with the other day.

“Are you enjoying Mrs. Herman's class, bunny?” you asked Em, trying to shift your thoughts away from her father.

Emilia nodded enthusiastically at the question, the bow in her hair bouncing at the gesture. You’d been worried that changing her preschool more than halfway through the school year would have made for a difficult transition for her, but so far she’d seemed happy with the move. And with how outgoing she was, Emilia didn’t struggle to make friends.

“Yes! I like Mrs. Herman,” she answered in her small voice. “She's nice.”

You'd come to find that yourself when you'd met her teacher. She seemed far more patient and content with her job dealing with young children than Em's previous preschool teacher did. Ms. Wells had always come across as easily frazzled and frustrated.

“Are you excited about class this morning?” you asked.

“Yes,” Em said, one of her fingers absently curling Bartleby's worn, gray ears around it. “We're gardening this week!”

You smiled back at Emilia, holding your hand out towards her for her to take. Uncurling the stuffed bunny's ear from her finger, she skipped back over towards you before slipping her small hand into yours, following you down the path that led towards Charming Elementary School. She didn't once lose an ounce of excitement the closer to the building she became–Em loved school.

“I saw that in the newsletter Mrs. Herman sent out for this week,” you told her. “You're planting some vegetables, right?”

“Yeah, and then we get to watch them grow really big!” she exclaimed.

To emphasize her point, she raised both of her hands–including the one still holding yours–high above her head in exaggeration. Your smile spread wider across your lips before you squeezed her hand in yours, the pair of you gradually approaching the entrance to the public preschool on the far end of the building. A handful of other parents and grandparents were already standing there with their preschoolers as they waited for the doors to open for drop-off.

“That’s pretty big, bunny,” you said. “You think they’ll fit in the classroom if they grow that large?”

Emilia’s brows drew tight together on her forehead, her nose scrunching up on her face as she tilted her head in thought. Biting your lip, you fought back the laugh threatening to spill out of you while you watched her genuinely consider the question.

“Probably not,” she finally decided, shaking her head. 

“What do you think will happen if they get too big?” you asked her.

“I dunno,” she replied with a shrug. “Break the building, I guess.”

An amused breath fell out of you at how casually she’d said that. “Yeah?” you asked. “And what would you do with tomatoes that large?”

“Make pizza sauce, of course,” she answered easily

Humming in response to her answer, you led the pair of you over to the school before leaning your back against the brick, waiting for the doors to open for the morning preschool classes. You took a sip of your iced coffee as Emilia contentedly swung your conjoined hands back and forth between you both. A few of the other parents you’d begun to recognize from drop-off and pick-up smiled over at you, and you gave them a faint nod in greeting. 

“Can we go to the garage after school?” Em asked suddenly, looking up at you. “To see the Harleys?”

You nearly choked on the sip of coffee you’d taken at her question, attempting to clear your throat while you stalled for time to think of an answer for her yet again. She unfortunately had not forgotten about the open invitation that woman had given you days ago in the hospital parking lot. Periodically throughout the week you’d had Em asking if you could take her there so she could see their bikes and watch the mechanics work on cars, and you’d had to repeatedly make up an excuse as to why you couldn’t–which had often resulted in a few meltdowns. More than once you’d mentally envisioned running that dark-haired woman over with your car for putting that thought into your daughter’s head. The fact that you’d now come to realize that Emilia’s father would be there with his bike had only made everything twenty times worse.

“No, Em,” you told her, a strained smile spreading over your face. “That’s not really a place for little kids. I told you, people work there and they’re busy. It’s not a playground.”

Confusion crossed Emilia’s face as she continued to stare up at you. “But…the nice lady invited us.”

‘Nice’ was certainly a relative term to describe her.

“Bunny,” you began, lowering down into a crouch to be at her eye-level as you spoke, “sometimes people say things like that to be polite. It doesn’t always mean that they meant what they said.”

“So…she was lying?” Emilia asked.

You sighed deeply, trying to figure out how to safely navigate this topic of conversation. Why was explaining things to a four year old so damn difficult?

“No, Em,” you told her, shaking your head. “She wasn’t lying, she was just making a polite offer. One she probably didn’t intend for us to actually follow through on. It was just to be friendly, but not really something she expected us to do.”

“But I wanted to see the bikes,” she said, her expression shifting into a pout.

You had a feeling she was on the brink of another meltdown if you didn’t find a way to get through to her. Though you figured that if Jax wanted to be in his daughter’s life, she’d be seeing plenty of bikes soon enough. Which you knew she’d absolutely love, but you couldn’t quite tell her any of that yet because he still had no idea she even existed, and you had no idea if he would even want to be in her life. It had been two days since you’d ran into him in the hospital hallway, and with no way to contact him still, you hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to talk to him about everything to even find out.

“I’m eventually going to need an oil change, bunny,” you reminded her. “And that’s the only garage in town. You’ll get to see them then, alright?”

“Promise?” she asked hopefully.

Behind you, you heard the door to the school open as one of the preschool teachers greeted the adults and kids waiting outside. You were grateful for the timing, wanting to drop this conversation with her before it led to a tantrum.

“I promise,” you told her. Opening your arms wide, you raised a brow at her. “Now can I get a hug before you go to class?”

The pout left her face before she jumped into your arms, wrapping hers around your neck. You held her for a moment before letting her go, and then you slipped her backpack off of your shoulder before sticking Bartleby inside. Afterwards, you helped her slip the straps over her small arms.

“Have a good day at school, bunny,” you told her, standing back up. “I’ll pick you up after and we can walk home and have some lunch, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, a grin on her face like the past two minutes of her disappointment had been erased. “Love you, mama!”

“I love you, too, Em,” you replied.

She darted off past you and straight towards the door, her backpack bouncing along her back with her quick steps. You stood there watching her until she’d disappeared inside the school, then you turned and started to make your way back from where you’d just come. 

Unfortunately, as you began making your way down the path that led to the school from the sidewalk by the main road, the one which led in the direction towards your house, your mind returned to Jax now that Emilia wasn’t here to distract you. You really did need to find a way to get in touch with him. You couldn’t keep putting off telling him about your daughter. But what were you supposed to do? It was beginning to feel more and more as if your only choice was to show up at the Sons’ clubhouse and ask if he was around just to find a chance to talk to him alone. It didn’t seem likely that you’d magically run into him on your own in the right circumstances in order to have such a serious conversation with him.

Drawing your coffee up to your lips for a drink as you walked down the sidewalk along the main road, the morning sun gradually began to warm you a little more than it had when you’d first left your house. But as you tried to cool down and wake up with the drink you’d brought with you, you heard the approaching rumble of a motorcycle. The sound had begun to catch your attention more than usual ever since you’d run into Emilia’s father, your eyes shifting towards the street almost involuntarily. A black bike going just over the speed limit along the otherwise empty street was quickly making its way towards you. It wasn’t until the bike neared that you saw who was riding it–Jax. 

Despite the sunglasses covering his face, it was unmistakably him, his blonde hair peeking out from beneath his helmet. As he neared, he’d clearly recognized you walking on the sidewalk in return. His head turned in your direction, his gaze locked on you as you continued walking and staring right back at him. He was no longer paying attention to the road ahead of himself now that he'd spotted you.

Time felt like it slowed to a crawl as you locked eyes with him. Lowering your tumbler of coffee to your side, you felt an odd jolt in your stomach at the sight of him before a flutter of nerves followed after it. Something felt like it was drawing you both together, his eyes fixed on you for only seconds but they felt like minutes, your own gaze unable to tear away from him. 

Why had he remembered you? Why was he looking at you like that? And why the hell did that night have to keep replaying in your mind ever since you'd run into him?

Inevitably forced to turn his attention back to the road after he passed you, the rumble of Jax’s motorcycle gradually disappeared into the distance the further he grew down the street. Focusing back on the sidewalk ahead of yourself, you were left with that strange feeling settling in your chest. 

What the hell had that just been?

Jax sat smoking a cigarette outside of the clubhouse, the afternoon sun in the sky overhead bearing down on him. As he wrapped his lips around the end of his smoke, he took another deep inhale from it as his mind drifted back to this morning. Back to when he’d seen you outside walking along the sidewalk. That weird pull you had on him–the one he couldn’t fucking explain–had made him want to turn his bike back around just to talk to you, or to offer you a ride to wherever the hell you’d been going. Anything just to have a few minutes more with you.

He didn’t understand it. How the hell could you make him feel like this? So goddamn pathetic and stupid? Jax wasn’t the sort of guy to get hung up on some girl, and he certainly wasn’t the type to let one haunt him like you’d been doing for five long years. Whatever connection you’d both had all those years ago had to have just been a one-time thing, right? Maybe further enhanced by the alcohol and the hours of sex. There was no way some girl he barely knew had this much of an effect on him.

But the way he’d felt when he’d seen you in that hospital hallway the other day felt very goddamn real. He swore his heart had stopped beating for a minute the second he’d locked eyes on you, unable to believe that he’d just stumbled on you again after all of this time. What the hell were the odds of that? He’d been telling himself for years that he needed to let that night with you go, that it was just a fun night he’d had once and nothing more. But then there you fucking were, appearing in his life unexpectedly like some outside force had put you back in his path again on purpose. 

You’d smelled the same as he remembered. That florally citrus scent of yours had made his head spin when he’d been talking to you in that hallway. It had been almost impossible for him to focus on the conversation when memories of you clinging to him, panting in his ear as he fucked you, kept resurfacing in his mind just because of how you smelled. He wondered if you’d still taste like vanilla if he got his mouth on yours again, or if you yourself tasted as good as he remembered. 

In the time since he’d unexpectedly ran into you again, he’d admittedly thought about you quite a bit. Mostly about finding a way to get you back into his bed, wanting to bury himself between your thighs in more than one way. Would fucking you one more time get you out of his head? Was that all he needed to do here? Maybe he just needed to prove to himself that there wasn’t anything special about you, that you were just some girl like all the others he'd had. Maybe he’d been misremembering the connection he’d felt that night–but goddamn had he felt something the other day when he’d seen you.

Someone clapping Jax roughly on the shoulder broke him straight out of his thoughts as he pulled the cigarette from between his lips. Jax glanced up from his place atop one of the picnic tables, catching Opie’s eye as he came to a stop beside the table. Opie gestured at him to scoot over, so Jax slid along the worn tabletop and made room for him. Hopping up beside him, Opie pulled a cigarette out of his own pack before sliding it between his lips and lighting it.

“Look lost in thought over here,” Opie said around the smoke. “Thinking about club shit or your dream girl?”

Jax rolled his eyes at the comment, instantly regretting that he’d ever opened up to Opie about you the other week. He’d managed to go the last two days without him bringing you up, and he’d thought he was in the clear with that, but apparently he was wrong. Opie was just biding his time before he did what Jax had been expecting him to–mentioning how he’d unexpectedly run into you in the hospital.

“She ain’t my dream girl, asshole,” Jax snapped. 

“Ahh,” Opie replied, grinning as he expelled a cloud of smoke. He was used to Jax’s snippy attitude, the look on his face making it apparent that he’d expected it. “So you were thinking about her.”

Looking over his shoulder at Opie, Jax’s eyes narrowed into an annoyed glare. “Not what I fuckin’ said, man.”

Opie shrugged as he raised the cigarette back up to his lips. “Not really denying it, either,” he pointed out. 

Shaking his head, Jax quietly took another drag from his cigarette as he sat beside Opie, the sounds of Teller-Morrow’s busy garage drifting along on the warm breeze. He wondered if it was possible that he might get away with not having a discussion about you, but he also knew Opie. He knew his best friend wasn’t going to just let this slide, especially not after what Jax had told him about you before he’d known that you were here in Charming. It didn’t help that Opie had seen the look on Jax’s face when he’d spotted you at St. Thomas–there was no hiding that he’d had a reaction.

“Must’ve been a pretty big shock when you saw her the other day,” Opie began carefully, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the garage. “Never thought you’d see her again and then boom. Suddenly she’s right fucking there.”

Jax didn’t respond as he flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette. He wouldn’t admit it to Opie, but he’d first thought he’d lost his damn mind and had finally started hallucinating you for a minute until you didn’t just vanish into thin air on him. And when you’d spoken, confirming you were indeed that girl from his past, for the briefest moment he’d wondered what the hell he’d done to deserve that kind of luck for you to just reappear in his life again. Because he certainly didn’t think he’d done anything to warrant that sort of good fortune. 

Seeing you had come as more than just a shock–it had felt like some sort of goddamn sign. He just wasn't entirely sure for what.

“She say how long she’s been here for?” Opie pressed when Jax didn’t answer.

Expelling a long, frustrated sigh, Jax glanced over his shoulder at his friend beside him. The look Opie returned clearly told Jax that he wasn’t about to just brush over this like it didn’t happen. He knew he’d have to give him something if he wanted Opie to stop pushing with his questions.

“Few weeks,” Jax told him. “I didn’t really talk to her for long, okay? I don’t know much.”

“But you wanna talk to her again,” Opie said, arching a brow back at Jax. “Don’t you?”

Yeah, he absolutely fucking did. He’d thought about it nonstop since he’d run into you, kicking himself mentally for not having asked for your number or something more than just getting your name. There was no realistic way for him to reach out to you, and he highly doubted you’d ever just show up at one of the clubhouse parties. 

“Course I do,” Jax muttered. 

Jax drew the cigarette back to his lips, taking another drag on it as he felt his frustration rising. As if he could read his thoughts, Opie continued.

“But you got no way to reach out to her,” he stated, his attention shifting away from Jax and down to his own cigarette. “Short of making a prospect tail her home from the hospital to find out where she lives and showing up on her doorstep, which I don’t advise, you’ve only got one option.”

With his brows furrowing together on his forehead, Jax focused on Opie beside him as he blew the trail of smoke from between his lips. Was Opie trying to tell him to do what he thought he was? Because even though Jax had considered it himself, he knew how pathetic and desperate it would look for him to actually go through with it.

“And what’s that?” Jax asked.

The corner of Opie’s lips curled up into a smile as he met Jax’s stare again. “Go back to the hospital, dumbass,” he replied. “You know she works there. You’re bound to run into her on a shift during the day. Just pull her aside for a minute, ask for her number.”

“Fuck no,” Jax spat, pulling a face at the thought. “We’re not in some goddamn chick flick, Ope. I’m not gonna go there and try to track her down just to get her number.”

Opie shrugged nonchalantly in response, that grin still on his face. “Then I guess you’ll just have to leave it to chance, brother,” he told him. “And hope that you get the opportunity again.”

Jax frowned at the idea of that. How long until he ran into you again in a situation in which he could actually talk to you? Days? Weeks? Months? He knew it shouldn’t even matter to him because it wasn’t like the clubhouse didn’t have its own fair share of pussy to go around. Who cared if he ran into you again or not? But you’d been steadily eating away at his goddamn mind for the past two days, making him feel like he was going insane. He didn’t know if he could go weeks or months just hoping for his chance to see you again.

“Go there and fucking do what, man?” he asked. 

“Shit, I don’t know,” Opie said with a chuckle, stretching his feet out on the bench of the picnic table. “Thought you were the one who was supposed to be smooth with the girls, Jax. Get her fucking number. Ask her out.”

“Ask her out?” Jax repeated skeptically, his eyes narrowing at him. “You want me to ask her out on a fucking date?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Opie answered, pointing his cigarette at Jax. “But it’s clear she’s not just some damn hookup for you, brother. You think fucking her again is gonna get her out of your head finally? Because the way you’re acting,” he continued, his expression entirely serious, “makes it seem like she might be there for another ten years if you do. And now here she is–” he said, gesturing his cigarette in the direction of the hospital from where they were at Teller-Morrow, “–right goddamn there. Within reach. So maybe pull your head outta your fucking ass and accept the fact that you might actually like a girl for once, Jax.”

Sitting there on the top of the picnic table, his cigarette hanging from between his lips, he let Opie’s words settle over him. He couldn’t really deny it, could he? There’d been something unexplainable there five years ago with you, something that had never left him. Maybe it was still there and maybe it wasn’t, but what the fuck would he ever know if he didn’t just suck it up and do something about it?

“Fine,” he relented, the cigarette still between his lips. “But I’m pretending I went there for another reason. Not gonna fuckin’ show up like it’s just for her.”

Opie huffed out a breath, shaking his head as his grin returned. “Girls love that romantic bullshit, Jax,” he replied. 

“I picked her up at a bar for a fuck,” Jax countered sharply. “Slipped out on her when she was asleep. Nothin’ romantic about that.”

Opie held Jax’s stare, that grin still stretched over his mouth. “You spent five years thinking about her, man,” he pointed out. “Sounds like some cheesy, chick flick bullshit to me.”

Jax pushed himself up from off the picnic table, turning around to crush his cigarette out in the ashtray beside Opie with a scoff. He was regretting ever telling him about you with all of the bullshit he knew he’d be dealing with now.

“Shut the fuck up and go check in with Bobby, asshole,” Jax ordered. “We’ve got some important shit to actually deal with right now.” 

Opie opened his mouth to say something more, but Jax raised a finger and shot him a look.

“Don’t even fucking say it,” he warned him. “We’ve got other things to focus on.”

[betteronthebigscreen]

My girl | D.W

Girldad!Dean Winchester x Babysitter!Reader

MDNI

Wordcount: 3,054

Warnings: Use of pet names, Filth, Teasing!Dean, Fluff, SMUTT, Jealous!Dean, Overstimulation, Creampie, Unprotected pinv, First 'I love you', Use of daddy, Daddy kink, Brief mention of Naive!Reader, DBF!Dean, Age gap (reader is 20, Dean is late 30s), Possessive!Dean, Oral (f & m rec), Belt as restraint, I think that's all! lmk

A/N: Went to the pool while on vacation, all I could think about was Dean Winchester, Thus ' My girl ' was born. Straight jorkin' my it. Written as a part two to this, but can be read as a standalone!

Since that night, Dean has tried everything in his power to stay close to you. So here you were, every Wednesday and Sunday, in his home watching his little girl. Sometimes it was more often, that is if you didn’t work that day, but 2 days a week steadily. You quickly fell into the routine Dean had set up in his home. Wake up Cassie at 7, so she could have breakfast by 8, and be out the door by 9. Dean would leave for work at 10, and be back at 6-7 depending on the day. Cassie would come home from school at 3, and have a bath and dinner by 6, so Dean could tuck her in when he came home. He watched how you cared for not just Cassie, but him too. Always a fresh plate of food, tucked away just for him to have when he got off. The way the house was cleaner than it was when he left. And the way you fit just perfectly into his little family.

Today was a warm Sunday. You had texted Dean to ask if he minded for you and Cassie to go swim. When he said he didn’t mind, you packed up a tote bag full of everything you would need at the pool. After you had gotten Cassie dressed in her swimsuit, you changed into a black ruffle one piece with skinny straps. In the woven bag, you packed snacks and sandwiches, sunscreen, and an extra change of clothes for Cassie. Grabbing everything, you put the extra car seat into your back seat, and packed everything up. “You ready to go swim kiddo?” You asked the girl as you buckled her in, “Mhm gonna play mermaids!” She said excitedly. “Yes we are!” You smiled at the child, closing the car door and getting in, turning the ignition. 

It wasn’t a long drive to the pool, maybe 20 or so minutes. Dean had messaged you that he was trying to get off early to come by, but wasn’t sure if he’d make it. Texting back a reply, you grabbed the tote bag, and a hold of Cassie’s little hand and walked to the gate. A few families scattered across the public pool. You and Cassie opted for a quieter corner by the kiddie pool. Taking off your cover-up, you sat on the edge of the shallow pool as you watched Cassie play.

 A few minutes had passed, when a little boy, around Cassie’s age approached her to play. Being the sweetheart she is, she quickly accepted the offer and the two of them splashed around. “Tucker, what’cha doin’ over here buddy?” A man around Dean’s age came after the little boy, “Playing daddy.” The boy mumbled and the man smiled at him. “Sorry for the incordial invite, I’m Cole.” You awkwardly smiled at his attempt to introduce himself. Introducing yourself, you gestured to the little girl. “This is Cassie.” You muttered, glancing over to her. “This is Tucker, it seems like you already met him though.” He said through a laugh and you smiled, “Yep, I think they are playing mermaids.” You smiled as you attempted to make small talk. “Is she yours?” Cole asked and you shook your head, “No, she's a great kid, but I’m just babysitting.” He nodded. 

The two of you talked for a bit as the kids played. “I’m hungry.” Cassie said, tugging on the ruffle of your swimsuit, “Me too.” Tucker said, swimming up to Cassie. “I have sandwiches in my bag, he’s welcome to have one.” You offered and Cole nodded, “That would be great, thanks.” The kids sat on the edge of the pool, stuffing their little faces full of PB&J sandwiches. You and Cole sat not far, on the chairs behind them. 

The whole time Cole had been subtly flirting, but maybe you were too naive to realize. But you definitely realized when he asked, “You got a boyfriend or something?”. At first you didn’t know how to answer. No you don’t have a boyfriend, but. Or maybe, Not officially but I did sleep with the dad I babysit for. No not that either, instead you responded with this, “It’s complicated.”. Cole nodded, “Right, it’s one of those.”. At first you were taken aback, sitting back with your eyebrows knitted together, “What do you mean ‘one of those’?” It’s always better to ask, than assume, but unfortunately this time, your assumption was correct. “One of those, ‘It’s complicated’, ‘I lead men on’ situations.”. You swore you saw red, but before you could answer, someone answered for you. “I’m not being led on. I think she just don’t wanna hurt your feelings buddy.” Dean muttered from behind you. Your face flushed with embarrassment at the situation. “Ain’t that right sweetheart?” Dean asked, turning your face to look at him you nodded. “See, not complicated at all.” Cole stood up from the chair in front of you, clearly taking the hint. Both him and Tucker walked away. 

Cassie stood up, sandwich still in hand, to greet her father. “Daddy!” She shrieked, hugging his leg. “Hey baby girl, you havin’ a good time?” He asked, dropping his hand to cup her head, “Mhm! We played mermaids.” Dean smiled at the little girl, “That’s great baby.” Dean looked over at you, “You havin’ a good time sweetheart?” Not trusting your voice, all you could do was smile and nod.

Coming back home after the pool, you gave Cassie a bath. Afterwards, the two of you started on dinner. “How do you feel about homemade pizza?” You asked the little girl, “So good.” She answered. You mixed up the dough and allowed it to rise. Cassie rolled out, or tried to roll out the dough as you cut up the pepperonis and shredded the cheese. As you and Cassie prepped in the kitchen, Dean waltzed in with his signature charm, “What are my girls makin’ for dinner?”. Your face flushed hot at the mention. “Pizza!” Cassie said excitedly as she mushed her hands into the dough. Dean took notice of your reaction to his words. Coming up behind you and rolling up the sleeves of the hoodie you put on after the pool, “Makin’ a mess of this poor sweater baby.”. Dean knew the effect he had on you, and the way your face turned a now bright shade of red, it was even more evident. 

Dinner had come and gone, Cassie insisted on having her pizza by the slice and not cut up this time. Inevitably, despite her being a ‘big girl’ Dean still had to cut it up. One little girl tucked into bed later, you and Dean started to clean up the kitchen. “What was that about earlier?” You asked Dean as he cleared the plates into the trash. “What was what?” He shrugged it off, knowing what you meant by the question. “At the pool Dean..” You trailed off, wiping up stray flour from earlier. “Why j’want his number or somethin’?” He asked defensively. You stood up, “No–Dean of course not.” You muttered, tossing the dish towel on the counter. “Okay then what’s the problem?” He asked, crossing his arms. God. His arms. Practically bursting out of his t-shirt. “I’ve just–I’ve never seen you so jealous.” His eyes went darker at your realization. “Don’t like sharin’” He muttered, growling almost.

Your eyes went wide at his admission, and your panties started to soak through the white lace hidden beneath your shorts. “What? Did j’like that sweetheart?” He watched as you squirmed under his gaze, stepping towards you. “Like when I talk dirty to you baby?” Dean echoed, caging you in. His hands dipped down to your waist, grip tight on you as he hoisted you onto the counter. “Dean–” You whimper under his touch. “Ah ah pretty girl–wanna watch you squirm for me.” Dean chuckled lowly, brushing your hair off your neck and to the side. He pressed his lips to your neck, days old stubble scratching against your soft skin. Trailing down your neck Dean worked skillfully, pressing his palm between your thighs. “You like when I call you mine don’t ya?” He teased, rubbing his thumb over the center of your shorts while you stifled a moan. 

The ghost of his touch was enough to drive you crazy. Squirming under him, all you needed was his touch. Something, more. “Dean please–” You whined, looking up at him with blown pupils. “Please what baby?” He teased, knowing his effect on you. “Touch me..” You begged, “Oh but I am touchin’ ya sweet girl.” Dean pet your hair, rubbing his other thumb across your cheek. “Gotta tell me what you want..” He mocked, wanting you to say it. “You Dean–anything.” He smirked with that signature cocky grin of his, satisfied with your answer. “We’re gonna do this right this time, okay?” He asked and you nodded, not entirely sure what he meant by that, but trusting him nonetheless. Pulling your legs around his waist, you took the hint and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck. Dean wasted no time picking you up off the counter, without any sign of struggle, like you weighed practically nothing. 

Taking you down the hall and into his bedroom, he laid you down on his bed. “I’ve never been in here before.” You muttered, watching him pull his shirt over his head, leaving it to pool in the floor. “First time for everything.” He smiled down at you, still clad in your too-big sweatshirt and tiny little sleep shorts that you changed into after the pool. Sinking a knee into the bed, he crawled up to you, still in his jeans. “Wearin’ too many clothes.” He muttered from above you. Helping him strip you down, you laid in his bed covered only by the lace of your underwear. Your arms instinctively shoot up to cover yourself and he tsked, “Too pretty to be hidin’ like that sugar.” 

Pulling your hands from your chest, he held your wrists above your head. “You like to be tied up?” Dean asked and your face flushed red, “I don’t–I don’t know.” You mumbled quietly, voice almost in a whisper. “You wanna try pretty girl? S’okay if you don’t want me to.” He reassured you, your wrist still in his hold. “Yes, I trust you.” A dark grin spread over his face at your words. Wasting no more time, he pulled his belt from his jeans with his free hand. Retrieving the leather in one fluid movement. With skilled hands, he wraps the leather belt around your wrists, then the headboard. Pulling the slack, so you were restrained. “Too tight?” He asked, and you shook your head, “No t’s good.” You said shyly, your whole body on display. “God you’re so pretty sprawled out for me.” He said under his breath. Sinking down further to the end of the bed, he hooked his arms under your thighs. Pressing a wet, open-mouth kiss to your lace-clad core. “This where you need me sweetheart?” You choked out a moan, “Yes–god please Dean.” He grinned, pulling the fabric to the side. His tongue dipped into you and he groaned against your heat. Getting immediately hypnotised by the way you writhed beneath him, and your taste on his tongue.

You pulled against the restraints, but of course had no luck. All you could do was lie there, and take it. Dean grinded into the plush of the mattress, drawing out groans from both you and him. With a scream of his name you came. Dean didn’t let up, no, this was for his enjoyment, he was marking what was his. “Please Dean–I can’t” You cried out, and he lapped mercilessly. His eyes met yours, sending you over the edge again. White heat hitting like a wave, harder than just minutes ago. Sitting up, Dean drug the back of his palm against his mouth, wiping the slick from his now puffy lips. “Too much?” He asked face flushed. You weakly shook your head, thighs still shaking with the after shock from your orgasm. “God it was perfect.” You said breathlessly, chest heaving up and down. Dean leaned over you, untangling you from the leather and the headboard. Discarding his belt to the floor, he brought your wrists to his mouth, kissing the red marks from the belt. “Did so good for me princess.” He muttered, dropping your wrists and leaning down to kiss your lips. His tongue dipped in your mouth and you moaned against the kiss, at the taste of yourself mixed with him. The kiss made you dizzy. 

Just as Dean started to unbutton his jeans, to give you what you really wanted, a cry was heard from upstairs. Cassie. Dean quickly buttoned up his jeans, and you grabbed his shirt from the floor, pulling it on as you both ran up the steps. “You okay baby girl?” He asked, brushing the top of Cassie’s head. Her puffy eyes looked up at you standing in the doorway. “Bad dream.” She mumbled, your heart ached at her little face as Dean held her close. 

—

Following that night, you and Cassie had come up with a fun activity to do while Dean was at work. Heading out to Michael’s, one little girl in tow. You bought a plain white shirt and some fabric markers. One quick stop to Mcdonald’s and a happy meal later, you and Cassie sat at the kitchen table with markers strewn out over the table. Cassie scribbled on the white t-shirt. “Daddy’s gonna be home soon, you almost done?” You asked the little girl as she added her last finishing touches. Her little tongue darted past her lips in concentration as she finished. “Done!” Cassie said proudly. “Looks so good kiddo! He’s gonna love it.” You smiled back at her, as she beamed up at you. 

—

Dean came home a bit later, dropping his keys in the dish as he kicked off his boots at the door. “Where are my girls?” He yelled out, his voice echoing through the house. Heading into the kitchen he saw the shirt laid neatly on the table. Colorful scribbles decorated the shirt and a picture of a family adorned the bottom. Arrows pointed at the stick figures. Dean first, Cassie in the middle, and you. He smiled at the drawing on the fabric and headed to the living room. You and Cassie were curled up on the couch, various snacks scattered on the coffee table in front of you. The little girl had her head resting on your shoulder as she hummed, sound asleep. “Got through Frozen, and like half of Pochahontas.” You smiled up at Dean as he leaned down, uncovering the little girl so he could pick her up. “Sounds like you two had fun, huh?” He asked as his arms snaked under Cassie’s sleeping frame, before standing up. “Mhm, she said she wanted to make something for daddy, then we had a movie night.” His face went hot at your words. He felt like something was awoken in him the way that slipped off your lips. Like he shouldn’t have the reaction he did.

“M’gonna take her to her room, I’ll be back.” He muttered, his face unreadable. For a second you were worried, until you realized what had made him react the way he did. He disappeared down the hall, to tuck Cassie in, before walking heavily down the steps. He walked past you, heading to the fridge in the kitchen. His hand wrapped around the thin neck of a glass bottle. Popping off the top, and walking over to the couch. He plopped down and sunk into the couch, his legs spread wide and your throat went dry. You watched as he brought the bottle to his lips and threw his head back for a drink. He sighed out as he swallowed. “Long day?” You asked, scooting closer to Dean as he wrapped his arm around you, “Sweetheart you have no idea.” He muttered like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And you? All you wanted to do was take a little of that load off him, in more ways than one. Sinking to your knees, between his legs you fumble with his belt. “Shit–what’re you doin’ baby?” He asked as he sunk a little deeper into the couch, his grasp so tight on the neck of that bottle it's a wonder it didn't break.

“Just relax Dean, let me take care of you.” He groans at your words, throwing his head back to rest on the edge of the couch as your lips wrapped around the head of his cock. “Fuck–” He cursed under his breath as you took him in your mouth inch by inch. Tortuously slow, sinking further and further down until your nose brushed against the patch of hair at the base of his cock. “Jesus–fuck.” He whined out, hips bucking up. Pulling off him with a pop, you looked up at him with glassy eyes. Bringing your thumb to your lips, you wiped off spit from around your mouth.

Crawling into his lap, you hover over him as he takes hold of your hips. Pulling your underwear to the side, he guides you down onto his cock. Spearing you onto him, you gasp “Fuck–daddy please.” You whine out and Dean swore he saw God. His cock twitched at your words as you sunk down onto him. “Goddamn you’re gonna kill me if you keep talking like that.” He groaned, grinding down your hips onto him. His pace picked up, thrusting up into you, “Daddy–I’m so–Fuck–Close.” You cried out as you rode him, “C’mon baby let go for me.” His words egged you on as you came. Vision giving out for a moment at the velocity. You slumped against him as he pumped up into you a few more times before spilling inside of you. He groaned as he came down from his high, looking down at you before your eyes met his. “I love you Dean.” You muttered, eyes brimmed with tears. Dean just smiled warmly at your admission, “Love you too sweetheart.”.

And now, his dream came true, and his little family was finally complete. 

[leyavo]

| I am my fathers daughter | 9 |

💖Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader.

PART NINE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over a year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2.6k+words

[18+] MDNI | TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship/ mentions of drug use

Previous parts of -> [Series Masterlist]

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

The first of November, you stare at the bank balance on the cash machine. Is this the amount the Captain was sending your mum each month?? No wonder she never gave you a penny. If your mum gave it to you growing up you wouldn’t have struggled so much. Maybe even left a lot sooner than you did. Not that you dared asking for that money, she claimed it was just enough to cover a roof over your head and food in your belly. Never mind the latest man she sponged off and didn’t need to pay rent.

She seemed to always have cigarettes, never going without, whereas you did go without. You had to beg her to buy you new clothes or shoes for school and even then you had to earn it. Going with her to her early morning cleaning job before starting school. You could still smell the bleach on your hands through out the day no matter how hard you scrubbed them in between lessons.

It’s your third day at your new job, every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday you’re in the office inputting data. Staring at a computer screen and typing numbers into software. Easy enough with a little training on your first day. You still needed to wait to get paid on last Friday of the month, joining after the cut off date to get the three days you’re working this week. So the money from the Captain would come in handy with buying some new clothes for work till you got your first pay.

Maybe even give him back his tired old jacket that still hung from your shoulders.

You pry your bank card out of the machine and tuck it back into your purse, then your handbag. The Captain helped you set up an app on your phone to check your money, but you still couldn’t believe the amount and had to look on the machine around the corner from work. A second look doesn’t hurt.

It’s dark, the street lamps dull as they warm to a golden hue. You’d stayed behind an extra hour to sort through some data and take the pressure off the team you’re now part of. It’d be foolish to withdraw money in the evening, especially on your own.

So you circle back round the building, halting at the figure standing beside your dad’s old truck. Your mother checking her reflection in the window, fingers wiping the smudge of lipstick on her front tooth. You wonder if there’s enough time for you to retreat, find the nearest bus stop and go back that way.

Luck has never been on your side though as her head snaps to you. Her hands waving above her head as if you couldn’t see her, you wished it were just a mirage.

“There’s my girl.” Yeah when it suits her. When she wants something.

Lena Marston, your mother. If only you could divorce her too like your father.

She’s tall, slim build thanks to her diet of cigarettes and cans of coke. Her eyes rake up and down your form and you know exactly what she’s thinking. How you’ve filled out, cheekbones no longer sharp but now full, healthy.

“What do you want, Lena.” You don’t bother calling her mum, she doesn’t act like one. If anything you're the one caring for her, picking her up whenever she's decided to kick the latest guy to the kerb. Putting her to bed when she's drunk, laying next to her incase she chokes on her own vomit. Or worse flushing the little baggies of drugs down the toilet and convincing her she already had it all.

Least she’s not twitching, no bloodshot eyes or hurried movements. Her speech controlled, no slur.

She pulls the lapel of your jacket, well your father’s old brown cord one. “I remember this,” Lena says, twisting the thick fabric in her grasp and you closer. You try not to wince, glancing to the passerby's who are glued to their phones as they walk. She won't do anything now. Her hand digs into your pocket and the truck keys dangle from her pointer finger. Lena's signature sharp red nails scraping against the inside of your wrist as you try to snatch them back.

"I'm really not in the mood," you regret the words as soon as you say them, her tongue clicking and head shaking.

Rookie mistake, say nothing and just do whatever she asks. It’ll be over a lot faster then.

Lena shoves you towards the passenger door, “get in sweetie,” she says and you cringe internally at the rare term of endearment she throws at you. A smile playing on her lips as she bats her lashes at the man looking your way. Nothing a pretty face wouldn’t fix, she always said that beauty lets you get away with a lot of things. Shame you don’t have it - also her words.

“You’re not insured…” you muttered under your breath, knowing she wouldn’t listen to reason. You sidestep the door as she opens it for you.

She leans on the truck, “you either get in or I take it. Can’t imagine it’d be nice for you to explain that to the Captain.”

You don’t want to get in, but you do to make it easier for the Captain not you. Can’t have his beloved truck taken away or worse in a ditch, you wouldn’t put it past Lena. You’re used to going along with what she wants to make life easier, but it doesn’t seem like it is for you.

Lena slams the drivers door, truck shaking and all you could hear in your head was the captain yelling don’t slam the bloody doors. The engine stutters to a start on the third try and you lurch forward in your seat as she speeds off down the road.

“Phone.” Lena orders, in a tone that suggests she’s now in charge, she’s the Captain and you better do as she asks. She’s already rummaging in the bag on your lap, other hand on the steering wheel. The contents falling down to the footwell, car swerving as she tries to catch it.

“Just drive!” You yell, pointing to the road in front. She swats you away, stinging slap to back of your hand. You lean down, collecting your notepad and purse, lip balm stuffing it back into your bag. The screen of your phone lights up as you picked it up, Kyle texting you to remind you about tomorrow.

“Of course he got you a new phone, bet he made you keep the location on. Classic captain controlling everyone around him - turn it off.”

Shit, had you really let your guard down that much? Was he checking his phone now and seeing if you were on track, you should be halfway to the house by now. You’d always toggled it on and off, never leaving it on for too long. Even your mum didn’t know where you were ninety five percent of the time.

You turn off the location, eyes flitting out the window at the trees blurring past. The industrial town you were only just starting to memorise gone and you had no idea where you were going now. Your hand clutches the panel of the door, the speedometer on the dashboard pushing higher than you thought possible for the old relic. If she doesn’t crash the truck, you’re sure she’ll run it into the ground.

Lena chuckles, “I warned ya’ what he’s like. Never listen eh.”

You don’t bother answering, knowing either way you’d piss her off. Best to let her ramble on, she likes the sound of her own voice. Hopefully she’ll finally get to the reason she’s ambushed you too. The damned phone location royally screwing you over with both of your parents. You’ll leave that turned off from now on.

“And you wonder why people lose their patience with you. Maybe if you listened you wouldn’t be in this mess,” she said, as if this instance is the excuse for every little thing she’s thrown at you.

Mess, you’re not sure which part of your life she’s talking about or how the conversation managed to turn round on you. A teaching moment that has you leaning as far as you can away from her.

“What da- the captain?” You nearly slip up, but Lena’s too sharp and the corner of her lip tugs. She’s got you now.

“Are you really that dense?” Lena tuts, “I’m talking about Tyler, that boys done nothing but be there for you and you can’t even apologise.”

You scoff. “Apologise? He’s the one -,”

Lena shakes her head, indicator ticking in sync with the click of her tongue. She pulls into the lay-by on a country road. Nothing but the lights of the truck shining the way. Her seatbelt unclasps and she flings it over her shoulder, shifting her body in the seat to face you.

“You’ve always been so difficult you know that?” She hums, plucking your shiny new phone out of your grasp. You don’t fight it though, never worth it. “Tyler knew how to handle you, so what he drinks a bit.” A lot, he drinks a lot.

You’ve said the exact same thing to her, sobbed at her that she’s difficult and only makes your life harder, but it’s normally when she’s in a drunken haze. Even as a kid she told you that you were difficult to love, why else would the Captain leave you behind? Leave you with her.

“I’m not going back.” - you don’t even want to think about what would happen if you gave in and went back to him, if you went back with her. Sometimes you do find yourself wanting to though, it’s easier when you know what to expect. And you’re still trying to figure out the Captain, least you know what you’re getting when it comes to Tyler.

“That’s why I’m here, you don’t want him coming around?” She says tapping away at your phone, reading another of Kyle’s incoming texts. “Gonna cost ya.”

Of course she’s not here for you, she’s here for that monthly stash of cash. Expected the Captain to give it to you without a second thought. Probably why she’s been flooding your phone all week trying to get you to come home on the weekend. Because you’ll have that money she so desperately relies on.

A wave of nausea rolls in your stomach, the worn leather seat creaking as Lena inches closer. Fight or flight, no you freeze like every other time.

“Come on, it’s always been mine.” She leans forward and drapes as arm around the back of your seat. “I’ll even stay out of the Captain’s way. He’ll only disappoint you sweetheart,” she says, her hand tracing your cheek and smoothing your hair back. She doesn’t stop there though, no her fingers tangle in your hair and she pulls you closer, scalp aching at the sudden tug.

Another tug and you squeeze your eyes shut trying to breathe through the pain. “Okay, okay. You can have it,” you snap, exhaling a trembling breath as she releases you from her hold. Pathetic really, how you folded so quickly. You can see it in the way she looks at you too.

You transfer the money via your phone, Lena instructing you on how, as she starts the car up, she removes a cigarette from her pocket and lights the end. The car swerves as she leans forward to spark it up again after her first failed attempt.

"You can't smoke them in here," you snap, knowing that one whiff and the captain would know that your mother had been in the car just by the lingering minty scent her of menthol cigarettes. Doesn’t matter how many air fresheners were tucked away in the glove box, none could mask the smell.

"John smokes like a chimney, leave them in here and tell him they're yours. I don't care what you do." Lena tosses the crumpled empty package in the centre console, blowing the smoke in your direction. She got what she came for and it wasn’t you.

There’s no small talk, no questions. Lena detaches from the role of mother, quick to take from you without giving. Not that you’d want anything from her anymore. Deep down you wished there were an inkling of caring, but even that comes at a price for you. Something to earn or use against you.

Lena parks outside your work again, lighting yet another cigarette before she unfastens the seatbelt and pushes the door open.

She’s half way out of the truck when you dare to ask, “was I a mistake?”

“Of course ya were.” She throws her words over her shoulder like it ain’t a devastating blow.

The door slams and it feels like it shakes you to your core. You drive back in silence, the static of the radio drowning out the thoughts in your mind, but you’re numb. Time isn’t something you’re aware of either, you seem to blink and then you’re waiting for the guy at check point to hand back your pass.

It’s late by the time you get back, you sit in the truck outside the residential house, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. There’s only one light on downstairs, you wonder if they’re all crowded in living room watching some sort of sport on the tv. You don’t think you have the courage to face the Captain. To plaster on a forced smile as he asks you about your day.

There’s no Captain though as you kick off your shoes in the porch and step into the open plan living room. No Kyle or Johnny, but there is Simon standing in the small kitchenette stirring the teabag in his cup. His gaze locks with yours and you swear he can sense the anxious ball of energy thrumming through your body. Like he knows that somethings off, a chemical off balance or some sort of explosion. There might as well have been when it comes to Lena Marston.

Your phone rings and it’s like another kick to the gut. Angie Price’s name lighting up the screen. Reminding you that you are a mistake, your little brother planned not you. You’ve never answered one of her calls and don’t plan to.

“Everthin’ alright?” Simon asks, blonde brow raising beneath the hood covering his mess of hair, skeleton teeth of his mask shifting with the move of his lips. The spoon clinks to the side of his cup as leans to the side to open the fridge and grab a carton of milk, all whilst his molten brown eyes trail your body as if looking for a problem. No he must see it, clear as day written all over you.

You avoid his gaze, “yep, just fine. A little tired,” you rambled on, rushing to the stairs before he can press any further.

In the Captain’s room however you catch your reflection in the mirror and now know why Simon asked if you were alright. Your eyes bloodshot, face puffy from the tears you’d shed on the drive home. That and the torn scrap of fabric, the gaping hole just beneath the lapel of the old cord jacket. Exactly where Lena had grabbed you by earlier.

You’re not sure why you wear the old thing. Like some sort of weighted blanket that keeps you grounded. The oversized jacket keeping you warm, a tiny part of your dad clinging to the fabric too, but it’s tainted by Lena’s minty cigarettes. That even now you don’t get to have something for yourself. Not money, nor your dad.

[Part ten]

Mum reveal and their mother/daughter dynamic - Lena still trying to influence her daughter and plant some things in her head to make her question the Captain’s motives 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

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[ceceslanddd]

Ony and Anjelica make filthy, sloppy, passionate love.

Warning you may need to change your panties(if I do say so myself)

Intro to Physics was so boring. It felt like high school, the hour and a half class started to feel like a full school day. I could barely keep my eyes open using my balled up fist as a pillow against my cheek as I dozed off again.

“Excuse me Miss Richard’s can you please tell me one of newtons laws?” Mr. Brown quizzed.

Quickly sitting up flipping through my notes as the question repeats in my head. I feel like he makes the lessons boring as fuck on purpose so he can do things like this.

A little under instantly I recited “The force acting on an object is equal to the mass of that object times its acceleration. F=m, Newton’s second law.” Looking at the old man who just quietly nodding a me lazily before going back to the lesson.

Stepping outside again back into the warmth felt amazing. Linking up with my friends James, Nora, and Londyn.

“I want some chipotle” Nora whined as we walked down the stone brick pathways on the way to drop James off to his dorm apartment.

“It’s James’ turn to pick.” I reminded going through my emails. “Fuck” I accidentally said out loud.

“What?” Londyn asked

“The salón is infested with termites so Mitch is shutting everything down for at least a week for fumigations.” I did not bust my ass getting my license just to have it sit in the frame.

“Damn but speaking of the salon and stuff my homebody Ony, he needs his locs done and stuff.” He rattled off as we approached his building.

“How you a boy and don’t know about loc’s?” Nora laughed.

Smacking his teeth “Cause what glorila said ima black ass nigga with waves.” He remixed.

“And a mixer with hella ugly.” She fired back Nora and James doesn’t know it but we all know they’re fucking on the low.

“I wasn’t even talking to you, sis you gon take care of my boy?” He asked causing Londyn to snort.

“She gone take real good care of him.” She dragged.

“Awe hell this sound messy let me gon head and go in the house and we’re eating tacos tonight.” He said going into house.

“Wait you know Ony?” Nora asked

“She more than knows him remember last year when Ony got into it with that boy on the field? That was because our sis got some good cootie cat.” Smacking my teeth at her.

“We were together in high school. We broke up when we got to collage, and then we broke up again year before last and Ony having a short temper don’t got nothing to do with me.” I finished explaining our history.

“Damn so you retwisting his hair?” Nora asked

Shrugging “I mean money is money.”

“Plus it’s Ony and maybe even some dick. . . Okay bye now” she slickly said before going into her apartment leaving just me and Nora.

“Don’t worry I won’t be in the way I too have a d appointment.” She said trying to be vague.

“It’s not a d appointment and we already knew what you were doing tonight. The same thing you’ve done four Friday’s and Wednesday’s in a row.” I teased as we walking into our apartment.

“He he ha ha worry about Ony and when he coming over here.” She said going down the hallway into her room to get ready I’m assuming.

Going into my bathroom getting my shine and jam, hair clips, ratail comb and everything to wash a detox his hair. Maybe five minutes went by before I heard a knock on the door.

Trotting over and opening the door stood Ony in all his tattooed six foot two glory holding two drink and a chic fil a bag.

“You remembered I always get- the 12 count nuggets with the fries, two Polynesian sauce and a lemonade. I know pretty.” He ran down my order walking past me into the house.

Sitting on the couch eating my food before realizing Ony didn’t have anything.

“Wheres your food?” I asked maybe it was just me but I always had a thing for eating in front of someone it felt rude.

“I’m cutting right now.” He said “eat your food.”

“Have just one please you know how I feel about eating in-front of people.” I said holding out one of the dipped nuggets for him to take.

He leaned over and ate the nugget out of my hand. I’m not going to lie I was stuck.

He gave me a half smile before leaning back over and watching the Rick and Morty I had on the tv.

Finishing my food I rinsed ony’s hair and let some stuff sit to get the products and dirt out. Standing over his form rinsing his hair when I felt his right arm wrap around my waist.

Putting my front back on as I continued to wash his hair. After his hair was dried and cleaned I started twisting his hair. Feeling him shift in the hair I stopped.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah just a little uncomfortable.”

“Oh well you can get another chair and take a little break?” I asked

“Nah hold up” he said he stood up leaving the room before coming back with my pink desk chair. He brought it to the living room and sat in front of it on the floor.

“Ony what are you doing?” I asked looking at him as he shrugged before turning back to the tv.

“Waiting for you to finish my hair” he said casually.

Fine if he wanted to get his hair done in the floor than okay.

Continuing like normal I found my rhythm knocking two of the four sections out easy. Turning his head so I could do the front left leaving his head against my knee and inner thigh.

I felt him start to rub in my thigh sending shockwaves to my pussy.

Rushing to finish the section whilst still being neat I turned his head to the other side of my leg. I tried to ignore the way his hand rubbed in circles gently. Making my clit throb.

Finishing his hair a stood up trying to go change my panties before he noticed.

“Where you going?” He said looking at me with those soft hazel eyes he looked so handsome.

“To bed?” I rushed out trying to step away again but he held his grip on my hand. He turned me to him on we were face to face, chest to chest.

“You really don’t miss me ma?” He said looking down at me his voice soft like it always was when he looked at me like this.

“How you figure that?” I asked getting sucked into his eyes.

“You rushing and you barely talking to me. What’s wrong?” I asked pulling me into a hug his lips against my ears as he rubbed on my butt.

Melting into him

“Nothing I just don’t want to get caught up into you again?” I said truthfully

“Why?”

“I get caught up into you so bad. And you abuse it”

“How?”

“You do everything right in the beginning but then you fall off, stoop showing your care stay out longer without saying anything. Just being careless.”

“I’m sorry baby, you just full of so much love I get scared and fucked up about you. Give me another chance i promise I’ll do right by you baby!” He said taking his head from my neck and looking me deep in the eyes.

He stared kissing on my face trailing down my neck. One, two, three wet kisses on my neck.

Licking my sweet spot just below the underside of my jaw biting my lips to keep from moaning out loud.

“Tell me” peck “to stop” peck peck “and I’ll stop” he said.

Moving my hand around his neck titling my head to give me better access.

Grabbing two handfuls of my ass he stuck his hands in my shorts playing with the thing sting on my thong. His big hands trailing down my skin all the way to my pussy he grazed my clit with his thumb, going in between my leg with the rest of his other fingers feeling my wetness.

“You missed daddy, baby?” He softly asked pecking me on the lips. I nodded.

“Use your voice!”

“I missed you Ony” I moaned out before helping as Ony picked me up and carried me to my room. Making quick work of my clothes I was face down ass up with Ony holding my hands behind my back.

His tongue, flat and wet as he licked in between my lips quickly finding my clit.

“Oh fuck” using our connecting hands that sat on my ass he bounced my pussy deeper on his tongue and locking me into place. He knew my body like the back of his hand the fierce wet licks easily making me cum.

“Oh-h papa I’m finna cum.” I cried out trying to crawl up the bed.

“Naw, take this shit! Cum on daddy face.” He said slurping me harder feeling the ballon in my belly get bigger and bigger as my orgasm got more intense.

“Just like that, good girl.” He praised as I squirted on his face. “Keep riding my face! Getcho nut princess.” I swirled my hips riding his mouth.

“I’m cumming” I chanted as my eyes rolled hard back into my head.

“Stay just like that!” He said as I came down from my orgasm, feeling Ony’s heavy dick tap on my ass.

“I missed your pussy so much baby” Ony slurred a little. taking his dick and tapping it on my clit before putting it in.

My eyes instantly rolled in the back of my head as he filled up me slowly going in and out of me. moaning I put my hand over my mouth.

“Uht-uh I needs hear that” he said smacking my ass a gasp escaping my mouth moaning as he started to speed up. Crawling down the bed pushing myself onto onys pelvis.

“N-need some more papa” I moaned

—-

I didn’t finish this my phone broke it was a whole thing but anyhow I will try to be more active I love yalll 🪼