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adelliet · 2 days ago

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Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DANGEROUS GAME

Summary: Even though you're Walker's girl, you were sent on a mission with Bob, for extra protection. But what happens there, no one seems to have predicted...not even the two of you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, slight harassment, wet dreams, slowburn, cheating (sorry Walker's girlies), little Sentry intrusion, slight obssesion (not creepy though), protectiveness, frequent erection, unprotected sex (p i v), light fingering, clit teasing, change of position, praise kink, flirting

A/N: Hii!! Here's a little ⚠️WARNING⚠️ - this is ridiculously long, so if you want some short, quick smut without a plot… this is not the place... but I'm honestly so proud of how it turned out. Anyways, I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

“Mhm, Bob,” you murmured, your voice low and breathy as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, greedily inhaling your scent like he couldn’t get enough of it, like it grounded him, or maybe drove him even more insane.

His hips snapped forward with increasing urgency now, rhythm relentless, the bed beneath you both creaking loudly with each powerful thrust, no doubt anyone nearby had already figured out what was going on in Bob’s room.

You were so close, both of you teetering on the edge, your bodies colliding with wet slaps, breathless moans melting into Bob’s high-pitched whimpers. His balls felt unbearably tight, heavy with the release you’d begged him for the second your hands were on him. He was right there, trembling, tears beginning to slip down his cheeks from the sheer intensity of it.

Your mouth fell open, but the sounds that came out were caught in your throat, tangled up in pleasure. “Oh fuck, Bob, yes—”

And then Bob woke up.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, lungs dragging in shaky breaths as his eyes stared up at the dark ceiling above. For a moment, he just lay there, heart pounding in his ears, body flushed and tense, until reality finally caught up with him.

He sat up abruptly, swallowing a curse under his breath as he glanced down at the familiar, uncomfortable dampness in his sheets.

Great. Just great.

Another night. Another wet dream. And once again… it was you. It was always you.

Bob let out a frustrated sigh, slumping forward as he braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands into his sweaty face. His skin was burning, not just from heat, but from embarrassment and helplessness.

How was this even happening again? How was it possible that every single night lately ended like this? He felt like some desperate, horny teenager.

It all started the moment Bob laid eyes on you.

You walked in dressed in all black, tight tactical suit hugging every curve, a pistol strapped low around your waist, sleek gloves sparking faintly with the electrical charge of those 500-volt shock bracelets you wielded like a damn goddess of war. Your hair was lightly tousled, damp with sweat, soft waves clinging to your cheeks kissed pink by heat and adrenaline.

You looked stunning.

Bob had seen beautiful women before. But this? This was different. That moment, in that gear, with that look in your eyes? It carved itself into his brain like a branding iron. From that second on, he knew he couldn’t let you go. And not because he wanted to possess you. No, he just… needed you in his life. Like oxygen.

And the worst part? You were always kind to him.

Whenever someone joked at his expense, sometimes taking it too far, you were the one who instantly had his back. The one who shut them down with a quiet but firm, “That’s enough.”

When Bob got hurt, rare as that was, you were the first to rush to him. The one with gentle hands and warm eyes who cleaned his wounds like he was made of glass.

You remembered the little things. You noticed him when everyone else forgot.

But the truth is that’s just who you are.

Soft-hearted and fiercely loyal. It wasn’t about him specifically.

Because if it were, you wouldn’t be dating John Walker.

And God, did that sting.

Bob hated himself for thinking it, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t help wondering, why him? Why John, a man whose wife had left him, who had a whole kid he rarely talked about? What did you see in him? What did he have that Bob didn’t? Strength? Charisma? Authority? A past soaked in blood? He’d never understand it. Probably not even on his deathbed.

Sometimes he wished he’d met you earlier.

Before the world had hardened both of you in different ways. Maybe then… maybe he’d have had a chance.

But he wasn’t an asshole. He wasn’t going to interfere. You were in a relationship, and he respected that. He wasn’t going to try and steal you away.

…But that didn’t stop him from occasionally ragebaiting John. From mocking him just subtly enough that only he noticed.

And you laughed every time. That laugh lit something up inside Bob he didn’t even know he had.

He lived for your laugh.

He would do anything to hear it every day for the rest of his life.

You were his muse. The proof that not everyone in his life saw him as a joke or a tool to be used.

You were the hope he clung to when the nights got cold and lonely.

But that’s also why the nights were unbearable.

Every time he closed his eyes, you were there—your voice, your face, your smile looping through his mind like a reel he couldn’t pause. Your soft laugh. The little hiss you let out when you accidentally cut yourself while slicing food. That look you gave someone when they said something that had double meaning.

You haunted him, not in the ghostly way, in the real way. Every day got harder. Every look between you and John tightened the screws inside his chest a little more.

And this morning was no different.

He dragged himself out of bed, hair a tousled disaster, face a little puffy from lack of sleep and the frustration of another night lost to fantasy. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the shame off, and stepped into the kitchen, and there you were.

Standing in the morning light, bathed in soft gold like some divine punishment sent just for him. You looked perfect, even in your most casual state—fresh-faced, eyes still a little sleepy, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you poured coffee into your mug.

And then he appeared.

John.

He came up behind you without hesitation, pressing in close. Whispered something in your ear, and you laughed—soft and affectionate. Bob felt his stomach clench.

Then John’s hands settled on your hips. He dipped down, kissing your neck, again and again, murmuring things Bob didn’t want to hear. And you let him. Your eyes fluttered shut. You leaned back into him.

That’s supposed to be me.

Bob’s smile dropped. His chest tightened.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

But he took a deep breath, forced his jaw to unclench, and looked away. Trying to keep it together. To be the good guy. Even as everything in him screamed otherwise.

He stepped forward. It took every ounce of courage he had just to open his mouth and say it.

“Morning.”

His voice was soft, unsure, wavering ever so slightly, like he was testing if he was even allowed to speak around the two of you.

You turned to face him instantly, your eyes lighting up with surprised delight, wide with hope. God, you looked so happy to see him. Like you wanted him there.

Bob almost forgot how to breathe.

Your smile? Bright, full of warmth, teeth flashing like sunlight. It hit him in the chest like a bullet.

He couldn’t help but smile back, the reaction almost automatic—goosebumps spreading across his arms. For a moment, it felt like the room belonged only to the two of you.

Then John turned too. His gaze trailed over to Bob, unimpressed, unreadable. He gave a nonchalant nod, like he was doing him a favor just by acknowledging him.

Bob forced his eyes away from him. He focused on you. Only you. That was the only thing that felt safe.

“How’d you sleep, Bob?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. There was genuine curiosity in your voice, like you actually cared.

Bob’s heart skipped.

You were standing near the fridge, close enough that he had to brush past you just to grab something for breakfast. You didn’t move away. But John was still behind you—arms wrapped possessively around your waist, rocking you gently from side to side, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was watching Bob. Watching everything.

Bob wanted to lie. No—he needed to lie. Because the truth was that he’d had another dream about you, one where you were moaning his name, writhing under him, begging for more as he pounded into you, skin against skin, your hands in his hair and—

Yeah. That truth would probably get him punched into next week. So he swallowed it down and went with something safer.

“Fine,” he said, nodding like nothing was wrong. “You?”

He met your gaze for a second and the air between you felt like it cracked. You looked away quickly, a tiny giggle slipping from your lips as your eyes dropped to the floor.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

John scoffed. Loudly. Right by your ear.

Bob wasn’t stupid. He could read that moment like a book. You hadn’t slept alone last night. And he knew exactly who’d been in your bed.

“Yeah, I slept fine,” you answered at last, your voice soft and sweet as you smiled up at him.

It wasn’t fair. That smile shouldn’t have been for him. Not after that. Bob just nodded, forcing his face to stay neutral as he turned back to the fridge.

Cold air washed over him, but it wasn’t enough to cool the heat rising in his chest.

Every time he heard John’s voice—his stupid low chuckle, his little murmurs behind your ear—Bob felt the pressure building inside.

It was getting harder and harder to hold it in.

The other part of him was stirring. Clawing at the inside of his ribs, whispering things he couldn’t allow himself to think. He needed to leave. Now.

He grabbed the first thing he saw, a yogurt and a spoon from the drawer. Didn’t even look back. Didn’t say a word. He just walked out, his footsteps heavy and fast, before the mask cracked. Before Sentry slipped through the seams.

If he had to deal with this every morning for the rest of his life, he honestly didn’t think he’d survive it. He was barely surviving now.

He was trying so hard to keep his emotions locked away — really, truly trying — but how was he supposed to do that when he lived under the same roof as you?

When every time he turned a corner, there you were? And worst of all was the fact that you weren’t his.

Bob spent the entire day hiding in his room.

He’d come out only for the occasional snack or to raid the fridge, but otherwise he stayed shut away — curled up in bed with the curtains drawn, pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Sometimes a book, sometimes the TV, sometimes music. Anything that made reality fade.

Because the second he let it back in, it hit him like a truck. While he lay there alone, watching dust dance in the sunlight, John was probably fucking you senseless.

And that thought was eating him alive.

Right now, he had his headphones on, volume cranked to the max, Radiohead playing. Creep, his favorite. Always had been. It was the one song where he could hear himself. Where he felt understood.

He laid back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as Thom Yorke’s voice bled through his ears. His arms were folded across his stomach, hands loosely clasped. His heart felt heavy but numb.

He loved this. The moment when the music was so loud it drowned everything out.

When it stung his ears and made his brain go a little quiet. When all the feelings finally stopped screaming.

SLAM.

Bob jolted violently. Nearly fell off the bed. The door had burst open. Someone was standing in the frame. His headphones were off in a flash, his heart pounding, his ears ringing. It was Yelena. And she looked… pissed. And tired. Exhausted.

Bob blinked up at her, still recovering from the mini-heart attack. He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows at her, like what the hell is going on?

“C'mon,” she said, tilting her head toward the hallway before dropping her grip from the door and walking off — leaving it wide open. Bob stared after her for a few seconds. Processing.

Then he slowly got up, hesitantly following the sound of her footsteps down the corridor.

When he walked into the common area, the atmosphere hit him like a wave.He immediately scanned the room.

On the couch: Alexei and Ava, watching something unfold. Not far off: Bucky and John in a very heated argument. They were practically in each other’s faces.

And then there was you.

You were curled up in an armchair like you were trying to disappear, your knees pulled close to your chest. One leg was bouncing nervously. Your fingers were busy picking at the skin around your nails. You looked anxious. You didn’t even notice Bob walk in. Your eyes were locked on the floor.

Bob’s heart twisted in his chest.

You didn’t look okay. You looked like something was eating you alive.

God, how he wished he could know what was going through your mind. He’d give anything to read your thoughts. To help you.

“I’M GOING WITH HER!”

John’s voice boomed, snapping Bob out of his trance. He was pointing at you now — angry, stubborn, pacing. Everyone’s eyes turned to him.

“No!” Bucky snapped back, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was trying not to explode. “What part of no don’t you understand, Walker?!”

Again, every head in the room turned like it was a ping-pong match.

“Yes, I fucking understand—” John barked, “—but I’m telling you, I can do this with her!”

The tension was unbearable. Bob could feel it vibrating in the air.

“You’re really that naive?” Bucky growled. “You think this is about you?”

“I can protect her!” John’s jaw clenched, stepping closer, chest puffed up.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t move a muscle.

He wasn’t intimidated.

“Fine!” Bucky threw his arms up, sarcastic. “If you want your girlfriend coming home in a body bag, be my guest.”

Silence.

John’s mouth twitched.

He licked his lips, visibly seething.

And then… his gaze slowly shifted. To Bob.

His eyes narrowed like knives, locking onto him. Bob froze. He couldn’t look away. His body tensed, throat dry, heart hammering.

“Bob is the strongest one here, Walker,” Bucky’s voice was lower now, more calculated, calmer — but sharp. “They’ll be fine. He’s got this. And she’ll be safe.”

John looked at Bucky. Then at you. Then finally… gave in.

“…Fine,” he muttered, jaw still tight, eyes on the floor. His hands were braced at his hips in defeat. Bucky exhaled, relieved. And now… every single pair of eyes turned to Bob.

Oh God. Now Bob was sweating. Anxious, panicked, nauseous—he felt like he was going to pass out or throw up or both. His brain started racing. Thought after thought, he couldn’t process anything.

Bob stood still like a statue, as if moving might shatter him. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists and then relaxing again, over and over, like he was trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower.

No one was speaking. No one was moving. They were all looking at him.

He waited, desperately hoping someone else would fill the silence, that someone would explain what was going on or why the hell he was being looked at like a solution to a problem he didn’t even know existed.

But all he got were expectant eyes. Unspoken pressure. Impatient glances. Anticipatory stares And so, finally, he forced himself to speak.

“…What’s going on?”

His voice cracked slightly, like his vocal cords hadn’t fully committed to the question. He looked around the room, eyes flitting nervously from Yelena to Bucky to Alexei, then to you.

Yelena stepped forward without hesitation. She slapped a firm hand on his back with a thud that made him flinch slightly.

“You’re going on a mission,” she said simply, like she was handing him a grocery list. Then she sat back down next to you like nothing had happened. Bob’s brain lagged behind her words.

“…What?”

His heart skipped a beat. Before he could even start forming a coherent thought, Bucky stepped in.

“We’ve got a situation in Paris. Needs to be handled quietly,” Bucky said, arms crossed. His tone was solid, clear, not open for debate. “We’ve decided to send you and her.”

Bob followed Bucky’s nod toward you. You.

He was going… with you?

Bob’s lungs stopped working for a full two seconds. His mind immediately began to spiral. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink.

“And the rest of us will stay here,” Bucky continued. “We’ll take care of things on this end. Keep America safe.”

That sentence barely registered. Bob was still stuck on the part where you and he were being sent away together.

“Departure’s tomorrow. Pack for two days.”

And with that, Bucky walked off. No discussion, no room for questions. Just orders. Bob stood like his feet had grown roots. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

Two days. Just the two of you. In a foreign city. With no Walker. No team. No distractions. Just you.

Alexei and Ava exchanged a glance — a silent “Oh shit” moment — then turned their eyes on him again. Bob was still staring at the spot where Bucky had been. Trying to process. Trying to function.

His thoughts were a chaotic mess.

Does this mean something? Is it a test? Are they trying to see if he can handle it? Or is this just punishment for something he didn’t do? What if he screw this up? What if you doesn’t want to go? What if you hates the idea?

His overthinking screamed inside his head so loudly that he didn’t even hear Yelena until her hand landed on his shoulder again, lighter this time.

She gave him a soft, understanding smile.

The kind that said “You’ll be okay.”

He looked at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language. Still silent. Still frozen. Still… spiraling.

One by one, people started to leave. Even John — who didn’t spare Bob so much as a glance. Just cold dismissal as he walked out the door. And then you stood.

Bob’s eyes snapped toward you before he could stop himself. You moved quietly. Slowly. Like you were heavy inside. Like something was weighing you down. And for one brief moment before you walked out you looked at him and smiled.

But it wasn’t real. Not like the smiles you gave other people, not like the smile you gave him this morning in the kitchen.

This one looked tired. Distant. Bob smiled back, because that’s what he always did with you. But he saw it in your eyes.

Something was wrong. There was something brewing beneath the surface, something unspoken. You didn’t look angry. Or sad. Or scared. But you did look far away. Like you were stuck in a storm of your own thoughts. Bob’s stomach sank.

Was it about the mission? Was it something Walker said before Bob entered the room? Was it… Bob?

That last thought hit harder than the rest.

What if you didn’t want to be near him? What if this mission wasn’t just awkward, but actually unwanted? What if the idea of going away with him filled you with dread?

His chest tightened with anxiety. His heart pounded so loudly it was all he could hear. Because if that were true, if you didn’t want this, if he was the reason you were so quiet suddenly, so distant…

It would break him.

His smile faded the second you turned away and the silence in the room swallowed him whole. His chest tightened with anxiety. His heart pounded so loudly it was all he could hear. He just stood there, alone with tones of thoughts.

The next morning came far too quickly. A private jet was already waiting on the tarmac, sleek and glinting in the early sunlight, engines humming in idle like a beast ready to launch.

Bob had packed light, unsurprisingly so. Just one medium-sized backpack slung over his shoulder, stuffed with the bare essentials: two shirts, a pair of pants, fresh underwear, hygiene products. Simple. Nothing more than what he thought he’d actually need.

You, on the other hand, had a rolling suitcase. Not overly huge, but definitely larger than Bob’s backpack. You’d justified it, of course, “med supplies,” you told the others with a shrug. Sure, the meds were in there. Somewhere. But let’s be honest: that suitcase also held three extra shirts, a cozy hoodie you’d probably never wear, three types of lotion, two types of shampoo, and a curling wand you’d forget to use. Still, it made sense in your head, and nobody really questioned you.

Bob was already seated inside the jet, nervously rubbing his hands along his thighs. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants like he was grounding himself. His eyes kept drifting to the window, scanning the runway anxiously, until he saw you. And John. Of course it was John walking you toward the plane. Who else would it be?

But something was off.

You didn’t cling to Walker like usual. You weren’t latched onto his arm or giggling into his chest. You looked… hesitant. Bob couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw the quick hug you gave John and the way you pecked him on the lips like it was out of obligation more than affection. Then you disappeared from his line of sight, making your way toward the jet’s entrance.

Please don’t be mad at me, Bob thought desperately, gripping his knees tighter. Please don’t blame me for being the one they chose instead of him. Please don’t hate me.

When you entered the cabin, you flashed him a polite smile, cheerful, but something about it felt forced.

“Morning,” you said sweetly, plopping down on the white leather seat directly across from him. The interior of the jet was the epitome of luxury. Creamy white leather. Gold-trimmed windows. Glossy surfaces. The kind of luxury that made Bob feel a little out of place, like someone might come over and ask him to leave for not being rich enough to exist there.

He nodded in return, managing a quiet, “Morning.”

Silence settled between you, thick and almost suffocating. Between you was a sleek glass table, completely clear of any clutter. Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting in his seat. He couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“So, um… how do you feel?” he asked softly, trying not to sound too concerned.

You exhaled slowly and glanced out the window. “A little nervous, I guess. I just don’t know what to expect from this mission.”

He couldn’t tell if you were being honest or if you were just saying something neutral to end the conversation quickly.

He nodded again, pressing his lips together in a thin, tight line and avoiding eye contact. He could feel something the tension in the air. It was like trying to breathe through fog. He didn’t want to push you. He didn’t want to make it worse. But he wanted to help you. More than anything.

The rest of the flight passed quietly. Peaceful, even. Neither of you said much after that, both lost in your own thoughts. At some point, without even realizing it, you both dozed off, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of the jet and the soft, cushioned comfort of your seats.

It wasn’t long before the pilot announced that you were landing. Private jets really were fast.

A sleek black SUV awaited you both at the airport. You were taken straight to a five-star hotel in the center of Paris and it was breathtaking.

The lobby was a palace. A chandelier of cascading crystal hung from a ceiling so high it looked like it touched the sky. Every wall was white marble veined with gold, polished to a blinding shine. The floor was like a mirror beneath your feet, smooth and cold and spotless. A spiral staircase of pure brass curled upward like something out of a fairy tale, and twin elevators gleamed like champagne bottles in the light.

Bob could barely keep his eyes from darting around, like a kid in a candy store. And then you entered the room.

The suite was just as jaw-dropping.

The bed was massive, a king-size monster covered in white Egyptian cotton, six fluffy pillows, and a velvet runner at the foot that screamed wealth.

Two entire bathrooms, each its own spa-level experience: rainfall showers, glowing mirrors with touch-sensors, plush towels folded into perfect shapes. One had a soaking tub big enough for two.

The view? Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a balcony overlooking the Seine and the Eiffel Tower in the near distance. Paris glittered beneath a soft, pink morning sky.

Bob dropped his bag on a nearby armchair, heart fluttering, until he noticed something. Just one bed. There was only one bedroom. Only one bed.

He didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to make it weird, didn’t want you to think he was thinking anything inappropriate, so he stayed quiet. Instead, he watched you, happy and radiant again, bouncing between the bathrooms and pointing at every golden detail like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.

“Gosh, I love it here!” you beamed as you launched yourself onto the bed beside him, sinking into the plush mattress.

Bob turned to you slowly, watching your pink cheeks, your wide eyes, your breathless excitement. God, you looked beautiful when you were happy.

You sat up on your hands, eyes scanning the room again — then frowned. “Where’s the second room?”

There it was. Bob chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… I think this is it.”

“Oh. Okay.” You said it so casually, like it wasn’t even a problem. That caught him off guard.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Bob blurted out quickly, already searching the room for potential sleeping surfaces. “It’s really fine, I don’t mind—”

“Bob.” You turned toward him, your expression stern, eyebrows raised in an almost amused disbelief.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor.” You sat up straighter, your tone final. “You’re sleeping on the bed with me. End of story. We both need a proper night’s rest if this mission is going to be a success.”

You had a good point — a solid, reasonable, professional point — and Bob had no room to argue. He nodded obediently, feeling his cheeks heat up, and mumbled a quiet, “Okay.”

You smiled as your eyes roamed around the luxurious hotel suite, letting out a few light, silly mouth noises to fill the awkward silence. It wasn’t conscious, just something you did. You were clearly trying to stay cheerful, breezy, unbothered. But Bob wasn’t looking at the suite.

He didn’t care about the polished marble or the ridiculously oversized bed or the glowing fixtures that probably cost more than his first car. He was watching you. And God, he couldn’t get enough of you.

Every little thing you did was magnetic. Every glance, every soft sigh, every nervous flick of your hand through your hair, it pulled him in like gravity. You were mesmerizing without even trying. And right now, you were the only thing in the entire world he could focus on.

“I think I’m gonna test out these showers,” you announced casually, flashing him a warm, playful look before bouncing to your feet with happy energy and disappearing into one of the bathrooms.

Bob let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Relief washed over him in waves, for a lot of reasons. Mostly because you looked happier. More relaxed. Or maybe it was all just an act. Maybe you were faking it, putting on a good face. But if it was an act, then damn — it was a good one, really convincing enough.

Maybe your change in behavior had nothing to do with him at all. Or maybe it had everything to do with him. And just like that, his mind spiraled.

He begged his brain as it started to churn with questions again — loud, relentless, and unanswerable. Why did you seem distant on the jet? Did you regret coming here with him? Were you pretending just to keep the peace?

He let out a frustrated groan and collapsed backwards onto the bed, covering his face with both hands. His brain was a torture chamber, and right now it was on full blast.

It was evening now. 7:48 PM.

In twelve minutes, you both had to be at the target location: a grand, historic opera house turned temporary gala venue for the night. It was a massive event — hundreds of guests, dressed to kill, dripping in designer labels and old money charm. A fundraising gala for some absurdly specific cause, backed by even more absurdly rich donors.

Not your scene. Not Bob’s either.

The two of you could only stomach that kind of ego and arrogance for so long before it started to rot your insides. Snobbery was contagious, and you weren’t about to catch it.

The plan was simple: get in, find a room with the bomb, deactivate it and get out. Fast, clean, quiet. No mingling longer than necessary.

Bob was already dressed and waiting by the door, his hands clasped in front of him, fidgeting with his fingers. He looked good. Really good.

A crisp, jet-black suit clung to his tall frame in all the right places. A pristine white shirt underneath, buttoned perfectly with a black bow tie at the collar. His trousers fit like they were tailored just for him, no belt needed. He wore polished formal shoes that clicked softly against the floor whenever he shifted his weight.

His hair was the same soft mess it always was, he hadn’t styled it, hadn’t needed to. It had that tousled, effortless charm that made him look both elegant and boyish at the same time. But he was nervous. He kept checking the time. He didn’t want to be late.

And then he heard the bathroom door open behind him and when he turned around, his breath caught in his throat.

You stepped into the room like you owned it. Like you owned him.

The deep wine-red dress hugged your body like it had been sewn directly onto your skin. Every curve, every dip, every slope was framed in that silky, perfect fabric. The slit on the right side revealed just enough of your leg to make his heart leap — every time you move, the slit fluttered open a little more, teasing him with glimpses of smooth, sculpted skin.

Around your neck hung a heart-shaped pendant, shimmering gently with each breath you took. Your earrings were bold, just dramatic enough to turn heads, not that you needed help. The dress was already doing 90% of the work.

Your hair was pinned up in a low bun at the nape of your neck, elegant and soft, with two wavy tendrils left loose to frame your face. They bounced with every movement, like they had a life of their own.

And your makeup? Lethal. Your dark red lipstick matched your dress perfectly, sensual and commanding. A touch of smoky shadow added mystery to your gaze, and the highlighter on the bridge of your nose caught the light just right. You looked like a goddess. A dangerous weapon. A walking fantasy.

“So… how do I look?” you asked, giving him a slow, teasing spin on your heels, voice light, confident. You knew damn well how you looked. And still, you wanted to hear it from him.

Bob just stared. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. His throat was dry and swallowing didn’t help. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, and his heart pounded against his ribcage so hard he was almost worried it would shatter his sternum. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and a chill raced down his spine even as sweat started to gather at his temples.

You were stunning. Devastatingly so.

He wanted to touch you. Taste you. Kiss that lipstick until it smeared all over both your mouths. He imagined the sound of your giggle against his lips. That sweet, mischievous laugh that wrecked him every damn time.

“…Perfect,” Bob finally exhaled after a few seconds, barely blinking, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he did.

You chuckled softly, your cheeks tinting pink — but you could blame it on the blush if anyone asked.

“You look like a whole snack too,” you smirked, returning the compliment with a wink before turning on your heel to grab your clutch.

Bob nearly buckled. His knees actually wobbled. His palms were sweating, his heartbeat was a war drum in his chest, and his pants suddenly felt about two sizes too tight.

Not now. Not now. Not now.

“Oh! And check this out,” you added suddenly, grabbing your clutch and sweeping the slit of your dress aside with one graceful hand.

Your leg slid out, long and toned, and more importantly, strapped to your thigh was a sleek little holster, a small but deadly-looking pistol nestled neatly in place.

“Pretty cool, huh?” you grinned proudly, clearly delighted with your stealthy accessory.

Bob stared like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. Which it was. His mouth opened again. Closed. Opened.

“O-oh… Are we really gonna need that?” he asked, voice trembling slightly, trying not to look directly at your leg like it was cursed.

You sauntered over to him, just close enough for your perfume to hit his nose like a drug.

“Probably not,” you said with a little shrug. “But you never know.”

And then you smiled again.

“I know you'll protect me though.” You leaned in just slightly, brushing your fingers across his shoulder, your voice softer, more sincere now.

The moment your hand touched him, his skin burned. He felt the warmth spread from your fingertips straight through his bones. He was sure there’d be a mark there later, a handprint scorched into his soul.

His breath caught. His chest tightened. He was completely, utterly undone.

If only you knew. If only you knew what you did to him just by existing. If only you knew how much it hurt, how much it thrilled him, to be near you like this and not touch the way he wished he could.

He tried to hold himself together, to keep his thoughts focused solely on the mission… but how the hell was he supposed to do that when you were walking just a few steps ahead and your ass jiggled with every single sway of your hips.

He forced himself to look straight, tried to keep his eyes locked on the hallway ahead—but he failed. Over and over again. His gaze dropped like a magnet, every. damn. time. And then, after a particularly long stare, the realization hit him. Were you even wearing underwear? Fuck.

The two of you stepped into the elevator, thankfully alone. Or… not so thankfully. Because now Bob was trapped in a small metal box with your scent wrapping around him like a drug.

His pants were getting tighter by the second, the fabric becoming a vice. He cleared his throat awkwardly, then braided his fingers together and inconspicuously held them in front of his crotch in a desperate attempt to shield his growing erection. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline, his hands trembled, and even his knees felt weak. He looked like he was about to pass out, but he was praying you wouldn’t notice.

You would’ve had to be blind not to.

“Hey, don’t be so nervous,” you nudged him playfully with your elbow, a mischievous grin on your lips.

Bob flinched like you’d just zapped him with a taser, his eyes going wide as he stared down at you. He swallowed thickly, but there was nothing in his throat to swallow.

“I-I’m not,” he stammered.

You giggled and tilted your head. “Oh yeah? So your legs are shaking, your hands are shaking, and you’re sweating like a sinner in church… from what, from excitement?”

Bob opened his mouth to protest, but your logic pinned him to the wall like a butterfly in a science class. He just stood there, blinking in silence, praying the elevator would speed up or plummet or explode or anything to get him out of this beautifully torturous hell.

“It’s gonna be fine, Bob,” you said, your voice now soft, sweet. “We’ve got this, okay?”

Your tone alone soothed him more than any pep talk ever could. He nodded slowly, exhaling with fake calmness. He pretended like he was anxious about the mission when in reality, ever since he saw you in that damn dress, the mission didn’t exist in his mind anymore.

You arrived at the venue a few minutes later than planned, pulling up in a sleek black limousine. Through your earpiece, Bucky’s voice nearly exploded.

“You’re late.”

You both winced as he scolded you like kids caught sneaking in past curfew, but thankfully, it didn’t affect the plan too much.

As you stepped inside the extravagant building, the air instantly felt thicker, oppressive. The kind of place where even the air wore a tuxedo. You and Bob exchanged a quick glance, both feeling the same tension coil in your stomachs. The crowd was overwhelming. Hundreds of rich, pretentious, ego-drunk snobs stood shoulder to shoulder, sipping drinks that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.

Neither of you belonged here. And you both knew it.

Anxiety wrapped around your lungs like barbed wire, but you still had a clearer head than Bob. He was distracted. Not just by the people, but still… by you.

You turned to him briefly, your voice calm and grounding.

“Hey… deep breaths, alright? I’m right here.”

Your soft eyes anchored him, and for the first time since you stepped out of the limo, the high-pitched whine in his ears dulled.

Bucky’s voice crackled in again, more composed now.

“Elevator. Third floor. That’s where the VIPs are and the room with the package. Go. Now.”

Somehow, the two of you weaved through the suffocating crowd, brushing past tuxedos, glittery dresses, and enough perfume to choke a rhino.

You squeezed into the elevator just before the doors closed, crammed shoulder to shoulder with more millionaires than you’d care to count. It was almost comical how many rich people fit into one elevator. Like… how did this many billionaires even exist?

But your sarcastic mental spiral got cut off as the elevator dinged.

The third floor was a different universe. The air itself smelled expensive, leather, whiskey, money. Classical music floated gently from a nearby minibar. There were fewer people here, and everything was hushed: soft conversation, quiet laughter, the gentle clink of glassware. The lighting was warmer. Everything oozed exclusivity.

“We’re here,” you whispered.

Bob didn’t say anything. He was too busy looking around like a puppy on its first walk. Poor thing looked completely out of place, but aside from a few curious stares, no one paid much attention to him. They all assumed you two were just another power couple in the sea of power couples.

Bucky’s voice returned.

“There’s a guy on that floor—target has the access card. Dark suit, red tie, gloves. Get close, get the card, then meet Bob at the vault room.”

You nodded and scanned the room, squinting ever so slightly as you walked gracefully among the socialites. It didn’t take long to spot him. He stuck out like a sore, greasy thumb.

Slicked-back black hair, way too much gel. That red tie. A black suit tailored to intimidate. Gloves. Beard stubble and a tiny soul patch on his chin. His energy screamed arrogance. You could feel the toxic masculinity from across the room.

You sighed inwardly. This was going to suck, but like it or not, it was part of your job.

You walked past Bob, giving him a tiny glance as you moved, his eyes glued to you like a hawk. He posted himself near the corner, trying his best to look casual, though he probably looked more like a stalker. But he didn’t care. He’d rather look creepy than miss a single second you might need him.

You slipped right into character in no time. Your every movement screamed elegance, seduction, refined but deadly. You were a siren in crimson. You chose a barstool beside your target, letting the silky slit in your dress flutter just enough to catch the corner of his eye. Like clockwork, he noticed. Of course he did.

You raised a finger and signaled the bartender with graceful ease. “One martini, please.”

He nodded and got to work. You didn’t need to say another word. The fish had already taken the bait.

“Put it on my tab,” the man said smoothly, shifting closer to you with that smug glint in his eye like he thought he was God’s gift to women. You held back a groan and instead gave him a slow, sultry smile, glancing in his direction through your lashes.

“And what did I do to deserve that?” you asked, your voice a soft purr.

He licked his lips like a goddamn cartoon wolf and grinned wide enough to blind you with his unnaturally white teeth.

“For bein’ so damn beautiful, baby.”

You laughed, lowering your head slightly in mock shyness, hiding your grimace.

Up close, he was even more disgusting than from a distance. The kind of man who wore too much cologne and not enough humility. But you had a job to do, and this was just part of it. You couldn’t let your personal disgust mess with the mission. Besides, you knew that Bob still had his eyes locked on you from across the room.

And he did. He hadn’t looked away for even a second. He was watching everything. Ready to step in the moment he needed to.

“Guess it’s lucky to be pretty,” you said coyly, batting your lashes. At the same time, you subtly scanned the man’s body for the ID card you needed. Bingo.

His pocket. So stupid. One of the most critical items a man in his position could carry and he had it tucked loosely in a damn pocket. Well, that made your job easier.

“No doubt about it. So—where you from, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning in even closer.

You could smell his cologne now. It was strong, probably expensive, but even that couldn’t mask the stench of ego and sleaze.

“That’s a secret,” you whispered with a sly smile, letting a hint of mischief curl your lips.

The bartender slid your drink across the counter, and you accepted it with graceful ease, thanking him with a nod. You wrapped your fingers around the cold glass and lifted it slightly.

“Mysterious, huh? I like that…” he muttered, his tone thick with unspoken intent.

And then you felt a hand on your thigh. You froze mid-sip, your stomach tightening instantly. The contact was sudden and bold, and his fingers gripped with entitlement.

You tried to shift away, but the space was tight and his hold was firm. Too firm. You could feel your pulse quicken as his fingers crept higher, his breath warm against your ear.

“I know a place,” he whispered, his breath thick with lust. “Quiet. Just for us.”

You gagged. Literally. You almost spat your drink into his smug, greasy face. But before you could react, your saviour appeared.

Like a silent storm, Bob was suddenly there. His hand clamped down around the man’s wrist with shocking speed and strength. The pressure was immediate.

“Don’t touch her.”

His voice was low. Firm. Cold as steel. The kind of voice that could freeze blood mid-flow. The man scoffed, completely misjudging the danger in front of him.

“Hey, easy there, pal. We’re just having a bit of fun—”

CRACK.

The man yelped in pain as Bob’s grip tightened even further. His fingers began to tremble. Bob wasn’t just restraining him, he was crushing him. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Rage poured off of him in silent waves. His skin flushed hot, too hot, and his eyes started to glow. That sickly yellow color. The Sentry was coming out.

You stood quickly, placing a gentle but firm hand on Bob’s arm.

“Bob,” you said softly. “That’s enough.”

And like a switch flipping, everything stilled. The light in his eyes faded. His breathing steadied. His death grip loosened. Your touch, your voice, was the anchor that pulled him back from the edge.

Bob released the man, who staggered back clutching his wrist, muttering curses under his breath.

“We have to go,” you said simply, tossing a final sarcastic glance at the creep. There wasn’t a single shred of actual apology in your voice.

You grabbed Bob’s hand and tugged, spinning on your heel and strutting confidently away from the scene. Bob stumbled to follow, still processing the adrenaline rush, the shame, the panic… and your hand on his.

His thoughts were spiraling. He’d messed up. He probably blew your cover. You didn’t have the card, the mission was compromised, and now the target might alert security. All because he couldn’t control his goddamn jealousy.

“I’m sorry,” he started, breathless, struggling to keep up with you. “I—I just didn’t want—”

You suddenly stopped and turned to face him. Standing just inches from him now, your face unreadable.

Then, without saying a word, you reached into the neckline of your dress, your fingers dipping just slightly between your breasts before pulling out the ID card.

Bob blinked. His mouth opened slightly, but he was speechless. His brain short-circuited. How? When did you grab it? How did you store it there, how was it sitting so perfectly nestled between—

Oh.

You were so hot. It was almost unfair. Women like you should come with a warning sign.

“Relax, Bob,” you said with a wink, sliding the card right back into your dress like it was no big deal. “We’ve got everything under control.”

Then you turned on your heel and walked ahead, heels clicking confidently against the marble floor like the femme fatale goddess you were. Bob stood frozen for a second, processing. And then, like a loyal puppy, he chased after you, heart pounding and cheeks burning.

Everything was going according to plan.

Using the stolen ID card, you and Bob slipped unnoticed into the restricted area. With Bucky guiding you both through your earpieces, you hacked your way into keypads, unlocked encrypted safes, and finally reached the bomb’s location.

While you focused on the wiring, Bob handled the security system like a master—disabling cameras, jamming sensors, and muting any alarms that might expose you. Every second mattered.

“You’ve got twenty seconds before they notice the cameras are down,” Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear.

Your fingers worked quickly, eyes darting between colored wires. He’d already given you the right combination, you just needed to execute it perfectly. But one of the cables was thick. Too thick. The cutters slipped once, your grip faltering.

Bob noticed immediately. He moved instinctively, ready to step in and help, but paused. You looked stressed. Determined, but on the edge. He didn’t want to distract you with unnecessary words, afraid even his offer might break your focus.

“Ten seconds. Move your ass,” Bucky barked again, not exactly helping the rising panic.

Your palms were sweaty. Hands trembling. Your blood rushed like a storm through your veins, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Every muscle in your body was clenched, locked in precision and fear.

“Five seconds.”

Bob stood by the door, watching both the hallway and you. The tension was unbearable. His suit felt too tight, too hot. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He was clenching and unclenching his fists to stop himself from pacing or screaming.

“Three sec—”

“I GOT IT!” you shouted.

Before Bob could even react, you grabbed him by the shoulder and bolted for the side exit and you ran.

The hallway blurred past, lights flickering above you. When you reached the elevator, it was mercifully empty. You both tumbled inside and hit the button. The doors closed just in time.

Inside, you were both gasping for breath. Adrenaline still buzzed in your veins like electricity. Bucky’s voice came through one last time:

“Bomb’s disarmed. Mission accomplished.”

Relief hit you like a wave. A deep, whole-body exhale. You leaned against the wall and looked at Bob, your eyes wide with joy, heart still pounding. You were smiling.

“We did it! We actually did it!”

You turned to him, your eyes sparkling with adrenaline, your cheeks flushed, lips parted as you caught your breath. The glow of success made you radiant, like a goddess just returned from war.

And then, without any warning, your lips were on his. Your hands gripped the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging him slightly down as your lips collided with his in a way that was both desperate and deliberate.

Bob froze. Everything stopped. His mind, his breath, his muscles, completely paralyzed. He didn’t even kiss you back, because he couldn’t.

His eyes widened slightly, his body locked in place, and it was like the entire world had tilted sideways. Your lips were soft and warm, a subtle mix of cherry lip gloss and victory. There was a saltiness from the sweat still lingering on your skin, the aftertaste of your drink, and something purely, unmistakably you.

You tasted like fire, like danger. You tasted like everything he wasn’t allowed to want. And your kiss was alive, moving, pressing.

His arms hung uselessly by his sides, fingers twitching but not lifting. His breath got caught somewhere in his throat, stuck between a gasp and a prayer. His heart pounded like a jackhammer, each beat slamming into his ribs until it hurt.

He could feel his skin burn, not just from the heat of your mouth, but from his own spiraling internal chaos. Goosebumps rippled across his arms, and his knees nearly gave out under the weight of the moment. His brain wasn’t processing. It was glitching.

Was this real? Was this really happening? Is he imagining it? Hallucinate it? Dream it? No. It was too vivid and too real.

When you finally pulled away, his lips were still parted, stunned. His pupils were blown wide. He hadn’t even blinked or moved. He could still feel your lipstick on his skin, the pressure of your mouth, the way you clung to him for just one second too long.

He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.

His body still buzzed from the electricity of that kiss, and his lips tingled, as if the ghost of your touch refused to leave. His chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with everything the rest of him just experienced.

The elevator dinged.

Like nothing had happened. Like the universe wasn’t burning down inside him. You stepped out, cheerful and light on your feet like you’d just won a game.

Bob didn’t move.

He stayed frozen for a few seconds more, still standing inside the elevator, staring at the wall like he’d been hit by lightning and had no idea if he was still alive.

His body ached, but not from pain. His throat felt dry, his chest was tight and his legs were weak. And somewhere lower… he was painfully aware of just how much he had reacted to you. To that kiss. To the idea of you.

The entire ride back to the hotel was a mental warzone for Bob. While you sat beside him in the car — relaxed, content, maybe even a little proud — he was completely wrecked. Destroyed from the inside out.

He stared out the window in silence, barely hearing anything. His thoughts were stuck on a loop, replaying that kiss in the elevator with vivid clarity. Your lips. Your scent. The taste of you on his mouth.

Why had you kissed him? Was it adrenaline? A heat-of-the-moment thing? Was it nothing to you? Did it even mean anything? And what about John?

Bob’s chest tightened at the thought. You were dating Walker. So… did that kiss break some invisible boundary? Or was this normal for you? A casual thing? Did you have some kind of rules, where making out with your “just friends” didn’t count?

The more questions piled up in his head, the worse it got. And to top it all off, he had a raging erection. It wasn’t just distracting, it was embarrassing. Painful. Relentless.

His pants were already tight, but now they felt like a punishment. He tried to shift subtly in his seat and placed his hands in his lap to hide the obvious bulge, hoping, praying it would go down.

But then there was you, sitting right next to him, practically glowing. You smelled divine, like warm vanilla and danger. Even if he’d tried to ignore the kiss, your perfume alone was enough to short-circuit his brain.

By the time you both got to the hotel, nothing had changed. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Bob walked into the room stiff and frustrated, not just mentally, but physically. Every part of him was on edge. His mind was racing. His body was screaming. And you? You headed straight to the shower like nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just rocked his entire existence in one spontaneous kiss.

He heard the water running, imagined it cascading down your back. He buried his face in his hands. He was fighting all his demons to not touch himself. To just survive it. But it was harder than he thought.

Every image was you. Your lips. Your thighs. Your breath on his skin. And that kiss… He sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing the bathroom you were currently in. He was staring at the floor, trying to calm down, trying to breathe.

After a while, you walked out of the bathroom. And Bob almost passed out.

You were wearing a two-piece pajama set that was clearly designed to ruin him. The top was practically a bra—short, clingy, with thin straps and a bit of lace. The shorts barely covered anything, hanging loose around your hips in the most tempting way possible.

Bob turned his head just slightly, only enough to catch a glimpse, and instantly regretted it. His cock twitched hard against the fabric of his pants, and he immediately looked away with a low grunt.

“Shower was amazing,” you said casually, towel-drying your damp hair, as if you weren’t singlehandedly ruining his entire existence.

Bob gave a barely audible grunt in response, still facing away from you, clenching his fists.

You dropped onto the bed beside him and continued, “You should take one too. Not that you smell or anything. Just… you’ll feel better after. Trust me.”

He nodded stiffly, then stood up, trying to keep his movements controlled, his hands strategically placed in front of him to cover himself.

You glanced sideways at him, but didn’t say anything. He hoped you didn’t notice. He took one step toward the bathroom when you called after him.

“Hey, Bob!”

He paused, poked his head back out around the doorframe, trying not to let his face betray the hell he was going through.

You gave him the sweetest smile in the world. “You were amazing today. Seriously. I couldn’t have done it without you.” His heart stopped. His throat dried.

You said it so sincerely, so warmly. It wasn’t just gratitude, it was admiration. Bob smiled back, shyly, ducking his head a little. “Thanks,” he mumbled. But internally? He was exploding.

He wanted to scream. Punch a wall. Melt into the floor. Or maybe kiss you again until you were breathless and begging. Instead, he quickly ducked into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, and finally exhaled.

Bob leaned his forehead against the door and clenched his fingers into a fist. He knew damn well, that this night was going to be really tough.

Bob didn’t sleep a single second that night.

Not because of the mattress, it was fine. Not because of the temperature, the room was cool and comfortable. No, it was because of you.

Because you were lying just a few centimeters away, in that ridiculous little pajama set, breathing softly, sleeping like nothing in the world had happened. While he had a throbbing erection and a mind that wouldn’t shut the hell up.

He’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, willing himself to think of anything other than that kiss. Than your laugh. Your lips. Your bare legs brushing against the sheets.

He’d tossed. Turned. Covered himself with a blanket, kicked it off again, tried to meditate, tried to count backwards from 100, tried to breathe—but nothing worked. His cock stayed hard like it had a vendetta, and his brain kept cycling through every possible reason why you kissed him, every consequence, every what-if and what-now.

By the time morning light seeped through the curtains, Bob wasn’t sure he was even human anymore. He felt like a hollowed-out wreck of hormones and confusion.

Then you stirred.

A soft sound, like a kitten stretching. A sleepy little sigh followed by a yawn. Bob’s eyes snapped shut. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He lay there like a corpse, playing dead, praying you wouldn’t speak or look at him or ask questions about the night before.

He heard you shifting beside him. The bedsheets rustling. The springs of the mattress creaked softly as you sat up. Bob held his breath like even inhaling would give him away.

Then, the soft patter of your footsteps. The click of the bathroom door. And finally, relief. Bob exhaled. A deep, unfiltered breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in for over a minute.

He rubbed his hands over his face and muttered under his breath, “What is wrong with me…”

He sat up slowly. Looked around the room. The bed you’d just left still smelled like you. It didn’t help. Not even a little. So he did the only thing he could think of — get out.

Bob made his way down to the hotel lobby and grabbed breakfast from the continental buffet. It was early enough that the dining area was mostly empty, which was good. He didn’t want anyone to see how wrecked he looked. Or ask him why he looked that way.

He loaded up two plates. Some waffles, fruit and maple syrup. When he got to the room, you were still in the bathroom. Shower running again.

Perfect.

He set everything up at the little table by the window — your plate across from his, utensils neatly placed, napkins folded. He even managed to make coffee, so he poured it into one of the mugs and set it beside your plate.

And that was when the bathroom door opened.

You stepped out, fresh scent followed you. You looked tired, sleepy, but beautiful, like some kind of dream in motion. Bob tried not to stare. He failed.

“Morning,” he said, voice a little hoarse from not using it all night.

You gave a soft smile. “Morning,” you started to echo, then your gaze dropped to the table. You blinked. Once. Twice.

Your voice was still raspy with sleep. “What is… all this?”

Bob looked from the table to you, then back again, suddenly awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck and stumbled over his words.

“I—uh—I just thought… I mean, you were still in the shower, and I figured you might be hungry, so I… I got breakfast. Hope you like waffles?” There was such sweet, ridiculous hope in his voice.

You stared at him, clearly surprised, your brows rising slightly. If you hadn’t still been half-asleep, you might’ve reacted more dramatically. But instead, you just gave a breathy little laugh and walked over to the table.

“Yeah,” you said softly, “I love waffles. Thanks, Bob.”

You sat down and looked up at him with those tired, gentle eyes — the kind of look that could pierce steel. There was no teasing, no flirtation, no games. Just sincerity.

And for a second, Bob thought he might actually die.

He looked away quickly, heart thudding. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, then sat down across from you.

His hands shook a little as he picked up his fork. You didn’t notice. You were too busy chewing your first bite, eyes half-lidded in comfort, hair damp and messy, your body covered in that damn pajama again. Bob nearly stabbed himself with his fork.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were the soft clinks of cutlery against plates, the faint scrape of metal on ceramic, the delicate chew of breakfast in otherwise awkward silence.

Bob focused intensely on cutting his waffle into perfect, manageable squares — as if each slice could somehow distract him from the tension curling in his gut.

You didn’t seem to notice the quiet. You looked content, maybe even relaxed — happily munching away, one hand resting under your chin as you glanced occasionally out the window. Your shoulders were loose. Your posture soft. Meanwhile, Bob’s shoulders were up to his ears and his spine was stiff as a steel rod.

Eventually, the weight of the silence became unbearable, for him, at least. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the stillness, and forced out the first words he could think of.

“So… how did you sleep?” he asked, trying to sound casual. His eyes remained glued to his plate, as if looking at you would fry his brain like an egg on the sidewalk.

You smiled faintly. “Really well, actually. That bed was super soft — way better than ours.”

Bob gave a soft, breathy chuckle, nodding with forced enthusiasm. “Yeah. Definitely better.”

He shoved a bite of waffle into his mouth, mostly to stop himself from saying something stupid. Like how he hadn’t slept at all. Like how he’d spent the night with his dick hard as a rock, painfully aware of your presence in the room, and now couldn’t even look at you without remembering the taste of your lips.

You continued eating, unconcerned, completely unaware of the nuclear meltdown occurring across the table. Bob stabbed another piece of waffle with a bit more force than necessary.

Then your voice broke the silence again. “What about you? Did you sleep okay?”

Panic flashed across Bob’s face — just for a second. You didn’t notice. He hesitated, fork mid-air, mouth slightly open. His brain scrambled for a believable lie.

He couldn’t exactly say, “Terribly. I was hard and mentally spiraling because you kissed me and I don’t know what it means and also I wanted to cry and jack off at the same time.”

So instead, he went with the safest, blandest answer possible.

“Yeah,” he said. “Slept fine.”

You nodded, satisfied with the response, and kept eating. And then… silence again.

Bob took another sip of his coffee, trying not to visibly sweat. His gaze flickered up for a second, just long enough to look at you, and then dropped right back to the table.

Your legs were crossed, your thigh brushing against his under the table from time to time. Every accidental touch sent a jolt through his body like he’d been shocked.

Finally, desperate to shift the topic and reduce the volcanic-level pressure in the room, Bob asked: “So uh… do you know what time we’re heading out?”

This time, he managed to meet your gaze.

Big mistake. Your eyes were still a little sleepy, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks, your lips slightly sticky from syrup. He regretted looking immediately. He was so not okay.

You leaned back a little in your seat, rubbing your arms as if the air-conditioned room was just a bit too chilly. “Around six, I think. In the evening.”

That was hours from now. Way too many hours. And just like that, Bob felt the dread settle in.

All this time with you, in this room, in this city, with that kiss still echoing in his memory… What were you going to do? Go sightseeing? Lounge in robes? Pretend nothing happened?

Bob blinked, forcing himself to focus on the food again. He didn’t know what was worse — the fact that he still didn’t understand why you kissed him… or the fear that you might never bring it up again.

You finished the last bite of your waffle and took a slow sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, letting out a quiet exhale as you leaned back in your chair. With a soft grace, you slid away from the table and rose to your feet.

“I’m gonna step out on the balcony for a while,” you informed Bob, your voice calm but distant.

You didn’t wait for a reply—you just turned and walked away, completely unaware of the absolute devastation you left in your wake.

Bob’s eyes locked onto your hips the second you stood. He didn’t even try to stop himself.

The way your body moved in that light pajama set, how your hips swayed without effort, it was practically sinful. His jaw dropped slightly, completely involuntarily, and he felt himself twitch in his pants again, his arousal sparking to life like a cursed reflex.

He instantly shut his eyes tight and groaned inwardly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. It’s like every time she’s near, my hormones short-circuit my brain.

Trying to reset himself, Bob forced a cold shower, pulled on something clean, did his hair with trembling hands, and gave himself a stern internal lecture in the mirror about controlling his damn urges.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, he felt somewhat composed again. But then he saw you, still out on the balcony.

Still in that breezy little pajama set that didn’t do anything to shield his imagination. You were leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on the balcony railing, your back arched in a way that made his self-control plummet again. Your hips jutted out, curves outlined perfectly by the light fabric, and your hair danced gently in the wind like some dream from a movie.

Bob closed his eyes again and sucked in a breath so deep it hurt his ribs.

Gripping the door handle like it might break under his fingers, he slowly opened it and stepped out onto the balcony, careful to shut it quietly behind him. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn. You hadn’t even noticed he was there. But he noticed everything about you.

The slight movement of your shoulders. The way your chest hitched just a little too sharply. The soft sniffle carried by the breeze. His heart sank.

You were crying.

He took a hesitant step forward, and that’s when you gasped sharply and flinched back, startled.

“Jesus Christ, Bob!” you said, one hand flying to your chest as your heart thudded wildly. “Don’t do that!”

You immediately looked away from him, quickly wiping your face, like that could erase what he’d already seen. Your voice was tight, almost embarrassed, and your gaze dropped to the floor.

Bob’s brow furrowed in deep concern.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you…”

You didn’t respond, just turned your gaze back toward the skyline as you composed your face again, pretending you weren’t unraveling.

He studied you in silence for a moment, then asked gently, “Why are you crying?”

You let out a humorless laugh, lowering your head in a kind of quiet defeat. Of course he noticed. Bob always noticed everything, that’s part of what made him so different from everyone else. He paid attention. He saw you.

You shook your head slowly, smiling bitterly at yourself.

“It’s stupid,” you muttered.

He didn’t speak, but the weight of his silence, the patience in it, urged you on. You knew he wouldn’t let it go. Not Bob. He’d ask every day till your death. So you spared him the slow torture of waiting and simply told him the truth.

“Before we left…” you began, pausing as your voice threatened to crack. “John got a text.”

Bob stiffened beside you.

“I’m not the type to go through someone’s phone. I’m really not. But… I don’t know. Something just felt off. Like—like the universe was trying to nudge me, y’know?”

You glanced at him then, and his expression made your chest ache. He was listening with such genuine intensity, his eyes full of concern.

“I looked,” you said quietly. “And the phone wasn’t even locked. It was just there. Wide open. Like it wanted to be seen.”

You gave a breathy, bitter little laugh. “Turns out he’s been talking to another girl. For a while, apparently. They send each other nudes, flirty messages… I think they’ve even been meeting up. I don’t know how long it’s been going on.”

You shook your head again, this time with disbelief. Your laugh came out sharp, ironic, almost self-punishing.

Bob was frozen. Stunned. He couldn’t find words, not because he didn’t care, but because the weight of it hit him like a punch to the chest. Everything suddenly made sense. The way you’d acted before the flight. The way you pulled away during conversations.

And the worst part was, that he was actually relieved it wasn’t about him. That he isn't the reason you were acting so distant.

But the guilt that came with that relief twisted in his stomach. You didn’t deserve any of this. Not a second of it. If he could have teleported across the world and shattered John Walker’s jaw, he’d have done it without hesitation.

“I… I’m so sorry,” he whispered, dropping his gaze to the ground, helplessly fumbling for something to say. Anything.

“It’s okay,” you replied too quickly. “I should’ve seen it coming. I’m never really enough. Not for anyone.”

Bob’s head snapped up, eyes wide, brows drawn together in a mix of disbelief and fury.

“Are you kidding me?”

You turned to look at him, and your lips trembled as fresh tears welled in your eyes.

“That’s not true,” he said, voice suddenly sharper. Almost angry—but not at you. At the idea that you could ever believe something so deeply, deeply wrong.

“You are—God, you’re amazing. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. You’re kind, and strong, and brilliant, and you. What Walker did? That’s his mistake. That’s on him, not on you. Not even a little. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

His voice cracked, and he stepped closer.

“You’re the last person on this Earth who should ever say she’s not enough. Because, if anything—nobody’s worthy of you. And I swear, if I hear you say that again…”

You smiled through your tears, your lips trembling as emotion completely overtook you. You tried to speak, but your voice broke.

“Thank you, Bob,” you whispered, your chest hitching with a sob. “Really. Thank you.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, he reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. It wasn’t a polite hug. It wasn’t soft. It was real. Fierce. Protective.

He held you like he was anchoring you to the Earth. Like he needed you to know that someone was here and not going anywhere. His strength wrapped around you, but not too tight. Just enough to make you feel safe.

You pressed your face into his shirt and let the tears fall freely now, surrounded by the steady heartbeat of a man who saw you as something so much more than what Walker ever could.

After you’d cried your heart out, enough that your chest no longer shook with every breath, you finally pulled back from Bob’s arms just a little, enough to breathe on your own again.

And that’s when you saw it.

A massive damp spot had soaked into the front of his shirt, right over his chest. It was undeniable. Your tears had completely soaked through the fabric. You froze for a second, mortified, and then gave an awkward little laugh — light, embarrassed, and slightly hoarse from the crying.

“Oh God… I’m so sorry,” you mumbled, your hand immediately reaching out to try and rub the wetness out of his shirt, instinctively brushing your palm over his chest in small, apologetic circles.

Bob just shook his head slowly, his voice deep and quiet, almost like a rumble.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t let go of your shoulders. He just… looked at you.

You kept fussing with his shirt, trying to clean a stain that wouldn’t budge, and Bob kept watching — silently, intensely. His grip on your shoulders remained firm but gentle, as if grounding you in place. His thumbs brushed your arms just slightly, unconsciously, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

It took a moment before you realized your hand had stilled against his chest, resting there now, fingers splayed.

You stopped. Your breath caught a little. And then, slowly, as if drawn by a magnetic pull, you lifted your eyes to meet his. He was already looking at you.

His expression was unreadable, but his breath had changed. It was deeper now, heavier. His chest rose and fell more rapidly beneath your palm, and you could feel the heat radiating off his skin through the fabric. His jaw was clenched ever so slightly. His pupils were wide. Your hand stayed right where it was, and your eyes didn’t leave his. Something changed.

The air around you seemed to grow heavier, thicker with electricity. Time slowed to a crawl as you stood there, caught in the eye of a storm neither of you dared move through. Your eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, from his eyes to his lips, and back.

And then again.

Bob noticed. Of course he did. He wasn’t blind and your message was clear. And God, he wanted to kiss you. He ached to kiss you. He wanted to lean in, press his lips to yours and melt into you. He wanted to taste the salt of your tears, hold your face in his hands, and give you something good—something real.

And more than that…

He wanted to take away your pain, rewrite the damage Walker had done, show you what it felt like to be touched by someone who actually loved every piece of you. But he didn’t move.

Instead, his hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not out of passion, but restraint. He took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into lungs that were already burning, and then… he looked away. Slowly. Reluctantly.

His eyes dropped to the ground, his jaw flexing with visible frustration, and his hands fell from your shoulders, landing limply at his sides.

He was pulling back. The rejection wasn’t cruel or cold, but it still hurt. Bob cleared his throat, his voice lower than usual and strained at the edges as he forced out a casual tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How about… we get out for a bit today? Walk around the city. Just clear your head. Focus on something else.”

He didn’t look at you right away, as if the tension between you hadn’t just nearly boiled over.

The second he took a step back, creating distance between your bodies, you felt the warmth fade. Like stepping away from a fire. You exhaled softly and nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice small. “Sure. Why not…” And though you smiled, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You spent the entire day wandering the winding streets of Paris, letting the city pull you into its charm one moment at a time. The two of you had no real plan, which made everything feel lighter — freer.

You visited quaint little art galleries hidden behind ivy-covered buildings, sampled pastries that tasted like heaven in flaky, buttery form, and wandered through the bookstalls by the Seine, where Bob picked up a dusty old volume of French poetry and pretended to read it in the most exaggerated accent, just to hear you laugh again.

And you did laugh. Again and again.

God, every time that beautiful sound burst out of you, it hit Bob right in the chest — like a beam of sunlight cutting through the fog that had been hanging over him ever since he met you. That laugh of yours… it lit him up inside. It made his heart ache and race all at once. He’d do anything to hear it again.

You two made memories — not loud ones, not dramatic, just yours. Feeding pigeons by the Notre-Dame. Getting slightly lost in Montmartre and not caring one bit. Sitting on a bench with crepes in hand, talking about everything and nothing. You snapped a photo of Bob mid-bite with chocolate on his lip, and the scandalized look on his face nearly made you choke from laughing.

It was perfect.

And maybe that’s why saying goodbye to Paris felt like more than just leaving a city. It felt like leaving a bubble. A space in time where you and Bob were just you two, away from the mess, the labels, the heartbreak.

But that bubble was about to burst.

Back in your hotel room, the bags were packed, the mission done, and the private jet was set to pick you both up in two hours. You sat together on the bed in the late afternoon light, warm orange spilling across the room as if trying to hold on to the moment too.

You were playing Uno. And you were absolutely demolishing him.

“What?! How is that possible?” Bob barked in disbelief as you laid down your final card with a smug grin.

You shrugged innocently, clearly enjoying his suffering. “What can I say? I’m just a natural-born champion.”

Bob narrowed his eyes at you, lips twitching, like he wanted to be annoyed, but couldn’t help smiling.

You scooped the cards back into a pile, starting to shuffle with practiced ease. There was a comfortable silence between you. The kind that only comes when two people have shared something real.

Bob watched you quietly, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on your hands and how effortlessly they moved. And as he looked at you, something stirred in his chest again — that question. The question. The one he’d been carrying around since the moment it happened.

He swallowed hard and finally took a breath. “Can I ask you something?”

You looked up from the cards, your eyes soft, open. “Sure.”

Bob hesitated, then asked, “Why did you kiss me? In the elevator…”

There it was.

Your eyes widened slightly, only for a second. And then you looked away, down at the cards in your hands. You stopped shuffling. You sighed softly, licking your lips before meeting his eyes again.

“I guess it was a mix of adrenaline and… joy. Relief. That we made it.”

Bob nodded slowly, letting out a quiet “Oh…” — but you could see the flicker of disappointment in his face. He’d hoped for something else. Something… more.

But you weren’t finished.

“And maybe it had something to do with the way you stood up to that guy. The way you protected me. It was really sweet,” you added, your voice more vulnerable now.

Bob blushed, looking away as he waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing.”

“No, I mean it, Bob. Thank you,” you said firmly, your eyes locking onto his.

And just like that, you had him. Frozen and breathless, completely at your mercy. His throat felt dry. His heart thundered in his ears. He could barely even blink.

Then came your question, more dangerous one than Bob’s.

“Did it bother you?”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “The kiss?”

Your voice dropped to something softer, sensual.

“Yeah… Did it bother you?”

Bob’s breath hitched. He shook his head rapidly, almost too fast.

“No. No, not at all—God, no—”

“Do you want another one?”

You cut him off with that question, and it landed like a thunderclap. Bob froze. That was the last thing he expected. You, offering. Now.

He stared at you, stunned, his brain racing a mile a minute. Of course he wanted. He’d been craving it ever since. But then… there was John. The tangled, painful mess waiting back home.

But you… you looked so hopeful. So beautiful.

Your lips were soft and red, parted just slightly. Your hair was falling over your shoulder in waves, your eyes were glowing like firelight. He couldn’t resist. God help him, he didn’t want to resist.

He nodded. And he didn’t have to say a word. You knew.

You smiled — not just any smile, but that smile. The one that made his knees weak. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly set the cards aside, placing them neatly on the bed beside you. And then you crawled toward him. Graceful. Confident. Predatory.

Bob sat still, paralyzed by the sight of you on all fours, moving closer like some stunning, slow-motion dream. His cock throbbed instantly, hardening just from watching you approach like that — seductive, playful, powerful.

You moved right up to him, your face inches from his, and the tension was scorching. His breath caught in his throat.

You were close enough now that he could smell your perfume. Your eyes flicked to his lips again, and he swore his heart was going to leap out of his chest.

You were so close. So damn close. And Bob had never wanted anything more in his entire life.

You leaned in even closer, your lips now grazing his, teasing and testing the boundaries, seeing how far you could push before he finally snapped.

You were driving Bob insane, tormenting him in the best possible way. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, every muscle in his body screaming to act, to grab you, to kiss you until you forgot your own name.

But he held back. God, it took everything in him not to just lose it.

Your closeness, the way your breath mixed with his, how your mouth hovered barely an inch away from his—it was like torture. A sweet, slow burn spreading through every inch of his body. He clenched his jaw, trying to ground himself, trying not to completely lose control. But the tension between you was unbearable, like a lit match floating in gasoline.

You could barely hold it together either. Bob had been pulling you in like a magnet for a while now, but this? This was overwhelming. The way he smelled, the way his breath trembled under your presence, the way his growing erection strained against the fabric of his pants, even as he adorably tried to shift and hide it. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You gave in.

Your lips melted into his in a long, slow kiss. Nothing hurried, nothing rough. It was gentle, almost reverent. No roaming hands, no gasps or moans. Just a kiss. It was like the world had stilled, and all that existed was this connection, this breath between you.

But one kiss wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.

So you went in for another. Then another. And before you knew it, everything unraveled. The kisses turned hungry, desperate, messy. You were both gasping between them, your mouths colliding again and again, a tangled symphony of want and restraint falling apart. The slick, wet sounds of your lips filled the hotel room, echoing the firestorm of tension that had been brewing for far too long.

Bob couldn’t believe it was happening.

For a brief moment, he thought he must’ve fallen asleep. That this was some dream his lonely mind had conjured. But then he felt your fingers sliding up his neck, grounding him in reality. You were real. This was real. And his mind couldn’t comprehend how lucky he was to be here, like this, with you.

A low, guttural moan escaped him into the kiss, he tried to hold it back, not wanting to overwhelm you. He didn’t want to be too much, even if every nerve in his body was screaming to press you down against the bed and ruin you sweetly. But then you reached for his hands. You guided them to your hips, gently placing them there like an invitation—like a green light.

And God, Bob didn’t need more than that.

He squeezed your hips just a little, testing how far you’d let him go. Then his hands started exploring, sliding over your waist, your back, your sides like he needed to memorize the shape of you. His touch was strong but reverent, shaky with restraint but burning with desire. Your kisses turned deeper. Hotter. Sloppier.

You could barely breathe between them. His hands kept roaming, your mouths didn’t part for more than a second at a time, and your fingers tangled into the back of his hair while you moaned softly against his lips.

There was no doubt now, this wasn’t just a kiss anymore. It was the start of something that neither of you would be able, or willing, to stop.

The kisses became uncontrollable.

You weren’t even trying to hold back anymore. Your mouths moved in frantic, hungry rhythm—desperate and messy, teeth grazing, tongues tangling, lips crashing like you’d both been starving for this. Like you needed it to breathe. Like nothing else existed except this moment.

The air was thick, electric, your heart racing so loud you could feel it in your throat.

Bob moaned against your lips again, low and helpless, like he was falling apart in your hands. And in a way, he was.

You were everything he wanted—everything he had tried to resist. And now, now that he had the taste of you on his lips, he knew he was doomed. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, almost as if asking for permission—but really, you weren’t asking. You needed him closer. Now.

You tugged hard.

Bob gasped into your mouth as you yanked at his shirt, and in the heat of it all, your bodies stumbled together onto the bed—him landing above you, your back hitting the soft mattress, and his weight pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

And God, he looked down at you like he was witnessing something holy.

His breath was ragged, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. His eyes darted over your face, then lower—your lips, your neck, your chest—and he looked absolutely wrecked by the sight of you.

“You have no idea… how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, his voice deep, rough, almost shaking. “You’re—fuck, you’re so perfect… You drive me insane…”

His words were messy, desperate, half-breathed into your mouth as he leaned back down to kiss you again. This time, it was slower—but burning, needy. Like he wanted to savor you and devour you all at once.

You could feel him, hard and throbbing against your thigh, his hips pressing into yours with barely contained urgency. And your hands? They were everywhere. Under his shirt, across his warm back, digging into the curve of his shoulder blades—feeling the strength, the heat, the way his muscles tensed with every motion.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered again, and the praise sent chills straight down your spine. His lips traveled from your mouth to your jaw, down to your neck, and he groaned when he felt you arch into him. “So beautiful… so soft…”

He was losing himself in you. In the way your body reacted to his. In the way you clutched at him, gasped when his teeth grazed your skin, whimpered when his hands roamed lower.

Clothes started disappearing fast—your shirt was up and off before you even realized he’d tugged it. His own was thrown somewhere on the floor without a care. Then your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer, and the friction made you both groan in unison.

Your fingers traced down his chest, drinking in the heat of his bare skin, the shiver in his muscles, the way he hissed softly when your nails scraped over his abs. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours as his fingers fumbled with the waistband of your pants.

“I need you,” he confessed, the words slipping out between panting breaths. “I can’t think—I just… I need to feel all of you…”

And you needed him too. Every inch of him. The weight of his body, the roughness of his hands, the worship in his touch. You helped him push your pants down, his right after, until you were tangled together, skin on skin, mouths locked, hands roaming like you were mapping each other with every stroke.

You moaned into his mouth as he pressed his hips into yours again, bare, hard, and trembling with anticipation.

Every touch sent a jolt through you. Every kiss left you aching. And the sound of Bob praising you—moaning about how much he wanted you, how incredible you were, had your whole body on fire.

You were both completely bare now, tangled together in the dim light of the hotel room.

His body hovered just above yours, one strong arm keeping his weight off you, the other hand trailing softly along your side—down your ribs, over your hip, across the curve of your thigh. The room felt overheated, or maybe it was just the two of you, flushed and gasping, your bodies trembling with need.

Bob’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, sweat already forming at his temples. His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to memorize every feature—like he couldn’t believe this was real. His forehead nearly touched yours, and he whispered your name like a prayer.

Then he felt it.

Your wetness—warm, slick, pooling beneath you and soaking into the mattress. The heat of you against his thigh, the soft, needy sounds slipping past your lips… it was too much. He felt his cock twitch, precum smearing across your skin, and he groaned, low and broken.

“Jesus…” he breathed, his voice was hoarse, ragged with restraint. You felt his fingers glide between your thighs, spreading your slick gently, reverently. His touch was careful and worshipful, but charged—like every brush of his fingertips carried volts of desire.

You gasped, back arching slightly as he teased you. Every touch made your skin burn in the best way. He kissed down your neck, lips soft and slow, like he didn’t want to rush—but you could feel the tension in his body, the tightness in his grip, the sheer willpower it took not to just lose control.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured into your skin. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you…”

You reached up, your hands cradling his face, and your voice came out breathless but sure. “Yes, you do. Every second of this. Every inch of me.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut. A soft, trembling exhale left his lips before he opened them again, eyes burning into yours.

“Can I…?” he whispered, his voice thick with need but still full of care. “Please, can I be inside you?”

You didn’t wait. You nodded, eagerly, before he could even finish the question. That was all he needed.

He lined himself up, the thick tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. The heat between you was unbearable now, your legs wrapping around his waist as he slowly pushed forward.

And you were ready. So ready.

Your slickness welcomed him in, your walls stretching around him so perfectly it was almost too much. You both gasped at once, his name slipping from your lips in a whisper, while he let out a deep, guttural moan.

“God—” he breathed, barely able to hold himself still. “You feel… Jesus, you feel so good—”

He wanted to move fast, hard, deep, but he didn’t. Not yet.

Even with how desperately he wanted you, Bob was careful, tender. His hips moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, letting himself not fall apart instantly. His lips found yours again, this time with pure adoration. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs brushing gentle circles into your skin.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses. “You’re everything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

You whimpered against his mouth, rolling your hips up to meet his, silently begging for more. And he gave it to you. Inch by inch, thrust by thrust, the pace building gradually, steadily, until every movement had your breath hitching, your nails digging into his back.

Your bodies were slick, writhing, tangled in the sheets and in each other. The way he touched you, firm but cherishing, hot but reverent, made your whole body tremble. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, whispering praises that had your heart melting and your core tightening.

And with every word, every thrust, every deep moan against your ear, you felt it too. Not just the pleasure, but the connection. The meaning behind it. The way he worshipped you, not just your body, but all of you.

And you were his. At least for tonight, in this moment, you were his completely.

The mattress creaked beneath your bodies, a quiet rhythm that matched your breathing. Shallow, desperate and tangled.

Every thrust sent waves of heat crashing through your nerves. He moved deep, steady, like he knew exactly how to take you apart and you were coming undone beneath him.

Your fingers gripped the sheets. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, eyes dark with intensity and tenderness all at once but you swear from time to time, you could see a flickering of yellow glow in his pupils.

You could feel the muscles in his arms trembling slightly as he held himself over you, pushing in again and again, slow but deep, deliciously stretching.

You gasped, arching your back as another deep thrust sent sparks exploding behind your eyes.

“Bob—” you whimpered, nails dragging across his back. “Oh god, don’t stop—”

He dipped his head to kiss your throat, your collarbone, your jaw. Then suddenly, his hand reached for yours – he laced your fingers together, warm and strong, and guided your hand downward.

You blinked in surprise, breath caught in your throat. His voice rumbled low, filled with hunger and curiosity.

“Show me,” he murmured, placing your hand between your thighs. And then, he slipped his hand under yours. “Show me how you like it.”

Your whole body tensed. You hadn’t expected that. You were still panting, barely able to form words, but your hips shifted instinctively.

And so you guided him – showing him the pressure, the rhythm, the spot.

“Oh…” he muttered, catching on fast. His fingers picked up your pattern, teasing your clit in slow, precise circles, exactly the way you liked it. “Like this?”

Your head fell back with a moan. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

While he continued to move inside you, he never stopped playing with your clit – adapting to every little reaction of your body. You clenched around him, trembling. Your moans grew louder, higher, more desperate.

The bed groaned beneath your bodies as the pace increased, his hips slapping softly against yours now. Bob was close – you could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered slightly, in the way he buried his face into your neck, groaning deep into your skin.

And then he grunted and shifted. In one fluid motion, he flipped your bodies. Now you were on top of him, straddling his hips. Your palms landed on his chest, breath ragged, eyes wide with surprise.

His hands moved to your hips, clearly telling you to continue withou any words.

Your thighs were shaking, your body already tired, but he helped guide you – lifting his hips up to meet yours, thrusting into you from below. He never stopped touching you. One hand moved between your bodies, fingers circling your clit again as you rode him, slow and messy.

Your moans turned into cries, the pleasure building higher and higher as he kept you right there – perfectly on edge. You leaned forward, forehead against his, your chest pressed to his as his name slipped past your lips like a prayer.

He was panting hard, trying to hold on for you, to make sure you came with him.

You could feel it building inside you – that electric pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Every stroke, every circle of his fingers dragged you closer, made your thighs shake, your breath stutter. Your hands clutched at his chest, fingernails digging into sweat-slick skin as your moans rose in pitch.

“Bob—” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby. Let go,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, wild and dark and desperate. And then it hit you.

Your orgasm slammed through you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, lips parting in a strangled cry as your walls clamped down hard around him. Sparks exploded behind your eyes. Your vision blurred, jaw falling open as the pleasure flooded your system in pulsing, endless waves.

“Fuck—oh my god—!” you choked out, legs trembling uncontrollably. Bob groaned deep beneath you, his hips stuttering.

“God—damn, you’re so—so perfect—”

His voice broke into a rough growl as your orgasm milked him, your body shaking on top of him. His grip on your hips tightened, and then, with a strangled grunt, he came.

Bob’s whole body tensed beneath you, muscles rigid, breath caught. His head fell back against the pillows, mouth open in a raw, breathy moan. You felt the pulse of him inside you, hot and deep, and the way his hands trembled against your skin as he held you down on him, not wanting to let go.

“Ahh—f-fuck,” he groaned, voice cracked with the force of his climax.

For a moment, everything stopped. Just the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, your breath mixing with his, bodies shaking against each other. You collapsed against his chest, boneless, completely overwhelmed.

Bob wrapped his arms around you, one hand still stroking lightly over your thigh, grounding you.

“You okay?” he whispered into your hair, his voice soft now, reverent. You just nodded against his chest, still trying to breathe, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears.

For a while, neither of you moved. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, the steady thump of his heart loud and comforting beneath your ear. Then slowly, lazily, you rolled off of him—your hips lifting, a soft wet sound escaping as he slipped out of you.

You both groaned at the same time, your voices blending in low, exhausted tones.

Your combined release was… well, nearly everywhere – between your thighs, on your skin, smeared across the sheets. A delicious mess. You didn’t even care.

You shifted closer again, curling into his side and resting your hand on his chest. His skin was still hot to the touch. You watched the rise and fall of his breath – still rapid, then slowly calming – and felt a deep, quiet satisfaction flood your veins. Your body was light, weightless. Your mind? Blissfully empty.

No other man had ever made you come like that. Not even close. Honestly, they could all learn something from Bob fucking Reynolds.

Bob, meanwhile, was still staring at the ceiling like he was afraid this was a dream.

He couldn’t believe it. After all those months of quiet, aching longing, after wanting you so badly it hurt, you were now lying there, completely naked, tangled up in him like you belonged there. His heart swelled, his pulse only just returning to normal. His hand found your shoulder, and he began to trace slow, lazy circles with his fingertip.

But then… the silence got too loud.

And those thoughts came back. The ones that never truly left him alone. The ones that pushed their way into his mind, even when everything felt perfect.

John.

You were still with John. Or at least… you hadn’t broken up. And Bob—well, Bob had just slept with someone else’s girlfriend. Even if that someone had hurt you. Even if he’d cheated on you first.

But… had John actually slept with that girl in his phone? Or was it just the filthy messages? Bob’s voice cut through the quiet, low and uncertain.

“Are you gonna tell John?”

You didn’t answer at first. Your eyes were closed, your body relaxed, still floating in that perfect post-orgasm haze.

“I don’t know,” you murmured finally, voice sleepy, as if the question barely reached you.

That wasn’t enough for Bob. His anxiety rarely let him rest, and this moment was no different.

“Won’t he be mad?” he asked again, softer this time.

You sighed, clearly not in the mood. You had forgotten just how much Bob overthinks everything. Even now. Even after… that.

You groaned and pushed yourself up on your elbow, meeting his eyes. He looked worried. Vulnerable. You knew him well, knew how even the smallest crack in something could unravel him completely.

“Hey,” you said gently, brushing your fingers along his cheek. “I don’t want to think about that right now, okay? I just want to enjoy this moment… let it hang in the air for a while.”

Bob exhaled, nodding slowly. You were right. As always. Silence returned for a moment, this time softer. More settled.

You let your fingers begin to wander across his chest again, lightly dancing over his skin, teasingly seductive.

“But…” you added with a little smirk, “we do have quite a bit of time before the jet comes to pick us up…”

Bob raised an eyebrow, eyes trailing down to your fingers and then back to your face.

“Oh? And what exactly are you implying?

He knew. Of course he knew. But he wanted to hear you say it. Needed the confirmation. You leaned in, whispered into his ear with a sly smile:

“That we could go for another round.”

Bob let out a breathy laugh and shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re not tired?”

You raised an eyebrow, playful.

“Do I look tired?”

No. You didn’t. You looked radiant—flushed, glowing, gorgeous. Like a dream that had come to life just for him. Bob stared at you for a moment longer, full of wonder and something dangerously close to love, then sighed in mock defeat.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered.

And then his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you in again for another hungry, breath-stealing kiss.

You did, in fact, have more than enough time before the jet arrived. And by the time it did, you were both absolutely wrecked.

But it was so, so worth it.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE🌀🖲️🪁

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immortalmolloy · 1 day ago

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Daniel snuggled up close to Mina. He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to stay there with her hidden away from the world just them like old times. Things had changed irrevocably, though. They couldn’t go back… only forward. “I love you,” he told her. “I know I’m not a perfect husband but I love you more than anything and I always will. I’m sorry that… “

He was the one who had made the choice and he couldn’t regret it completely. He was so grateful she was there with him. But he did wish that she could have stayed alive and human because that was her wish. He hadn’t wanted to make that choice. He hadn’t wanted things to change.

“I wish I could have kept you safe forever… I would have given anything to keep you safe.” He wanted to protect her from the world but he couldn’t.

Life wasn’t fair. They didn’t get what they wanted or what they deserved. They both knew that. He hadn’t signed up to be a vampire either. Things changed whether they wanted it or not.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he admitted. “I almost lost you forever. I can’t… I can’t do this without you. It’s you and me… always. Forever.”

It had always been him and Mina since the night they met. Forever. Soulmates.

“Go with Lestat,” he said reluctantly. He had to be strong for her. He had to be a good husband. He could not keep her safe. He could not protect her from death. He could not be her maker. He couldn’t let her die even though it was what she wanted. But he could make sure that she had the best teacher. He could make sure she had the support and love she needed. He could put aside his own wishes in the moment and do what was best for her right now. “He’s going to be a good teacher. You need it. And I’ll be here waiting when you come home. We’ll get through this together like we’ve always gotten through everything else. As long as we have each other it will be okay.”

“So, you want to interview vampires, so you?”

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hearts4hughes · 2 days ago

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OK HEAR ME OUT BUT LIKE SOMETHING WITH THIS TIKTOK BROO IT NEEDS TO BE WRITTEN and u’re rhe first author that came to mind😣🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Link:

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSk7dosHa/

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe punching jj for you

it’s not jealousy. well, that’s what you keep telling yourself. it’s not jealousy—it’s just rafe. he’s always been like this. too protective. too intense. always hovering near the edge of something darker. but he’s also the one who carries your drunk ass home, who leaves snacks in your passenger seat, who remembers every tiny thing you’ve ever said like it matters. he’s your best friend.

you say that a lot lately. mostly to convince yourself. you were on your way into tannyhill when you heard the two voices. rafe invited you over for a movie night—a tradition between you two. although, he seems to have overbooked his plans. jj’s out there; rafe too.

you pause on the last step of the porch. you stand in the shadows, observing from afar. rafe’s hair is touseled and messy, eyes dark and bloodshot with whatever drug he’s snorted. his hat is thrown on the ground—most likely from jj’s antics. jj stands across from him with a smug smirk, sunglasses on even though it’s well past dawn, and arms crossed like he owns the grounds.

“what do you mean?” jj’s voice, light but cautious.

“i mean like,” rafe huffs, running a hand through his hair. “you didn’t kiss her or anything.” rafe’s, flat. no smirk or hint of amusement.

your breath catches. they don’t know you’re here, but blood still rushes to your cheeks. jj snorts. “no.”

rafe nods fast, eyes glued to the ground. “right.”

“absolutely not, no.” jj adds. maybe to egg on rafe or maybe to convince himself he didn’t want to kiss you in the first place. you should leave. you really should. but your feet stay planted, heartbeat thudding like a dare.

“did you want it?” rafe’s voice cuts through the air. he’s staring daggers into poor jj. like no matter what answer, he’s going to react the same way.

jj doesn’t answer right away. and that pause is too long, too telling. then, he chuckles, throws his head back and says, “oh yeah. totally.”

the hit comes fast—rafe was waiting for it. crack. jj stumbles back with a strangled grunt, clutching his jaw. “dude—what the fuck?” both of them are silhouetted by the dock light. jj’s laughing through the pain like an idiot. rafe’s standing like a statue, fists still clenched, breathing uneven. “what the hell is wrong with you?” jj spits, wiping his mouth. “you asked-”

“don’t fucking talk about her like that.” rafe’s voice is thin. he doesn’t want to waste his time with this pogue, but he’s never been too good at controlling his emotions. especially when it came to you.

jj scoffs, still smiling. “jesus, man. she’s not yours.”

“she is.” he growls, lips curled and fists clenched again. he’s ready to punch every tooth out of maybank’s head when they hear a noise.

you flinch hard enough that the porch creaks. they both turn. rafe sees you first. his expression doesn’t change, not really. but something in him tightens. like he’s bracing for you to run. he’s expecting you to look at him like he’s a monster, just like everyone does.

you don’t move or yell. you just stare. “you hit him,” you say, voice barely above the breeze.

“he deserved it.”

jj groans behind him, still hunched, still bleeding. “you’re psycho, dude.”

“and you’re an opportunistic little bitch,” rafe snaps without looking at him. “you think i didn’t see the way you look at her?”

you step forward slowly, like you’re approaching a wild animal. “rafe.” he turns toward you fully. the anger’s still there, but it’s buried now under something worse—something softer, needier. “he’s not your problem,” he says, too quiet. “i handle what’s mine.”

what’s mine.

you should correct him. you should. but the truth is that you’ve always let him talk like that. part of you has always liked it. your silence says more than anything else. rafe watches the way you look at him, blood still on his knuckles, and something in his gaze flickers. it’s ownership, devotion, and something that should scare you. but doesn’t. not nearly enough because instead of tending to jj, you grad ahold of rafe’s hand.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey

#bsf!rafe cameron #bsf!rafe #rafe cameron x bsf!reader #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank

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loveisanimaginarydagger3000 · 2 days ago

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Bad Idea (1)

Natasha X Reader 18+

Summary- Natasha proposes that the two of you become friends with benefits.

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI- Friends with Benefits, Fingering, Oral Sex, Dirty Talk, Face-sitting.

This is an old fic I found from my ao3 so the writing quality isn't that good, apologies but I don't have the time to improve it.

General Master List Ch2 | Ch3

“What?” your eyes widened at the spy’s words as she stared at you from across the table. Her piercing green eyes watched you with an intent as you took in her offer. “You want to be friends with benefits?” It was your turn for your eyes to watch her now as she leaned forward on the table to grab a shot of vodka before sitting back, her eyes never leaving your own.

“Yes,” she purred, “There can be nothing more than sex.”

You subtly clenched your jaw at her words, unsure if this was going to be a bad idea. Is it smart to be friends with benefits with the woman you secretly love? Probably not but the way she was looking at you knocked all sense of reason out of you. Slowly, a smirk made its way onto your face as you took a shot before finally answering her question.

“Yes,” you rasped out, “I’ll take whatever you offer me.” You walked around the table to stand behind the assassin, your body still not touching hers as you leaned down to murmur in her ear. “And I’ll take you however you want me to.”

Her breath hitched at your words before she turned her head so you could see her dilated pupils and parted lips. “And if I want to take you?”

Your lips ghosted hers as you teased her, both of sets of eyes trained on each other’s lips, “Then I’ll beg you to fuck me.”

“It’s a deal then,” she whispered before pulling out her chair and walking away towards the door, her hips swaying as she looks over her shoulder at you. “See you later,” she purrs before slipping out the door leaving you to smile to yourself. This was definitely a bad idea.

***

“Fuck,” moaned Natasha as you pressed her up against her bedroom door, your knee slotted between her legs and pressed against her core. You crashed your lips back to hers and ran your tongue along her bottom lip seeking entrance. Her hands threaded themselves in your hair as she gasped and panted into your mouth, her hip grinding along your toned knee for friction.

“What do you want?” you husked out while moving your kisses along her jaw and neck. Your whole body felt on fire as she squirmed in your grasp, desperate for some sort of relief. A relief she could only get from you. Your hands settled of her hips to stop her from moving causing a low whine to leave her lips. “So needy,” you mocked while moving a hand to tangle in her fiery locks so you could tug her head back. With her neck bared to you, you placed hot, open mouthed kisses along her pulse point while murmuring, “I asked you a question darling.”

“Please,” she begged while trying her best to move her hips despite your super soldier strength grip on them. “Please fuck me,” her tone sultry as you watched react to your touch. Suddenly you ripped the shirt she was wearing cause a loud gasp to escape her lips.

“Sorry,” you murmured earning a chuckle from the pinned woman that was quickly replaced by a moan as you kissed the top of her breasts. Swiftly, your hands made their way to beneath her thighs so you could pick her up and take her to her bed. Her legs wrapped themselves around your toned stomach as you busied yourself on leaving small bites at the top of her breasts. As soon as your knees hit the bed, you placed her down and crawled on top of her while removing your own shirt. Slithers of green were left in her eyes as she stared at your body before reclaiming your lips. Your hands immediately went to unclasp her bra. You quickly took a breast into mouth and swirled your tongue around her sensitive nipple, making her back arch. “You’re so beautiful,” you muttered while switching breasts causing a blush to appear on her face. “So pretty,” you continued while biting a mark onto her chest earning a sinful noise from the woman beneath you, “And you're all mine to ruin.”

“Please,” she begged and you only chuckled into her skin at her impatience. Your hands slipped under her joggers before sliding out again to rest on her abs earning a frustrated groan. “Stop teasing me and fuck me,” she muttered out while you kept your eyes on her.

“I was going to say if you want to stop, I’ll stop,” your tone gentle earning a small smile from the spy. Her hands tugged you back up to her face and her lips immediately connected to yours as she whimpered into the kiss.

“Thanks,” she whispered, “Now fuck me.”

You returned to your position of above her core and swiftly pull down her remaining cloths making her gasp as the cold air met her exposed cunt. You didn’t give her chance to beg you again before sucking and licking at her clit, her hands tangled in your hair as you ate her out. Your tongue explored and tasted her as her hips moved in search of more across your face making you put a steady hand on her waist to hold her still. “Be a good girl and stay still.” A low moan left her lips at the praise and you knew she liked that. “Oh you like that?” you teased as your finger ran along her folds, her fae turned to the side to hide her blush from you. “Be a good girl and look at me Natasha.” As soon as her eyes met yours you thrusted a finger into her and watched her face contort in pleasure. Your mouth went back to her clit and you gradually increased the pace of thrusting your finger in and out of her. Feeling her walls clench around your digit, you added another finger and felt her hips buck at the action. You hummed into her core earning a strangled moan from her and pulled back to watch her throw her head back. Deciding she was wet enough, you slipped in a third finger and felt her stretch around you whilst whimpering at the feeling of being so full.

“Please, faster,” she moaned while tightening the grip she had on your hair. You willingly listened to her and started pumping your fingers in and out of her at a brutal pace causing her legs to tremble around your head. “I’m so close please,” she begged and begged as you kept her on edge with teasing kitten licks to her pussy.

Sensing she couldn’t take it any longer you doubled up your efforts and she almost came instantly. Her whole body tensed before trembling with the after shocks of her intense orgasm. You let her ride her high before crawling back up her body to gently kiss her. Natasha panted against your lips as she tried to regain some composure but that quickly vanished when she heard your next words.

“Please ride my face.”

She groaned into your mouth at your request and she happily moved to straddle your face. You looked up at her with a look of pure desire as she settled herself above you. As soon as your tongue met her cunt, you both moaned and her hands gripped the headboard for support. You slipped your tongue into her making her hips stutter on your face before continuing to grind. Her juices were dripping down your chin at this point but you didn’t care as long as she was moaning on top of you and chasing her high. Her hands once again tangled themselves in your hair and you let her take complete control as she tugged your head to where she wanted you. The sight of her riding your face made you groan into her soaking cunt and the vibrations along with your tongue working wonders, quickly sent the spy over the edge once again. Slowly, you ran your hands up and down her thighs as she calmed down and placed small kisses along her inner thighs. Once she had finished, she moved off your face and laid down next to you, still trying to catch your breath.

“Holy fuck,” she chuckled out while moving her hair out of her face and turning to look at you. “We should have done this a lot sooner,” she joked and you laughed along with her while moving forwards to gently press your lips together.

“How about I make up for lost time then?” you mused while moving back down her body, a smirk on your face as you knew this night was far from over.

#marvel fanfiction #eventual smut #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff fanart #fwb #friends w/ benfits au

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flaminhotlem0n · 3 days ago

Text

𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌

genre: smut, threesome

wc: ~900

pairing: jeno x f!reader x jaemin

cw: double penetration, choking, slapping, explicit language, rough sex

not proofread

──────────────────────

the air was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. their bodies were already slick, skin flushed and glowing, but the hunger hadn’t faded, it had only grown.

jeno leaned back against the headboard, legs spread wide, cock already hard again as he watched you crawl toward him, eyes blown wide with lust. jaemin knelt behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other teasing between your thighs, already soaked and trembling.

“you’re not tired, are you baby?” jeno smirked, running his thumb across your lips.

you shook your head, voice breathless. “no… i want more”

“good” jaemin growled behind you “because we’re nowhere near done with you”

without warning, jaemin slapped your ass hard, the sound cracked through the room, followed by your soft gasp. he did it again, just to hear the way you moaned.

jeno pulled you into his lap, guiding your onto his cock. you sank down slowly, walls stretching, taking him deep.

“fuck, you’re tight” jeno hissed, gripping your hips. “even after everything”

jaemin didn’t wait. he spat into his hand, slicked himself up, and pressed against your ass.

your breath hitched. the stretch burned, delicious and filthy, but you didn’t stop, you wanted it, you needed it.

jaemin pushed in slowly, his cock sliding in beside jeno’s. your mouth fell open in a silent scream, body trembling from the overwhelming fullness.

“that’s it” jeno grunted, gripping your throat gently “take us both, you can handle it”

when they were both buried deep inside you, their bodies pressed against yours from both sides, you felt owned, completely ruined in the best way.

jaemin leaned forward, lips brushing your ear.

“you’re shaking already, sweetheart”

he wrapped his hand around your neck too, over jeno’s, squeezing just enough to make your head spin.

“look at you” he whispered “being such a good little slut for us”

your body jolted when jaemin pulled back and thrust in again, hard. jeno matched him, perfect rhythm, fucking her between them.

“you feel that” jeno growled “how we’re splitting you open together”

you nodded desperately, moaning with every breath.

“say it” jaemin demanded, slapping your cheek, not enough to hurt, just enough to make her gasp.

your eyes fluttered open, glazed and needy.

“you’re both so deep” you cried “you’re— you’re fucking ruining me”

they groaned in unison, each thrust harder than the last. jeno’s hand tightened slightly around your neck, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you, filthy and rough, tongue claiming your mouth like he owned it.

jaemin grabbed your hips, digging his fingers in so hard you knew there’d be bruises. he pulled you back onto him with every stroke, grunting through his teeth.

“fucking made for us” jaemin growled “this little pussy was meant to be stretched open by our cocks”

“tell us whose you are” jeno demanded, breath ragged “who do you fucking belong to”

your voice broke on a scream. “yours, both of yours, uhh fuck”

they didn’t stop. if anything, it got rougher, their cocks dragged against each other inside you, filling you completely. you mind going blank. no thoughts, just heat and pain and overwhelming pleasure.

your nails clawed at jeno’s chest, legs shaking.

jaemin leaned forward and bit your shoulder.

“gonna make you cum like this, with both our cocks buried inside you”

“you’ll be dripping with us” jeno added “stuffed full”

your orgasm built like a tidal wave, overwhelming and fast. you didn’t even have time to warn them, it crashed over you in a scream, body locking tight as your walls clenched around them both.

the boys groaned, lost in the feeling

“that’s it, baby” jeno whispered in your ear “cum all over us”

but they didn’t slow down. they kept thrusting through your orgasm, chasing their own.

jaemin slapped your cheek again, a little harder this time, and grinned when her eyes rolled back.

“fucking take it. you love this, don’t you”

“yes” you sobbed “i love it, i love being yours”

jeno kissed you again, biting your bottom lip.

they slammed into you together, rhythm syncing perfectly, both of them losing control.

when jaemin came, it was with a low, guttural moan, hips jerking hard. jeno followed seconds later, growling against your neck as he filled you up.

they stayed like that , all three of them, breathless, tangled, sweaty.

but it wasn’t over.

jeno pulled out slowly, cum dripping down your thighs. jaemin followed, slapping your ass one last time before standing.

“get on the floor” he ordered “on your knees, mouth open”

you obeyed instantly, falling to your knees on the carpet, lips parted and tongue out.

jeno stepped in front of you and slapped his cock against your cheek.

“such a perfect little slut” he murmured “let me see that mouth”

you took him deep, gagging slightly as he hit the back of your throat. jaemin stroked himself behind you, watching you suck jeno with greedy desperation.

then they switched.

jaemin shoved his cock into your mouth next, groaning at how wet and warm it was. jeno knelt behind you, spreading your legs again.

“we’re not done until you beg us to stop”

and you didn’t plan to. not for a second

#jeno x reader #jeno smut #jeno imagines #jaemin x reader #jaemin smut #jaemin imagines #lee jeno x reader #na jaemin x reader #nct dream x reader #nct dream smut #nct dream imagines #nct x reader #nct smut #nct imagines

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lupinqs · 23 hours ago

Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO ━━ March Madness

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 9.3K

❀ ━ warnings: just angst

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: one chap left 😔

PAIGE DIDN'T MAKE it to breakfast this morning.

She and Ice were stuck in the training room—ACL rehab for her, knee work for Ice—but the timing sucked. She kept glancing at the clock between sets of stretches, silently begging the hands to slow down. But they didn't. So, breakfast happened without them, and by the time they got out of the hotel and into the arena, everyone else was already there.

It's shootaround. It's Final Four day. They're in Dallas. The court's massive, the lights are bright, and even though Paige won't touch the hardwood for a single minute tonight, her whole body is buzzing. It's game day. Against LSU. All eyes on them. Her heart's already beating too fast, and she's not even in uniform.

She and Ice walk in through one of the tunnels, both of them quiet for a second as they step into the open space. The team is in the middle of a drill. Geno's barking something from the sideline. Paige's eyes move fast, scanning the court until they land on the one person they're always drawn to.

Jo.

Her hair braided back, warmup tee tied in a knot above her hips, her release clean and quick even during shootaround. Paige feels her chest expand a little. It's always like this—watching Jo work, watching her shoulders relax and her shot fall and the way she smiles after a swish, like she almost can't believe it herself. Paige still kind of can't believe her either. Last night was really good. She's been riding it all morning, the only thing that really got her through soreness and stiffness and rehab.

They kissed until they couldn't breathe. Laughed into each other's mouths. She almost told Jo she loved her. Almost said the words right there in the middle of a random hotel hallway in Texas.

Jo had smiled—told her to wait. "After the game," she'd said, looking up at Paige like she knew exactly what Paige was going to say and couldn't wait to hear it. They'd done their little necklace routine—Jo clipping it onto Paige like she always does—and then kissed one more time, whispered goodnights. It was soft. Easy. Perfect.

So, Paige's chest is still warm when Geno calls for water. She and Ice are leaning against the baseline, sipping smoothies, watching the team grab bottles and towels. Paige's eyes are locked on Jo, who's off to the side now with Ayanna and Lou.

She grins, stepping forward, heart still full.

"Hey, superstar," she says, bumping her shoulder lightly into Jo's.

Nothing.

Jo doesn't smile. Doesn't even flinch. Just finishes sipping her water, sets the cap back on, and walks away toward where Aaliyah and Caroline stand—like Paige hadn't said anything at all.

Paige blinks. "...Okay," she mumbles under her breath.

She turns slightly, confused, watching Jo's back as she walks off. That was odd. Very odd. Not at all Jo. Not even when she's tired or grumpy or PMS-ing or sick. Jo always greets her with something. A joke. A look. A smile. That little scrunch of her nose. Something.

Ayanna gives Paige a soft, tight-lipped smile. "She been in a mood since breakfast," she says with a little shrug. "Don't take it personal."

Lou nods, fixing the bun tied at the nape of her neck. "Barely said a word all morning. Wouldn't even touch her eggs."

Paige frowns. "A mood?" she repeats, glancing back at Jo again. "Is something wrong? Did something happen?"

Yanna shrugs again.

Ice stands beside Paige, arms crossed. "Weird. Jo doesn't really get in moods."

Exactly. Paige's thoughts exactly.

Jo's not moody. She's anxious, sure—she spirals sometimes, she doubts herself, she carries way too much pressure on her shoulders—but she doesn't shut down. She doesn't get passive aggressive. And she definitely doesn't ignore Paige.

Paige swallows.

Without thinking much more about it, she walks toward where Jo stands now with Carol and Lili, sipping water again, nodding at something the latter says. Paige keeps her voice quiet as she approaches, like maybe the softness of it will make Jo look at her.

"Are you okay?" she asks, eyes on the brunette's face, scanning her—her brow, her lips, the tension in her jaw.

Jo doesn't respond.

Doesn't turn. Doesn't blink. Doesn't acknowledge her.

She just shifts her weight, looking toward Geno, and the second his whistle blows, she's jogging back to the court with the rest of the team.

Paige just stands there.

She watches Jo go, feeling a rush of heat rise in her chest that's part confusion, part dread. She doesn't understand what's going on. Just last night, she's felt so good about where they were. Jo had been glowing. Kissing her. Looking at her like she hung the fucking moon. What could have changed between then and now?

And the necklace.

Shit.

Paige's hand grazes her chest again, where it would be, even though she's done it over and over again since this morning. Still not there. She hasn't seen it since she took it off for her shower. She must've lost it somewhere in the bathroom, even though she searched so long earlier that she was almost late to rehab.

Paige takes a deep sigh. Her chest feels tight and her stomach is doing this horrible flip thing it does when she thinks she's messed up badly, even when she can't figure out how.

Did I do something? Did she find out something? Did someone say something to her?

Paige doesn't know.

She doesn't let it slide.

She waits until shootaround is over, until they're walking off the court, sweat-streaked and tired, trainers trailing them toward the back hallway that leads to the locker room. Everyone's talking in little clusters, laughing, hydrating, tossing towels into bins, bumping shoulders. Paige is moving slower than most, eyes focused on Jo and only Jo, who's a few steps ahead of her, still not bothering to acknowledge her existence.

Paige's fingers itch.

She speeds up a little, closes the distance. And then, she reaches out and curls her fingers around Jo's forearm. Just a little tug. Soft. Gentle. Familiar. Like she's done a hundred times. A thousand.

"Jo," she says.

Jo's arm tenses instantly.

Paige watches the way she stiffens, feels the resistance like it's physical. Like she's pulling on a live wire. Jo tries to keep walking, tries to act like she didn't hear her, doesn't feel her, like Paige doesn't exist. But Paige's grip doesn't let go. She tugs a little more firmly—not even remotely enough to hurt, just enough to say stop. Please.

Jo exhales through her nose, frustrated. But she stops.

Still doesn't fucking look at her.

They're standing just outside the entrance to the locker room now, hallway long and dim, the sounds of teammates echoing down the corridor behind them. For a second, Paige thinks Jo might just stand here in silence forever, refusing to even acknowledge her. But Paige can't take that anymore.

"What's goin' on?" she asks, and this time it's firmer. Sharper. More clipped then she meant it to be, but she's spent the last two hours watching the girl she's in love with avoid her like the plague, and she's getting sick of pretending it's normal.

Jo jerks her arm away—still not looking at her—and mutters, "Nothing. Stop."

But at least she doesn't move to leave. Doesn't step away.

And yet—she still won't look at Paige. Won't meet her eyes. That's the part that stings more than anything.

Paige exhales, frustrated, heart thudding somewhere awful in her chest.

"Nothing?" she repeats, incredulous. "You've been ignoring me since I got here. Haven't said a single word. You bricked, like, every shot in practice. You're not acting—or playing—like you. I mean, Jo, you won't even look at me. You're givin' me this weird cold shoulder and I don't even know why. Jo, what's going on?"

There's a long silence.

Paige watches Jo's profile—the curve of her jaw, the faint flush across her cheekbones from practice, the tight set of her mouth—and finally, finally, Jo's gaze flits.

But what Jo sees in her eyes is not what she expects.

It's not frustration. It's not sadness. It's not anger. It's not even anxiety.

It's blank.

Like a wall has gone up. Like everything behind Jo's eyes has been packed away in a box and shoved to the back of a closet.

And then, flatly, Jo says, "Nothing's wrong."

Paige just stares.

"I have a game to focus on," Jo adds, voice clipped and firm.

They stand there in a heavy, terrible silence. Paige's stomach twists.

This isn't Jo. Not her Jo—the girl who flushes bright pink when Paige calls her baby, who laughs at her jokes and kisses her like she's afraid to stop. The girl who won't even kill bugs because she has too much empathy for them. The girl who essentially lives with a constant smile on her face, even if she's feeling anything but happy. This is someone else. Someone cold. Distant. Gone.

Jo meets her gaze for one more moment—it holds Paige's hard, like she's trying to tell her something with her eyes. But it's not in a language Paige understands. And then Jo says, simply, "My family's here. I'm gonna go find them."

She turns and walks away.

Doesn't touch her. Doesn't say goodbye. Doesn't glance back.

Paige stays frozen where she is in the middle of the hallway, just watching her go. The slow retreat of someone she thought she knew better than anyone. Someone she thought she had.

Her stomach feels like it's turning inside out.

The necklace is gone.

Jo is gone.

And Paige has absolutely no idea what the fuck she did wrong.

THE THING ABOUT being left alone with your thoughts is that it always feels fine… until it doesn’t.

For a while, Paige is distracted. She has to be. She’s pulled over by Azzi’s family after shootaround—Katie smiling warmly and asking about her knee, Jon and Jose ranting about random things because it’s been a while since she’s sent them. She smiles, laughs at the right moments, makes it through a solid half hour of conversation. Pretends everything’s okay. Pretends like her world hasn’t been tilted off its axis since the moment Jo looked through her like she was a stranger.

And then the rest of the afternoon passes like it always does before a game—meals, film, trainer’s room, game-day tape jobs. Paige does what she’s supposed to do. Shows up where she’s supposed to. But it’s all halfhearted and distracted because she hasn’t spoken to Jo since the hallway.

Not a word.

And every time she’s glanced her way, Jo’s already been walking in the other direction. Or laughing with her family. Or locked in with Geno. Or just… gone.

And Paige is trying so hard not to freak out. She’s trying to be logical. Reasonable. Tell herself that Jo’s just stressed, that it’s the Final Four, that maybe—God forbid—it’s not even about Paige at all. But the ache in her chest won’t budge. Because everything had been perfect.

And now it’s just gone. Vanished. Like Jo pulled the plug and everything short-circuited.

By the time they’re back in the locker room before tip-off, Paige is still full of confusion. She’s seated in the corner of the room next to Caroline, stretching her knee out and trying not to look over her shoulder for the millionth time to see if Jo’s looking her way. (She’s not. Of course she’s not.)

That’s when Azzi walks over.

She plops down next to Paige on the bench with this wide-eyed look—like a guilty puppy—and immediately says, “Don’t be mad at me.”

Paige blinks, head whipping toward her. “What?”

Caroline snorts under her breath. “Az, that’s not a great conversation starter.”

Azzi waves her off with a sheepish look. She’s laser-focused on Paige now, and Paige already doesn’t like where this is going.

“Jo’s mad at me,” Azzi says.

Paige raises her eyebrows, leaning back slightly. “Welcome to the club,” she mutters before adding, “Why? Did she tell you?”

Azzi winces, like she’s been waiting for that question. “Well… okay. So earlier, when you told me she was ignoring you and you didn’t know why? And she was acting all off? I kinda went up to her and asked if something happened.”

“And?” Paige presses, eyes narrowing.

Azzi grimaces. “She said no, but I didn’t believe her. So we were talking, and I was trying to get her to open up, and then… it just kinda slipped that I knew you two were a thing—”

“Azzi,” Paige cuts her off immediately, alarm flashing across her face. Her voice is low and sharp, and her gaze flicks between Azzi and Caroline, who’s sitting to her right. Only a select few people are aware, and the latter is not one of them. “Seriously?”

But Carol just shrugs like this is old news.

“It’s fine,” she says casually. “I know.”

Paige stares at her, confused. She wonders if Azzi has been running her mouth more. Or maybe Nika. Probably not Aubrey. “What? How?”

Carol rolls her eyes. “I figured it out myself. It’s not like you guys were subtle. And I know both of your tells.” She raises a single brow at Paige. “You think I wouldn’t notice the way you two look at each other?”

Paige opens her mouth to reply—doesn’t even know what she was gonna say—but Caroline just waves it off and turns to Azzi. “Go on. Finish the story.”

Azzi nods, biting her lip, turning back to the blonde.

“So… yeah,” she says, lowering her voice. “Jo found out that I knew. And she was super caught off guard. Like… not even mad at first, more just confused. And then she asked how I knew and I—I panicked. So I told her that Nika, Aubrey, and I kinda had suspicions and you eventually confirmed it.”

Paige groans quietly, tipping her head back against the locker. “Azzi…”

“I know,” Azzi says quickly. “I know. I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but she just asked me point blank and I didn’t wanna lie to her face. I figured she’d just be like ‘okay’ and let it go, but she got all weird after. And she was pissed that you never told her that we knew. I tried to explain, P. I told her it was just because you were trying to protect her and keep things quiet during the season. That you didn’t want to add pressure or anxiety. That you were waiting until the right time.”

“And?” Paige asks, although she can already guess the answer.

Azzi grimaces. “She didn’t listen. She just got mad. Said it wasn’t about pressure, it was about trust. That you didn’t tell her something important, and that it made her feel like she didn’t know what else you were hiding.”

Paige exhales slowly. Deep. Controlled. Like she’s trying not to lose it.

Azzi leans a little closer. “I’m sorry, P. I really didn’t mean to make it worse.”

Paige shakes her head, half to herself, voice dry as she mutters, “God, of course. Of course this is happening today.”

Because of course this happens right before the most important game of Jo’s young career so far. Because of course Paige was finally going to tell her—this weekend, after the season ended. She was going to sit Jo down and explain that Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey had known for a while, and she wanted everyone else to know too. She was going to say it right. She was going to do it right. She was going to tell her she loved her and ask her to be her girlfriend, to be official.

But now?

Now, Jo thinks she’s a liar.

And Paige doesn’t even know if it’s because of this, or the other mystery thing Jo was mad at her about earlier. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe Jo just doesn’t want her anymore. Maybe last night meant nothing.

Maybe she doesn’t get to love Jo at all.

Paige swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut.

Everything’s unraveling. And she doesn’t know how to stop it.

THE LIGHTS ARE BLINDING. The kind that pulse behind Paige's eyes and leave ghost shapes across her vision when she blinks. The arena is packed—Dallas buzzing like a hive—but all she can do is sit. Sit and watch and wish she were out there. Wish she had even an ounce of control over something.

LSU comes out swinging, and it's clear from the opening tip: this is gonna be a war. The kind of game where one missed box out or one mistimed screen decides everything.

Paige's foot taps an anxious rhythm against the hardwood as she watches from the end of the bench. She's leaned forward, elbows on her knees, laser-focused on the court. This is the biggest stage—and she can't do a damn thing but watch.

She wishes she could play. God, she wishes she could play.

But she also knows her time will come. She'll be back next year, stronger than ever. Everyone keeps saying that to her—like it's some comforting mantra. But it's hard to believe in futures when the present is suffocating.

Right now, all she cares about is the team pulling this off. And Jo.

Paige's eyes track her constantly. She's trying not to be obvious about it, but it's not like she can help it. Jo's on the court, face set, hair slicked back into those same tight French braids Paige loves so much. Her form is fine, defense is fine—she's working her ass off, switching aggressively, chasing screens, communicating like always—but something's off.

Paige can feel it.

Jo's shot won't fall. Not at all. Midrange is clanking. The three's flat. She even misses a quick layup in transition, which is about the least Jo thing she could ever do. And when she misses, she doesn't shake it off like usual. She tightens, jaw clenched, shoulders pulled too tight. Every miss seems to compound the last. Paige sees it in the way Jo avoids the bench's eyes during dead balls. Sees it in the speed of her blinks, the twitch of her fingers.

She's in her head.

And Paige still isn't quite sure exactly why.

Her mind's been spinning for hours now, ever since Jo began her cold shoulder this morning. It doesn't make sense—none of this does. But Jo is clearly spiraling. And Paige can't help but feel responsible, even if she isn't sure what for.

And it just—God, it fucking sucks, watching Jo like this. Watching her try to be composed and locked in while she's clearly unraveling under the weight of whatever she's carrying. Paige's chest aches in that way that feels almost physical, like there's a vice clamp around her lungs.

She wants to tell Coach to pull her aside and talk to her. She wants to stand up and say that she's not okay, that she needs a minute, a reset. That she needs someone to take her hand and tell her she's still Jo, even when the shot's not falling.

But Paige doesn't do that. Instead, she leans back against the seat, tightening her ponytail, looking up at the scoreboard. UConn's down by seven. LSU's riding a hot start—Angel is a beast on the glass, and Flau'jae's speed is giving them problems. Aaliyah's doing what she can. Dorka's getting touches, holding it down in the post. Azzi finally hits two threes back-to-back and the arena comes alive for a minute. Lou draws a foul. They close the gap a little. But the energy's off.

It's like Jo's trying to play through molasses.

And the worst part is that no one else seems to truly notice. Not really. Lili claps her hands and tells Jo to keep shooting. Nika throws her a little shoulder bump during a timeout. The coaches keep encouraging her. But they don't see what Paige sees. They don't know that this isn't just Jo having an off night. This is Jo mentally sinking.

And Paige feels helpless.

She's usually the one who pulls Jo back to shore. When Jo gets nervous before games or spirals into self-doubt, it's always Paige who steadies her. Always Paige who notices. Who grounds her. Who makes her hold onto the necklace and kisses her on the forehead and reminds her to breathe. They have a rhythm. A system. A language.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Jo won't let her in. Won't look at her. Won't speak to her. And Paige doesn't know how to fix it. Jo's ice cold and shut down and still managing to lead this team on the court even while barely holding herself together.

The second the halftime buzzer sounds, Paige is already moving. The team files toward the locker room in a fast shuffle, sneakers squeaking and shoulders heaving, but her eyes stay on Jo because nothing else really matters.

She's panicking, Paige knows in an instant. She sees it in the tiny, fractured details. Her hands tremble as she wipes the sweat from her forehead. Her breathing's shallow and uneven, not the kind of huffing that comes from running. Her eyes flick everywhere and nowhere at once.

She can tell all of this even if Jo won't look at her. Even if she's been icing her out all day like Paige is some sort of villain. Even if whatever the fuck happened between last night and this morning is still eating Paige alive from the inside out. None of it matters. Not right now.

Because Jo's panicking, and Paige has to help.

She rushes forward, weaving through the rest of the team, not caring if someone sees, not caring if Geno barks her name, not caring if she's breaking some unspoken code of don't-make-a-scene. She catches up to Jo just as she's about to cross the tunnel entrance, and she reaches out, just like she did this morning after shootaround, hand wrapping gently around Jo's arm again.

"Jo," she says, soft at first. A plea. "Hey."

Jo jerks slightly but doesn't stop. Paige tightens her grip, just enough to say please don't do this again.

"Jo," she says more firmly this time, pulling her just a step off to the side, Away from the pack, into the small pocket of space beside the tunnel wall. "Joey, hey—c'mon."

Jo finally stops, gaze stuck on the floor. Her face is entirely tilted downward, her jaw tight, her chest rising and falling too fast. Paige steps in front of her, planting herself there so Jo can't ignore her completely.

And that's when she sees it up close: the tears.

Paige's stomach fucking drops.

"Jo," she breathes again, and her voice is gentler now, softer than before, as she steps in a little closer. She places both hands on Jo's shoulders, not pushing or holder—just there. "It's okay, it's okay. Look at me. Joey, seriously. Just tell me what's wrong."

Jo doesn't look. Not even a flicker.

"Hey," Paige says again, her voice wobbling now, "breathe, okay? Just breathe with me." She's done this before. There were a couple games earlier in the season when Jo had panic attacks, and then other little sporadic ones she had across the last semester and a half at their apartment.

It's never been this bad, though.

And it's never, ever been directed at her.

She moves her hands gently upward, cupping Jo's face—not forcefully, not intrusively, just the way she's done before. Just to help her focus. Center her. And the second her thumbs touch Jo's cheeks, Jo flinches.

Hard.

"Don't," Jo chokes out. Her voice breaks on the word like it physically hurts to come out of her throat. "Don't—don't touch me."

Paige's hands fall uselessly to her sides, gut lurching. She feels like she's just been punched in the chest.

They stand like that for a beat, neither of them talking. Jo's breathing is still ragged, still unsteady, and Paige doesn't know what to do. Her heart is racing, her thoughts spinning so fact it's like white noise between her ears. She's trying to hold it together but her own hands have started shaking now, too.

"Jo," she tries again, more desperate. "Please. Whatever I did—whatever this is—can you just tell me? I can't fix it if I don't know. I—I just wanna help, baby."

At that last word, Jo finally, finally looks up. It's only for a second, but it's enough. Paige almost wishes she hadn't.

There's so much pain in her eyes, unshed tears moistening her waterline. So much betrayal. And Paige doesn't understand it—she doesn't even know where it's coming from—but it knocks the air out of her all the same.

"I can't," Jo says, shaking her head, voice splintering. "I can't—please, just stop. I can't do this. I can't even look at you."

And then she’s moving, walking off before Paige can even register what she said. Just like that.

Gone.

Paige stands there frozen, jaw slack, chest burning, heart splintering. She blinks a few times, trying to find something solid to anchor herself to—but all she can hear is that one line, looping in her head like a death knell:

I can’t even look at you.

Just like she's felt all day, she has no idea what the fuck she did to deserve that.

And it’s going to eat her alive until she finds out.

And maybe after that, too.

THEY LOSE THE GAME.

Jo is never able to break out of her slump, no matter how much PaIge can tell she's trying. You can see it in the way she moves—this quiet desperation, like if she just plants her feet right, or jumps a little higher, or snaps her wrist just so, she'll fix everything. But the ball keeps rimming out. She second-guesses passes she usually throws without thinking. LSU's defense smothers her, and the pressure only builds with every missed shot.

Aaliyah and Nika both get into foul trouble. Azzi's shooting lights out, and Aubrey gives them a few good minutes, but it's not enough. Not tonight.

Final score: 76—68, LSU.

There's no celebration for the losing team. Just a sick, heavy silence and the feeling of another year, another loss.

It's late now. Almost midnight. The South Carolina and Iowa game just ended, and Paige doesn't even have it in herself to be surprised that the Hawkeyes somehow managed to beat the undefeated Gamecocks and are going to the national championship.

Because Paige is busy standing outside Jo and Caroline's hotel room, trying to breathe.

She's already eaten, already packed most of her stuff. She kept hoping that maybe Jo would come find her after they got back, or at least text her, even just to say something. But no: nothing.

So, now it's up to her.

She's been going over what she wants to say in her head for the past half hour. And now that she's here, standing in the hallway in a hoodie and shorts, feet planted on the awful hotel carpet, she feels like she's about to walk into an exam with no notes.

But she has to do this. Has to be firm. She gave Jo her space after the game, figured she'd need time to cry or yell or spiral or whatever it is you need to do when you lose in the Final Four. Paige knows what it feels like—it rips something out of you, the finality of it. Knowing that was your shot and now it's gone.

But this? This weird cold shoulder, this silent treatment, the flinches, the avoidance, the oddly placed anger—it didn't start with the loss. It didn't even start with her finding out that Paige told Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey about their relationship and kept her in the dark about it. It started before all of that. And Paige doesn't even know why. That's what's killing her the most—not just that Jo's upset, but that she has no clue what she's upset about.

And Paige can't fix it until she knows.

She knocks on the door.

It's quiet at first. Then, slow footsteps. They come close... and then pause. Paige hears them move away again, like Jo saw her through the hole and has decided to continue ignoring her.

Seriously?

Her jaw tightens. "Jo," she says louder, knocking again, this time a little faster, more firm. "I know you're in there. Let me in."

She waits.

No response.

She knocks again, sharper now. "Come on," she says, loud enough to travel through the door. "I'm not leavin' until we talk. So, either open up or get used to this knocking, because I can do it all night."

She's bluffing, kind of, but she also knows Jo hates being annoyed and tends to give in relatively quickly. So, she keeps going until, finally, after a long pause, the door creaks open just a little.

Jo peeks out.

She looks tired. Her eyes are red and splotchy, and her hair is still damp from a shoulder. Her voice is flat when she asks, "What?"

Paige exhales a little when she sees her. Not because anything is fixed—far from it—but because the door is open and that's something.

She glances inside. Caroline's not there. Good.

Without waiting for an invitation, Paige gently pushes the door wider and slips inside. Jo's already turning, halfway saying, "What're you��?"

But Paige cuts her off, standing before her, gaze firm. Her voice is steady, serious. "We need to talk."

Jo stares at her, quiet for a beat too long. Then, she says slowly, "I don't wanna talk to you."

Paige's heart squeezes. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep her voice from shaking.

Instead of backing down, she just gives Jo a look. The kind that says cut the bullshit. She's tired of being frozen out, of being careful around landmines she can't even see. So, she steps forward, firm, and closes the hotel door gently behind her.

"Don't care," Paige says simply. "We're talking. You at least owe me that."

The next thing that comes from Jo, Paige doesn't expect to hear. A cold, sarcastic laugh slips out of the brunette's mouth—a sound the older girl has never heard before, not in all the time she's known her. It's sharp, humorless, and bitter, like it's scraping something raw on the way out. And it makes Paige's skin prickle instantly, something like dread blooming in her chest.

"I don't owe you anything," Jo responds, and her voice is so calm it's terrifying.

Then, she turns, walking toward the middle of the room, away from the door, away from Paige, arms crossed tight over her chest like she's holding herself together by sheer fore. Paige just stands there for a second, stunned. Watching her. Trying to catch up.

She follows a few steps in, voice rising, frustrating cracking through the confusion. "Really?" she says, blinking hard. "You can't give me any sort of explanation on why you've acted like you hate me today, when literally last night we almost said—"

She cuts herself off. Her hands go up instinctively, scrubbing at her face like maybe that'll help her calm down, like maybe this will all start making sense if she just exhales hard enough. But it doesn't. She can't say it. Can't bring herself to finish that sentence, not when everything in the room feels so upside down.

Because how is she supposed to say I was going to tell you I loved you in the middle of this? When Jo's throwing daggers at her with her eyes and speaking like they're strangers, like Paige did something unforgiveable?

She watches Jo closely. Watches the way she scoffs again, tired and angry, before dragging both of her hands through her long, damp hair. She's still fresh from the shower. Her cheeks are pink. Her eyes are wet.

But then she looks at Paige with something Paige doesn't know how to interpret. It's disbelief. It's betrayal. It's anger, too, but it's not all fire—it's deeper than that. Jo's eyes are glassy but her mouth curves up into this half-smile like she's laughing at herself, like she can't believe the position she's in right now.

And then she asks, "God, Paige, do you think I'm stupid or something?"

That knocks the wind out of her. The blonde blinks, her mouth parting slightly. "Wha—no, Jo. Of course I don't," she says quickly, shaking her head. Her voice is soft now, even more confused, like someone just flipped her entire brain upside down. "Why would you even think that?"

Jo doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches, tight and tense and completely unbearable. Paige can feel her heart pounding in her ears, and she can't tell if it's from nerves or the start of panic. Probably both.

Jo just... looks at her. Stares, really. Like she's trying to figure something out—like she's watching Paige to see if anything on her face betrays the truth. Paige feels herself shift slightly under the weight of it, but she holds her ground, blinking back, searching for any clue in Jo's expression that might tell her what the hell is going on.

Finally, Jo speaks again.

"Stop," she says quietly, "Just stop. Stop acting all nice and innocent. I know what you did last night. I know what happened."

Paige's brows knit together immediately, her whole face scrunching in disbelief because she has not a clue on what Jo is even talking about.

"What?" she asks, voice rising in sheer exasperation. "What're you talking about? What did I do last night to make you this mad?"

There’s no break. No room for her to breathe. No time to process before Jo’s voice slices through again.

“If you can’t be honest,” Jo tells her, “then there’s no reason for you to even be in here talking in the first place.”

Her voice is shaking now, Paige notices. And not with anger. There’s something underneath it, something wounded.

“But I guess you’re good at that, right?” Jo adds. “Keeping people in the dark? Lying?”

What the fuck is happening.

Paige’s brain is racing. Her pulse is in her throat. She opens her mouth but no words come out.

Jo doesn’t stop. “I mean, there’s last night. And then, today, I learn from Azzi that you told her, Nika, and Aubrey weeks ago about us, and you never even thought to tell me that they knew?”

Paige takes a slow, shaky breath. That—that—she expected. She at least knew Jo was mad about that part. And she was going to tell her. That’s the part that stings. The part that’s killing her. She was literally waiting until the season was over. The weekend. Two days away.

“I was going to tell you about that, Jo, I swear—” she starts, stepping forward a little, voice pleading. “I wanted to protect you—”

But Jo cuts her off with another laugh that makes Paige’s stomach flip. It’s not even a laugh, really. It’s bitter and broken and sounds almost like it hurts to get out.

And then, Jo’s crying.

Just a little at first. One tear slips down her cheek, then another. But she doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t move. Just keeps her gaze locked on Paige, that hollow smile still on her face.

“Just like you were gonna tell me that you slept with Celeste last night and gave her our fucking necklace?” Jo asks.

Everything inside Paige stops.

Her entire body freezes. Her brain, her lungs, her heart—everything. It’s like someone just knocked the wind out of her with a punch she never saw coming.

She can’t speak at first. She just stares, jaw falling open slightly, blinking at Jo like she’s just grown a second head.

“What?” Paige asks, louder now. Her voice cracks on it.

Because what?

She didn’t fucking sleep with Celeste last night. She would never. And the necklace? The necklace?

“No,” she says, shaking her head, eyes wide. “Jo. What?”

She’s so fucking confused it physically hurts. Like there’s pressure building in her chest and her brain is trying to make sense of a puzzle that doesn’t even have the right pieces.

"She told me, Paige," Jo tells her, and her voice cracks on the words, all that earlier steel now reduced to something softer, more splintered. The bitter smile she'd been wearing slips away completely, and now she just looks wrecked—eyes puffy, mouth trembling, like she's been holding this in for hours and it's finally pouring out. "This morning, before breakfast. She came in here and she told me everything that happened."

Jo lifts her hand, swiping angrily at the new tears that gather, like she's mad at herself for crying. Paige doesn't move. Can't. Her legs won't let her. All she can do is watch Jo fall apart in front of her, and all she wants to do is cross the space between them and cradle Jo's face in her hands, wipe her tears, tell her it's going to be okay, that she's got her. But Paige is still stuck—confused, disoriented, trying to process what's just been told to her.

Jo tilts her head back, eyes tracing the ceiling, like if she looks up hard enough, the tears won't fall. Her voice drops to a whisper, almost as if the words are more meant for herself. "God, I'm so stupid. Why does this keep fucking happening?"

That—Paige can't stomach.

"Celeste... told you that?" she asks slowly, voice low like she's talking to someone who's been through a car crash. Because that's what Jo looks like. Like she's barely surviving the wreckage.

Jo nods, not meeting her eyes.

"This morning?" Paige presses.

Another nod.

And Paige stands there for a second, letting the silence throb in the air between them, just utterly shocked. But what Jo is telling her—it didn't fucking happen. And she needs to know that.

Paige moves, taking three full steps forward so she and Jo are significantly closer.

"Jo," she says, firm but not loud, desperate but steady. "That didn't happen. I swear on everything, that did not happen. You know me." Her voice trembles slightly. "I would never do that. Never."

Nevertheless, Jo stumbles back more, trying to continue putting distance between them.

That hurts.

That hurts more than anything. Paige has been hurt before, both on and off the court, but nothing feels quite like the moment someone you love physically recoils from your touch. And Jo doesn't even say anything. She just keeps her eyes down, face twisted with disbelief and pain and what looks like shame.

And Paige is trying. She's really trying to stay calm, to be patient, but her chest is starting to feel like it's collapsing in on itself. Why would Jo believe Celeste so easily? After everything they've been through—after months of late nights and kisses in locker rooms and whispers under blankets and almost I love yous?

Not only that, but why would Celeste lie to Jo like that? Okay, well, Paige understands why—she's trying to ruin the best thing Paige currently has in her life because she's butthurt over being rejected or something—but it's just frustrating because Paige was starting to think that Celeste was becoming normal, nicer again. Since last weekend, she's been acting nothing but genuine. Clearly, Paige needs to stop being so trusting.

She wants to scream her throat raw.

But she doesn't. She swallows the feeling. She looks at Jo like she's looking at someone slipping away from her, and she reaches for her hand gently, like she's afraid it'll shatter if she grabs too fast.

"Jo," she says softly. "Joey, please. Please. Baby, you know me. I told you I would never hurt you and I meant it. I would never do this."

The word baby leaves her lips without thinking, instinctual. And it's true. She meant that promise when she said it; she still does.

Jo looks at her for the briefest of moments, eyes shining and lips trembling.

"Yeah?" the brunette asks, sharp and pointed. She sounds tired, as if this conversation has aged her.

And then Jo walks away, and Paige lets her—for a second.

She watches as Jo heads toward the corner of the hotel room, crouches down by the tiny wastebasket next to the desk. She doesn't know what Jo's doing until she reaches her hand in and pulls something out. Something small and silver.

When she turns around, Paige sees it.

The necklace.

Their necklace.

Paige's body goes still, breath catching in her throat.

She'd lost the necklace this morning. And she'd panicked once she'd realized, but she was too distracted and busy with rehab and the upcoming game, to do a deep dive for it.

But now, it's here. In Jo's hand.

And it's been in the trash.

And Jo is looking at her like she's waiting for Paige to explain the unexplainable. Like this is her smoking gun.

"Then how did she get this?" Jo asks.

Paige stares, wracking her brain.

It doesn't take long for her to figure it out.

She knows exactly how Celeste Sinclair got her hands on the necklace—and it's not because Paige gave it to her.

PAIGE WAKES UP to dull light filtering through the thin hotel curtains, the kind that means it’s barely morning but already too late to go back to sleep. Her body aches all over—limbs heavy, muscles sore, knee especially tight—but there’s something electric buzzing under her skin. That kind of slow-simmering adrenaline that doesn’t wait for the game clock to start.

She stretches carefully under the covers, her knee throbbing as she extends it too far, and groans. Ice and rehab will help later. Right now, though, she doesn’t care. Not really. Because today’s the day. Final Four. Obviously, she can’t play, but her team is out there, and her girls are locked in. Locked together. It’s a big fucking deal.

She thinks about Jo. Immediately. Jo, with her silky jump shot and dimpled laugh and glitter-painted nails, Jo, who kissed Paige breathless last night and told her to wait—wait to say I love you until after the game. Not because she didn’t want to say it, but because she wanted it to mean something even bigger.

And it already does, doesn’t it? Paige is bursting. She’s ready. She wants to win, yeah, obviously, but even if they lose—God forbid—she’s still going to tell Jo she's in love with her. She's still going to ask Jo to be her girlfriend. She's ready for more than quiet kisses in their apartment or linked pinkies behind buses or scribbled notes hidden under Gatorade bottles. Real. She’s so fucking ready.

She groans again as she swings her legs off the bed and pushes herself up, joints creaking. She walks to the bathroom slowly, rubbing her eyes, yawning as she shuts the door behind her.

The shower takes a second to warm up, but soon steam curls through the air, clouding the mirror and the walls and her thoughts in a soft, fuzzy haze. She tugs off her T-shirt, underwear, everything else—piece by piece—and carefully unhooks the silver necklace from around her neck. She sets it gently on the counter, right beside the sink, like it’s made of glass. The clover glints in the light, the word steady faint but visible if you tilt your head. It’s their thing. Her and Jo. She never takes it off unless she’s showering (she doesn't want it to rust) or passing it to Jo. Never.

“I’mma go to the lobby, shouldn’t be gone long!” Aubrey calls from the other side of the door.

“Okay!” Paige yells back, voice echoing off the tile. And then she steps into the steam.

She stands there longer than she probably should. The water burns her skin a little but it feels good. Cleansing. Her knee pulses beneath the heat, but the pain doesn’t matter. She’s thinking about the game. About watching Jo play under the lights. About how Jo’s family will be there and how Paige will probably get to see them, and how it'll be different this time because she's not just Jo's abandoned teammate she's dragging along to family Christmas, but something realer. Something bigger. Paige can’t stop smiling, even in the shower, because she feels good. For once, she feels hopeful. Steady. Like her and Jo have this thing figured out. Like they’ve been through hell this year, and they’re coming out the other side better for it.

Eventually, she forces herself out of the shower, steam curling off her skin as she towels off. She pats at her face, runs her fingers through damp hair, wraps the towel around herself, and opens the door into the cooler air of the hotel room.

That’s when she hears it. A knock. Soft, but definite.

“One second!” she calls out, rushing around the room a little more frantically now. She grabs her outfit for the day—UConn warmups, because she’s not in uniform but still repping the team—and throws it on quickly. She grabs the necklace off the bathroom counter, clutching it in her fist for a second before setting it down gently on the desk beside her bag. She’ll put it on properly in a minute. She doesn’t want to keep whoever’s waiting out there too long.

She opens the door—

Fiery red hair. Bright green eyes. Celeste Sinclair, dressed and polished like she’s on her way to do something important. Paige has barely seen her the last few weeks, and that was on purpose. Things were tense after Celeste found out about her and Jo, and Paige—honestly—has been grateful for the space. She assumed the redhead would keep her distance.

Apparently not.

Celeste raises her eyebrows slightly. “Sorry… did I interrupt your shower?” she asks, sounding genuinely apologetic. Not flirtatious, not smug. Just… normal.

Paige wipes a hand down her damp arm and shrugs. “I was gettin' out anyway. What’s up?”

Celeste reaches into her back pocket and pulls something out. It’s Paige’s UConn ID badge. The lanyard is twisted up like it’s been jammed into a backpack. “Found this downstairs,” she says, offering it over. “I was helping set up the team breakfast, and it was on one of the tables. Obviously, it's yours.”

Paige blinks. She hadn’t even realized it was missing. She takes it from her and glances down at the plastic, then back at Celeste. “Oh—shit. Thank you."

Celeste smiles. It’s… polite. Nothing more.

"You're welcome," she replies.

Paige’s fingers tighten slightly on the ID. She’s about to close the door. In the nicest way possible, she’s ready to say thanks again and move on with her day, but then—

“Paige?”

She looks up, brow furrowing. “Yeah?”

Celeste sighs. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For how I acted. After… y'know. I was kind of a bitch. It was uncalled for and immature. I hope you and Jo are happy.”

There’s a beat of silence. Paige stares at her, surprised by the sincerity. She doesn’t really know how to respond.

“Thanks,” she finally says.

Celeste gives her a faint smile, nods, and then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut. Paige exhales, shoving her ID into her backpack and glancing over at the counter, reaching to grab the necklace—

But it’s gone.

She stares at the spot she knows she put it. The space beside her bag. She scans the floor in case it dropped. Checks the folds of her warmups. Nothing. Her stomach knots a little, but she figures maybe she tossed it into her bag without realizing. Or maybe it’s under the bed or in her sweatshirt pocket. She’ll find it later. No big deal.

She doesn't even think to consider the way Celeste’s hand brushed over that counter.

She should’ve.

PAIGE CURSES under her breath the moment she realizes. She should've known. Should've been smarter. Should've shut the door in Celeste's face when she had the chance. Instead, she let her in. Let her talk. Let her take.

Clearly, that was a mistake, because now everything is dangling on the edge of collapse, tilting toward freefall, and Paige can't do anything but dig into rock and try to climb up a mountain she's not built for.

She gets it now. Why Jo believed her. Why Jo looked at her today like she was a stranger. Like she'd betrayed her. Because if the roles were reversed—if someone Jo used to hook up with came in with that necklace, making claims that Jo gave it to her and they were sleeping together again—Paige would've believed it too.

Still, knowing that doesn't make it easier to stomach.

"Jo," Paige says quietly, trying so hard not to shake as she looks at her. "I can explain, okay?" Her voice is already dipping into pleading, the way it always does when she's desperate. She steps forward, palms up like she's surrendering. "I swear—I didn't give Celeste the necklace."

Jo doesn't blink, the words coming out quick. "Then why did she have it?" she asks, voice rising like it's been waiting to blow all day.

And Paige flinches—not physically, but in her chest. They've never fought like this. Never raised their voices. Not even once. It's always been easy between them, even when it wasn't. Even in their quietest, most complicated moments, it never sounded like this. Probably because usually Jo is too soft to yell and Paige would never want to shout at Jo. Apparently, though, this is the brunette's breaking point.

"I didn't, Jo, Seriously, I didn't give it to her," Paige tries again, more firm this time. She steps closer.

Jo steps right back. "I can't talk to you about this anymore," she says sharply, shaking her head. "You're just gonna keep lying."

That stings. Paige feels it slice right through her ribs.

She knows it's not just about her. Not entirely. Jo's been hurt before—Asher. The boy-next-door turned cheater. The one Jo thought she was going to marry, the one who broke her heart and made her think every good thing was a lie waiting to be uncovered. Paige remembers holding her while she sobbed, remembers telling her she deserved so much better. December truly wasn't that long ago, a gash that's scabbed over by now but not truly healed.

And now Jo thinks she's done the same damn thing.

Paige's heart is pounding, her hands shaking, and her throat is closing up with so many words she's not sure how to arrange.

"I'm not lying, you won't even let me explain the truth to you!" she says loudly, frustration finally bubbling over. Her voice echoes off the hotel walls and Jo flinches a little like she wasn't expecting the blonde to yell back.

"Because, what would the explanation even be, Paige? That Celeste just magically ended up with our necklace?" Jo's voice cracks at the end, even though she's trying to sound strong and firm.

"No, but she took it. I didn't give it to her, she took it this morning. And I know she must've been so convincing when she came in here and told you all of this, Jo, but I swear to God, she's a theatre major!" Paige exclaims, trying to get her point across.

Jo scoffs, "That's convenient."

"It's the truth!" Paige snaps, voice desperate. Her eyes burn, throat tight. "Jesus, Jo, you know me. You know I wouldn't do that to you."

Jo opens her mouth like she's going to respond, but then something breaks in her expression. Her chin trembles, and she swipes at her face again, this time more frantic. "You didn't even tell me anyone else knew about us," she says, her voice quieter now, but shakier, more wrecked. "You let me walk around for weeks thinking no one knew. Like you needed to keep it a fucking secret."

"It wasn't supposed to be a secret," Paige says immediately, stepping forward again. "Jo, I only didn't tell you because you've been so anxious lately. I didn't want you to feel watched or—or panicked going into the tournament. I swear, I was gonna tell you. I was literally gonna tell you this weekend. It was never about hiding it from you. Never."

Jo's mouth wobbles like she wants to believe her, like some part of her does believe her. But she still looks so shattered, so raw. "You were gonna tell me," she echoes bitterly. "Just like you were gonna say you love me. Just like you were gonna be honest about Celeste."

"I am being honest about Celeste," Paige says, louder than she means to. Her throat feels like it's coated in glass, and her words come out fragmented. "Nothing happened with her, Jo. I didn't kiss her. I didn't touch her. I didn't give her anything."

Paige pauses, watching Jo's every expression. "I am being honest about Celeste," she repeats. "I was going to tell you that they knew about us." She pauses, taking a deep breath. "And I was serious last night. I do love you, Jo."

Jo stares at her like the words don't even land. Like they bounce right off. She shakes her head and turns away, arms braced against the dresser like she needs it to stay upright, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Paige's eyes blur. "Joey," she begs, a sob sneaking into the way her voice breaks around the nickname.

Jo doesn't turn.

And then the door opens.

Both of them freeze at the same time, all words silenced instantly like someone hit a mute button. Their heads swivel in unison toward the sound, chests still heaving, eyes still welling.

It's Caroline. And Jo's older sister, Peyton.

Peyton is holding a pizza box. Caroline is wide-eyed.

"... What's going on?" Peyton asks slowly, cautiously.

"Nothing, it's fine," Paige says quickly, at the exact same moment Jo tells the two, "Paige was just leaving."

The words hit like a slap. Paige turns her head to look at the girl, genuinely stunned. "Jo," she says softly a single syllable that holds so much—hurt, shock, pleading. Because this conversation still isn't done. Paige is still trying to get Jo to understand what didn't happen, still trying to fix what Celeste tore in two.

But Jo won't meet her eyes again.

Caroline, to her credit, walks over gently and puts a hand on Paige's arm. "P," she says quietly, "maybe you should go."

Paige doesn't say anything for a second. Doesn't even move. Her fists are clenched and her heart feels like it's falling apart in slow motion.

All she's doing is trying. She just wants to fix things.

But they're all looking at her like she's the problem.

So, she nods. Just barely. And says, in the smallest voice she's had all day, "Okay."

Caroline walks her to the door, pulling her into a quiet hug. Paige hugs her back stiffly, trying not to fall apart in someone else's arms.

The door shuts behind her.

Paige steps into the hallway and drags both hands over her face, her breath stuttering, chest rising and falling like she just ran a mile. Her eyes sting. Her throat hurts. And her heart feels like it's being slowly wrung out.

She should've never even bothered to open the door for Celeste.

She should've been more careful, more cautious.

She should've kept the necklace safer.

She should've told Jo the second Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey found out about them.

She should've told Jo she was in love with her last night when she had the chance.

Instead, she’s alone in a hallway, trying not to cry, while Jo’s behind a door that’s never felt farther away.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wcbb #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers angst #wnba #dallas wings #wnba x reader #wnba x oc #nobody gets me #wlw

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hgfictionwriter · 2 days ago

Text

Still Yours: Part Two - Confessions

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie returns home to her loving family. She basks in cherished moments and sweet connections knowing that it could come crashing down soon.

Warnings: Angst. Language.

A/N: Part One is here.

"Momma!"

"Hey baby," Jessie greeted warmly as she dropped her bags and knelt down to scoop up Harper who ran at her full tilt from the living room. She laughed as the girl almost knocked the wind right out of her. She hoisted her daughter into the air and spun her around, loving the way she giggled at the action.

"Momma!" Ky was only a couple of steps behind Harper and wrapped her arms around Jessie's waist, clinging tightly. Jessie set Harper down, the girl barely letting go of her and she drew Ky into a big hug, peppering the crown of her head with kisses.

"Hi my girls, how are you?"

It took concentrated effort for Jessie to fight back tears at seeing her daughters looking up at her, talking excitedly over one another and welcoming her home so lovingly.

Despite how she focused on them, her attention was drawn up to see you leaning with your back against the column separating the entryway and the living room. You wore an adoring smirk as you watched the reunion.

"Hey, why don't you bring down your geodes," Jessie said as she looked to Ky before shifting her attention to Harper, "and you go set up at the piano, and you can both show me what you learned. I'm going to say 'hi' to Mommy quick, okay?"

The girls scurried off in their separate directions and Jessie rose with an exaggerated groan that pulled a laugh out of you.

As she looked at you, the apprehension and weight that ate away at her the whole journey home came back in an instant. If she didn't hate herself already, she would've over how she'd tainted just this moment alone.

Seeing you, especially after time away, had always been something she craved, felt comforted by, sought solace in. And now, as you smiled sweetly at her, she couldn't even hold your gaze.

You pushed off the column and walked towards her.

"Told you they missed you," you said. Jessie forced herself to move; to meet you. Your arms wrapped around the back of her neck and she swore her knees almost went weak at the contact. She brought her hands up around your waist and hoped you couldn't feel how clammy they suddenly were.

Jessie's head buzzed with so much disarray that she hardly even registered how you leaned in until your soft lips were upon hers. Her thoughts quieted and stilled all at once - just for a second.

You pulled back and tilted your head playfully. "I guess you can say I missed you, too."

Her eyes searched your face as her mental fog threatened to return. You smiled softly and she could see you about to question her. She rushed forward and captured your lips in a strong kiss, her fingers pushing into your waist and pulling you tightly into her. It felt like her nerves were on fire and she didn't want to let go.

You were breathless when she finally broke the kiss. Your eyes now searched hers in amused bewilderment.

"What was that for?" You asked with a soft laugh and bright eyes.

Guilt washed over her and all she could muster up was a wistful smile.

"I guess you could say I missed you, too," she reciprocated.

--------

Jessie was always appreciative of the time she had at home with her family. She'd always known that she wanted to settle down - get married, have kids, but she'd never been in a rush. It was more important to her to find the right person. She had plenty else to keep her occupied in the meantime.

Then, she met you, and the vision of her future, the family she wanted, was clearer than ever. She wanted to build all of that with you.

But today, as she settled in from her most recent trip away, she cherished these moments with you, Ky and Harper even more. She paid attention to every detail she could. She did her best to engrain every nuance into her mind. She wanted to be able to recall all of this vividly, for it to be so vibrant that it would feel like she was right back here, because truthfully, tomorrow things would maybe never be the same.

Even before she called her sister in tears - right after she got off the phone with you - and before she called Janine, she knew deep down what she needed to do.

There was no way she could lie to you. What she'd done was horrible enough, to deceive you further - she just couldn't do it. It nearly sent her into a panic attack to think about how you'd react, how it would hurt you, how it could destroy everything. But the thought of making a fool of you by lying; hiding it? No. You deserved so much more than that.

She never thought she'd cheat. She'd seen teammates, friends even, do that to their partners. That could never be her. She lived her life with quiet integrity. She loved her wife. She loved her family. She'd never intentionally hurt them.

Perfect Jessie. Perfect family.

Perfect no longer.

She didn't need her sister's comfort and reassurance, or Janine's anger and disbelief to know that she had to come clean. She loved you too much for there to be any other path forward.

She may have been wrong about herself. She was a cheater. But she could at least prove she’s not a liar. That she believed in truth. Authentic love.

She could preserve some shred of her integrity.

Even if it terrified her. Made her sick to her stomach. Even if it cost her your love. Her daughters’ admiration.

She was a cheater. But she wasn’t a quitter. She’d fight to fix things.

Tomorrow. For today - she indulged.

So she took in everything. As you all cooked together. Ate together. Played in the backyard. Wandered the grocery store together. As you laughed and teased one another playing a board game.

And now, as you all watched a movie together, the girls curled up on the couch with both of you. As Jessie idly played with Ky’s soft auburn waves with one hand as she laid her head in Jessie’s lap, and her arm around your shoulder as you cuddled Harper, she knew she couldn’t lie. As tempting as it was to stay and revel in this peace and joy, it wasn’t fair. She was a fraud.

Jessie put the girls to bed, both eager for her to join in their routine now she was home again.

When she finished, she found you sitting in bed reading your book.

“In bed already?” Jessie asked in mild surprise. You gave her a humorous look.

“It’s pathetic, I know, but I’m exhausted. Come on,” your expression turned imploring, “you must be exhausted too.”

A slow smile crossed her face as she watched you. Her chest still fluttered at the sight of you after all these years. She nodded with a gentle laugh.

“I am,” she admitted as she started getting ready for bed.

“And the girls have been all over you today,” you chuckled.

“I don’t mind,” Jessie said. “I feel like I blinked and suddenly they’re in school, entering science fairs, recitals, tournaments, birthday parties - before I know it they’ll be teenagers and want nothing to do with me, so I’ll gladly spend time with them now.”

You laughed with a knowing nod. “Yeah, the teen years will be interesting.”

As she climbed into bed you set your book down and gave her a chaste kiss. Jessie’s hand automatically came up to caress your cheek and you deepened the kiss. As much as her mind was starting to run rampant with worries and guilt, she wanted to memorize your kiss, your touch.

Your hands started to wander and she knew she’d have to stop.

She couldn’t sleep with you. Not without you knowing.

Tension was starting to build in her shoulders while she racked her brain with how to simmer things when you did it for her.

Your hand came to her chest and pushed ever so gently as you slowly broke off the kiss.

“I’m so sorry, Jess. I know I kind of started that, but I really am tired,” you said with an apologetic look and a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Don’t worry about it,” she told you resolutely as relief rushed through her. “It’s totally okay. I’m tired, too,” she offered reassuringly.

“Thank you,” you said in a cute whine as you cuddled in and rest your head on her shoulder. Jessie squeezed you tightly in her arms and laid several soft kisses across your hair. You released a contented sigh. “You’re so sweet. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too, baby,” Jessie returned, that newly familiar tightness forming in her throat once more as emotions knocked at the door. She squeezed you again and pressed another, lingering kiss to your head. She blinked back the stinging in her eyes as you chuckled softly in her arms.

“So? Are you going to tell me about your trip? We haven’t had a chance to catch up,” you said as you snuggled in further, getting comfortable.

She took a steady breath, working to keep her composure.

“Mm, not now. We’re both tired,” she said with a gentle laugh.

“Did you know,” you said, voice measured and gentle as sleep began to come over you, “it’s actually a compliment if someone is tired around you? It means you settle their nervous system and they can relax.”

Jessie clenched her jaw as conflicting emotions welled up within her. She gently caressed your arm.

“I know, baby,” she said quietly, before taking a steady breath in an effort to recover. “Although talk about biochemistry makes me want to nerd out, not fall asleep,” she joked.

You chuckled tiredly, tucking your head further into her. “Hey, I thought we just said we were going to cool it tonight. You getting all nerdy will have the opposite effect on me.”

Jessie huffed as a laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said quietly. You offered a soft hum as your breathing slowed and deepened. She tilted her head down to peek at you.

Sure enough, your eyes were closed and you were sleeping peacefully.

She blinked back tears anew as she held you close. She didn’t want to ever let you go. The thought of what tomorrow could bring nearly caused her breath to catch, but she forced herself to stay steady to not disturb you.

She laid another kiss, this one soft and delicate, atop your head.

“I love you,” she whispered.

——————

Jessie woke with a start the next morning as the bed dipped abruptly and suddenly a heavy weight flopped down on her.

“Mm, Harp,” she muttered half in amusement, half in complaint.

It wasn’t uncommon for their youngest to jump into bed with them first thing in the morning after she’d been away. In fact, it had made for a couple of very precarious, panicky incidents in cases where Jessie and you had failed to get dressed again after reuniting in more - physical - ways than last night.

This morning though? Not a problem.

Harper cuddled in, wrapping her little arms around Jessie. Jessie hugged her close and kissed her forehead.

“Morning, my sweet girl,” she greeted, her voice still thick with sleep. Jessie peeked over at you as you stirred.

“Morning, Momma,” Harper greeted, eyes alert and bright.

“Any dreams last night, little one?” Jessie asked quietly. Harper furrowed her brow in thought, Jessie’s heart swelling at the sight.

“There was a zebra. And I think it was our pet. Oh! And-”

Jessie held up a finger to her lips, gently shushing the girl’s growing excitement and animation.

“Mommy’s still sleeping,” Jessie whispered.

“Mm, not anymore,” you grumbled in mild complaint. Jessie couldn’t help but chuckle and shoot Harper a conspiratorial look as the girl grinned widely at her.

“Go on. Give your mom a kiss and say you’re sorry for waking her up,” Jessie continued in a whisper as she gently nudged Harper.

The girl shifted over and laid a quick kiss on your cheek. “Sorry for waking you, mommy,” she whispered before lifting herself up and letting herself fall heavily onto Jessie’s chest.

“Oof,” Jessie couldn’t help but groan. “You’re getting too big for that,” she laughed.

“No I’m not,” Harper protested.

“Oh yes you are,” Jessie refuted as she began to tickle her and then lifted her into the air above her with an exaggerated groan. The little girl giggled infectiously, Jessie grinning from ear to ear. “See? You’re too heavy! I’m going to drop you,” Jessie said through mock effort as she feigned dropping her, drawing a loud squeal and a laugh out of the girl.

“Shhh. Shh. We need to be quiet,” Jessie repeated through a stifled laugh as she lowered Harper back down.

“Jess. You’re the loudest person here. No one would ever believe it,” you delivered flatly as you turned towards them. You caught Jessie's gaze and gave an affectionate eye roll.

She was about to make a teasing remark about how you knew her best, but it died on her lips. She swallowed inadvertently instead.

“Sorry, babe,” she offered softly. Before darker emotions could drag her down, she turned back to Harper and offered her an exaggerated look of surprise.

“Hey - I have an idea. How about I make us all pancakes.”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, sweetie. Give me 15 minutes and we’ll make breakfast together, okay?” She said and Harper nodded enthusiastically. “That’s my girl. Okay, I’ll be out soon,” she added with a quick kiss to her daughter’s forehead before the girl rushed off.

“Sorry, babe,” Jessie said with a sheepish chuckle.

“You’re both lucky you’re so cute,” you teased as you leaned over and laid your head on her pillow, giving her shoulder a kiss through her shirt.

“Her cuteness is mostly your genes,” Jessie said with a charming grin.

“Mhmm,” you facetiously accepted with a smirk. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” she answered, curbing the surprise she felt. Shockingly, she slept almost all the way through the night. Maybe it was her exhaustion. But honestly, she felt like it was just because she was next to you again. She refocused. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like the dead,” you snickered as you turned and stretched. Jessie snuck a kiss, which drew a giggle out of you.

“You can sleep a bit more if you want,” she spoke softly as she gingerly got out of bed, not wanting to jostle you further. “I’ll take care of the girls and breakfast. There’ll be a hot coffee waiting for you whenever you get up. Take your time.”

“Mm, you’re the best. No wonder I love you,” you said as you cuddled yourself up in the blankets again.

Jessie’s heart swelled once more. She wanted nothing more than to protect you. Keep you safe. Make you feel loved.

Maybe she could do that for a few more hours at least.

—————

The hours ticked on and while Jessie again tried to simply relish these moments in time with her family, the prospect of what she needed to do weighed on her more and more.

She found herself watching you intently throughout the day. Her mind drifted as she rehearsed the moment, visualizing 100 different scenarios until only a couple remained.

There’d be moments where an opportunity presented itself, but she’d quickly lose her nerve. The longer the day dragged on, the more she felt like she was deceiving you, but at the same time, the morning had been a write-off with the girls and breakfast and it didn’t make sense to drop the news on you in the middle of the day either.

Before she knew it, the girls were tucked in and she and you were back in your bedroom getting ready for bed.

You chatted idly as you took down your hair and went through your routine. Her eyes didn’t leave you as the weight of this impending moment steadily crushed her.

Her stomach twisted painfully and she felt like she could be sick. Her hands were clammy and felt numb. Her heart pounded so loudly in her rib cage she nearly wondered if you could hear it. Her breathing was laboured and rough though she did her best to mask it.

“-can you believe that?” You asked as you finishing moisturizing your hands and walked past her. She turned, eyes following you.

“Yeah,” she offered distractedly. You shot her an amused look over your shoulder.

“Are you alright? You’re being awfully quiet,” you observed good-naturedly.

She could lie. Say she’s tired. Distracted. Buy herself another day of this wonderful life she’d so carelessly jeopardized.

She could postpone indefinitely. Never tell you. It was just one time. She probably wouldn't cross paths with Mia again. Realistically, you may never be the wiser.

You’d believe her. Whatever she said.

But as she looked at you, this amazing woman she fell in love with so many years ago, this woman who sacrificed so much for her and her career. Who gave you two a beautiful, incredible family. Who fit so perfectly with her. Who trusted her wholeheartedly. Who saw the best in her.

She couldn’t lie.

She clenched her fists to calm the shaking of her hands and she attempted to swallow the lump in her throat. When she spoke, her voice was thin.

“Hey, can we - can we sit down?”

You shot her a mild look of question, but smiled at her nonetheless as you agreed and took a seat at the edge of the bed. Jessie stood for a moment longer before sitting down next to you, angling her body towards you so she could delicately take your hands in hers.

“Uh oh,” you joked. “What’s this about?” You chuckled before rattling on unbothered. “You want a tent trailer? A dog? I mean - the girls are getting older and since you’ll be home more, we could talk about it.” You paused before your eyes grew wide and you shot her a chiding expression. “Don’t tell me you want another kid. They’re at such a good age right now, I can’t-”

Jessie smiled weakly as you continued your teasing theories. Her emotions were already starting to build and it was difficult to maintain her courage.

“Baby, please…,” she pleaded in a nearly breathless voice and a faded smile.

You frowned, realization setting in that this perhaps wasn’t a joking matter.

“Are you okay? Is something wrong?” You asked as your eyes searched her face. They shone with concern for her and it felt like another knife to her chest.

The lump in her throat worsened and she began to fidget, her thumbs grazing across the back of your hands as she dropped your gaze and tried to will her mind to remember all she wanted to say. Now the moment was here, everything she’d scripted in her head was gone.

“Babe?” You eventually prompted. You urged her to look up at you. When she did, you spoke again. “You’re kind of scaring me a little,” you laughed softly. “I mean…whatever it is, you can tell me.” You offered her a small smile of encouragement.

She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve you.

She felt a familiar stinging behind her eyes as they began to well with tears. Your expression grew more concerned and your hand came up to cup her cheek as she looked away and you sought her gaze. This isn’t how she wanted to start.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay,” you assured her. “You can tell me anything. It’s alright. And you can take your time. I’m here for you.”

Jessie’s face screwed up in emotion at how you consoled her. This was such a mess. She sniffled and wiped angrily at a tear that fell.

“No,” was all she said and it sounded so pouty and juvenile. She couldn’t stand it. She took a deep breath, holding it in her lungs for a second to try and calm her nerves. She exhaled.

“No,” she repeated with renewed composure as she blinked back stubborn tears and looked at you again. “This shouldn’t be about you looking after me,” she explained.

Your affection shone through despite the look of confusion you gave her. You were about to speak, but she needed to launch in now if she was ever going to.

“I love you. I really, really love you,” Jessie told you resolutely as she squeezed your hands. She ignored the new flash of confusion across your face. “I’ve loved you since I was 25. Since we stayed out until 2:30 in the morning talking about our lives, our values, hopes and dreams - philosophies, art, nature, anything and everything in between. We were new but I’d never felt so deeply connected. No matter how long we talked or how much time we spent together, I was excited for more - and I still feel the same.”

She took a beat, taking you in.

“You’re everything to me,” she proclaimed, voice nearly trembling towards the end and new tears starting to form. “You. The girls. You’re everything to me and I love you more than you’ll ever know.” Her voice cracked and her gaze fell. She caressed the back of your hand again while she sniffled. You squeezed her hand and she let out a pained, watery laugh as she looked up at you once more. Her lip trembled as she went to speak.

“And I’m realizing that I’m pretty fucked up,” she said with a rueful laugh and an empty shake of her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Her features fell again as emotion threatened to take over completely. She sat there, sniffling and trying to find a way to speak. Her shoulders hitched with uneven breaths as heavy silence filled the room.

You reached out, thumbing her cheek once more as you sought her gaze again.

“Hey,” you said gently. “It’s okay. You’re not fucked up. Whatever it is…we’ll get through it.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound coming out more like a sob and tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“I’m definitely fucked up,” she managed to say, her voice now taut. “I didn’t know how bad. And I don’t know how it happened. But I need you to know I’m so sorry. I really do love you. And I never want to hurt you.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, voice thin and pleading. Her whole body felt like it was moving with the force of her heartbeat. She stammered and rambled a few times, false starts as she tried to lay context for her confession, before finally just saying it.

“I-I slept with someone else.”

The confession hung in the air and Jessie thought she was going to puke. She watched you worriedly - your eyes narrowed in confusion, mouth slightly open to speak, but no words coming out.

A delayed, awkward laugh fell from your lips.

“You’re joking, right?” You asked, eyes searching hers for any indication.

It broke Jessie’s heart further. You trusted her so much. And she was destroying it.

She couldn’t answer or hold your gaze.

A moment passed and you slowly withdrew your hands from her hold. She looked up and saw your eyes begin to shimmer as realization set in. You sat stiffly as your mind processed.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. It really meant nothing. Truly. I mean - I-I had been drinking a bit. And I left right after. And I called you right away because I-I needed you. You’re the person I love and need. And it was so, so stupid of me and I promise I’m going to figure this all out. I’m going to fix things. Fix myself. And-”

She reached for your hands again mid-sentence, but her words fell silent as you jerked your hands away from her touch. She looked at you anew to see your expression transforming into a scrutinizing glare.

“What the fuck?” You released a short laugh and narrowed your eyes at her again. “You’re serious. You-you actually slept with someone else?”

Jessie was slow to respond, mouth opening to affirm, but it was enough for you to forge on.

“When?” You asked sharply. “And with who?!” You shook your head as your hands came up to your face and you laughed in disbelief again. “I’m so confused.”

Jessie felt her body heat spiking. She tugged at the collar of her shirt and shifted slightly on the bed to face you further; you scooted back.

“I - it was just recent. Um. The other night. It was - I don’t know - just some girl. It didn’t matter - it’s not about her or me wanting her-”

Your face screwed up.

“Doesn’t matter? What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” You asked in a harsh whisper, surely to not disturb the kids or draw their attention. “Who my wife cheated on me with-” your words all but died, and you blinked rapidly in bewilderment. You dropped your gaze. Your voice shook as you reset. “Who you slept with and why definitely matters.”

“Babe,” Jessie implored, wishing so deeply that she could take away the hurt that was plain on your face. A pang went through her at the way your expression shifted at the pet name. She took a quick breath.

Her mouth was dry but she pushed on, making sure to meet your gaze as she admitted, “It was Mia.”

You frowned momentarily, racking your brain to reconcile the name. Then, a cold laugh fell from your lips.

“Mia?” You asked with an unamused smirk. “The girl you borrowed the lens from? Who you went on a hike with last time to ‘check out the sights’?” You shook your head, looking up to the ceiling and fighting back tears as you chuckled mirthlessly. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“It sounds worse than it is,” Jessie beseeched. “There was absolutely nothing going on during the hike and that time. And I had the lens before it happened and I was so frazzled after and didn’t want to see her so I didn’t give it back. Please - you have to believe me - it was just that one time and there was nothing going on prior or after. It came out of nowhere. And-and I talked about you all the time with her and-”

“No,” you said in disbelief. “You - what - just fell into bed with her? Randomly? An accident? I don’t believe it. I-” You stopped mid-sentence again and blinked back tears with another shake of your head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Oh my god. What the fuck is going on.”

You sniffled and looked Jessie in the eye.

“Do you not love me? I thought you were happy. Is this about our sex life? Are you in love with her?” A laugh that tapered into a small sob escaped your lips. “I don’t understand.”

Your eyes were filled with such hurt and Jessie wished she could take it away.

You didn’t understand how she could betray you like this. And truthfully Jessie didn’t know herself yet how this happened.

You asked question after question and she did her best to answer, but everything just seemed so flat and insufficient.

She was happy with you. The relationship. Your life together.

But she cheated.

Mia and her were talking about her retirement. She was telling her about her insecurities and doubts. The weight. The uncertainty.

Things she hadn’t confided in you.

The absolute devastation in your eyes as you realized that she’d - inadvertently, unintentionally - sought refuge, crossing over into emotional, with someone else was the worst thing Jessie ever had to see.

She’d never felt so ashamed and broken.

At some point, she didn’t know when, a heavy, painful silence took over the space. Jessie inquired - not wanting you to shut yourself off from her, but you merely said you didn’t know what else to say or feel. Your voice was weak and you looked so weary and tired.

You retreated to your side of the bed and climbed in with your back to her and told her in a quiet, broken voice that she should sleep in the guest room.

She laid in the dark, alone with her thoughts as every painful word, expression, and consequence replayed over and over in her mind. Her eyes burned from all the crying, but the tears had finally run out. Her body felt heavy and spent. And though she felt numb, there was a constant, stinging undercurrent of self-loathing and mortification at what she'd done. Still, some part of her foolishly prayed that she’d wake up in the morning and everything would be back to normal.

The house was dead quiet when suddenly the springs of the guest room doorknob creaked and the door opened an inch. The door stilled for a couple of very long seconds before it swung open to reveal you.

Jessie sat up wordless, her throat dry and tight once more as she stared at your darkened figure in the doorway. You met her gaze, but didn't speak. She watched you carefully, feeling like if she moved further or spoke it would spook you and you'd leave.

A few tense seconds ticked on before you stepped in and swiftly closed the door behind you, careful to not make noise and wake the girls. Your eyes remained set on Jessie's as you pressed your back against the door. She couldn't make out the details of your expression in the dark, but she could see your one hand still on the doorknob, anchoring yourself to the door and poised to escape at a moment's notice.

You looked at one another and the silence grew too uncomfortable for Jessie. She sat forward a touch and opened her mouth to speak, though she didn't know what words would follow. Her throat muscles froze as your hand shot up, commanding her to be quiet. She sat back and waited.

You finally let go of the door knob and Jessie released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. You sniffled and her face fell immediately at the manifestation of how much she'd hurt you and the clear confirmation that things weren't magically better.

You tugged at your fingers anxiously, eyes now downcast before taking a few soft steps to the side of the bed. Jessie studied any nuance or detail she could. You stood by the bed, still fidgeting and standing nervously. She'd never really seen you like this before. Sure, when you first started dating, you'd been shy and nervous at times, but you weren't apprehensive, and you certainly weren't scared. It was unnervingly different and it killed her to know she was the one who'd caused it.

"I can't sleep." Your voice came out a timid, wavering admission and Jessie's heart dropped instantly.

"Me neither," she affirmed in a gentle voice that she hoped welcomed and soothed you.

You were close enough now, faint rays of moonlight filtering through the shades to illuminate your face, that she could see how a flash of accusatory anger crossed your features before they returned to the sad, broken look from before.

You sniffled once more and wiped at your cheek as a new batch of tears began to fall.

"I can't stop crying," you whimpered, voice breaking.

"I know, baby," Jessie said, her chest physically aching. Your breath hitched, shoulders shaking as you blew out a breath to calm yourself.

"I don’t know what to do," you went on, voice high and tight as you looked to her helpless and in pain. Jessie's face fell as her own tears returned.

"I know," she said. She didn't know what to say or do. You whimpered, fighting to swallow a cry and more tears streaked down Jessie's face at the sight. "I hate that I've hurt you."

The words were hardly out of her mouth when you dissolved into tears that quickly turned into stifled sobs.

"Baby…," Jessie reached out instantly, no longer afraid of retribution. Mild shock and relief set in as you let her, allowing her to embrace you, pulling you into her arms and onto the bed so she could hold you close.

Your body shook as you sobbed, burying your face in her shirt to muffle your cries. Silent cries wracked her own body as her tears fell and she clutched you as tight as she could. She kissed your head and rubbed your back as she whispered reassurances that she feared would fall short no matter how much she meant them.

"How could you do this?" You cried as you curled yourself further into her, your hand bundling her shirt in your fist. Jessie's sobs grew and her shoulders hitched as she struggled for air. She held you closer and kissed your head anew.

"I'm sorry," she cried, her voice straining and weak. "I'm so sorry, baby."

"What did I do wrong?" You wept, tucking your head into her. Jessie sobbed.

"Nothing, baby. You didn't do anything wrong at all. I promise," she told you through ragged breaths. "It was all me. I'm going to fix things though - I promise. I'll do anything." Her plea ended in a whimper.

You both cried in one another's arms, clinging desperately to each other. Scared to let go.

Jessie wasn't sure when it happened, but exhaustion must've taken the both of you. The last thing she remembered was still holding tightly onto you, a stark contrast to now as you disentangled your body from her embrace as the morning sun shone in.

Jessie quickly rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up. She could feel her eyes were swollen from crying and she'd probably be more aware of how exhausted she still was if not for the panic at your sudden departure.

"Babe, can we talk?" Jessie asked, voice hoarse from last night.

Your movements slowed as you reached the door. You remained still for a few long moments before you turned to her. Your eyes were void of the emotion from last night and you spoke evenly.

"Harper's recital is at 2 this afternoon. I need to take her to the studio an hour before. You can take Ky to swimming," you relayed very matter of fact as you turned away once more and placed your hand on the door knob to leave.

"Please," Jessie implored as she threw off the covers and got out of bed. She froze as soon as she saw you tense up. She took half a step back. "Please," she repeated. "Can we talk? I want to know what's going on. How you're feeling."

"You're in charge of dinner," you said in a flat tone as you went to leave once more.

"Babe, please," Jessie said in a near-desperate whisper. "What are you thinking? Where does this-"

"I don’t know!" You hissed under your breath as you rounded on her. "I don't fucking know what I think, what I feel, - anything. Okay? My wife of 10 years just told me she fucked someone else and my whole fucking life is blown up. So I don't know," you seethed as your eyes remained locked on her, daring her to retaliate.

She stood rooted to her spot, stunned by your outburst and feeling guilty all over again. Your gaze flit away and the blatant anger faded from your body, leaving you a tired, weary shell. You shot her a look.

"All I know is our daughters are down the hall, sleeping, they think the world of you-" your façade cracked, your forehead creasing in upset for just a moment before you steeled yourself, "-and I don't know what I'm going to do about any of this. So all I know is I need to keep my shit together for them and protect them from whatever this is."

Jessie opened her mouth to speak, but you swung open the door so harshly that it fanned your hair back and you closed it behind you as fast as you could without it slamming.

She stared wide eyed at the closed door. Your words rang sharply in her head, leaving her listless and dejected in the wake of your reproach. She wanted the earth to just swallow her up.

She didn't know what to do.

————

A/N: It was a long one! Thanks for anyone who made it through lol. I wanted to get the ball rolling so we could get to the real hurt and hardship (and progress) in subsequent chapters

Tag request: @marvelwomen-simp

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #canwnt x reader

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wooyoungsub · 2 days ago

Text

"House Rules"

Dom ATEEZ (OT8) x Sub Reader | Full Gangbang

Summary: In a lavish mansion shared with ATEEZ, boredom strikes. But you’ve always been more than their friend, you’ve been their escape, their toy, their relief. When they whine about having nothing to do, you offer them entertainment. What starts as a teasing show quickly spirals into a night of unfiltered use, where eight men remind you just how much of you they own.

Word Count: 5235

Genre: Smut

Warnings: No developed relationship dynamics, all 8 ateez men fuck your brains out of you, Intense, Raw, Experimental, HEAVY Degrading, Dehumanizing, No Fluff

A/N: Hey guy's! I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to write another story I've been really busy lately.. I hope you enjoy this one it's really heavy and dehumanizing. This is not to be taken seriously I am not by any means saying that the Ateez members are like this it is simply inspired by a fantasy I had.

Smut will begin underneath the dividing line

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────────

The living room felt warm, not from the summer heat bleeding through the mansion windows, but from the thick tension crawling over every inch of exposed skin. The eight of them were sprawled across the expensive sectional like gods bored of paradise, each dressed down in gym shorts and tank tops, post-shower hair still damp.

You’d grown used to being surrounded by them. Used to the stares. The smirks. The way their moods shifted when they were bored and you were available.

“Someone give me something to do before I lose my mind,” San grumbled, tilting his head back and letting out a sigh. His neck was glistening with sweat, veins stark against his skin. You caught the way Hongjoong’s fingers tapped impatiently on his thigh.

“You could work on lyrics,” Seonghwa offered from the edge of the chaise.

“Or you could just entertain us,” Wooyoung cut in, eyes already crawling up your body where you sat cross-legged on the floor.

You tilted your head. “Entertain you how?” you asked, voice dipped in a tease.

Yunho spread his legs wider. “However you want, baby.”

There was a beat of silence before you stood.

You didn’t speak. You just peeled your top over your head slowly, no bra, no shame, and dropped it on the floor. The collective shift in the room was immediate. Mingi's eyes darkened, tongue dragging across his bottom lip. Jongho's jaw clenched, fist flexing. Yeosang leaned forward like gravity had given up on everything but you.

“You all look bored,” you said, voice casual as you hooked your thumbs into your shorts and slid them down inch by inch, dragging the waistband past your hips and letting them pool at your feet.

San leaned forward. “I’m not bored anymore.”

You stepped up onto the low coffee table in front of them, naked under the heat of eight stares, your body soaking in the power you had and were about to give up.

“Then watch me.”

You started to move. Slow. Sensual. Hips circling, chest bouncing lightly with each roll. One hand slid down your side while the other grazed your inner thigh. You touched yourself like you wanted to be watched. Like you wanted to be devoured.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung hissed, hand already palming himself through his shorts.

“Keep going,” Hongjoong ordered, voice sharp and low. “You want to be the center of attention? Earn it.”

So you did.

You dropped to your knees on the table, legs spread, and ran both hands up your thighs, fingertips ghosting over the wet heat between them. The boys watched with hungry eyes, each sitting back, letting the show unfold. But you saw how Jongho’s chest was rising faster, how Seonghwa’s hand drifted toward his waistband, how Mingi’s legs shifted restlessly.

“You’re soaked,” Yeosang muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Already?”

You smiled wickedly and dragged a finger through your folds, holding it up so they could see the slick.

“Maybe I like being watched.”

That was the final thread.

San moved first, grabbing you by the waist and hauling you off the table like a doll. Your back hit the couch, knees spread by large, impatient hands. The rest followed like animals unleashed. All heat, muscle, scent, and breath. Someone’s mouth was on your neck, probably Wooyoung, by the smirk against your throat. Hands were on your thighs, your tits, your hair.

“Look at you,” Mingi groaned, brushing his cock against your soaked slit without pushing in yet. “All this for us?”

“Say it,” Hongjoong growled from somewhere behind you, voice like sandpaper and smoke. “Tell us what you are.”

Your lips parted, but Yunho beat you to it. “She’s our toy.”

“She’s our fuckdoll,” Wooyoung added with a chuckle, biting your collarbone hard enough to leave a mark.

“She’s nothing unless we’re using her,” San muttered, pushing two fingers into your mouth and watching your lips close around them greedily.

You moaned around his hand.

Then Mingi pushed in.

Your body arched, the stretch obscene, deep, overwhelming and fuck, you loved it. He bottomed out with a grunt, hips flush to yours, pulling back slowly just to watch your hole twitch before slamming back in again.

“Fuck, she’s tight,” he groaned, sweat dripping down his chest as he began to thrust.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t remember what silence sounded like when your name, no, your body was being passed around like a shared secret. Mingi fucking you while San fed you his fingers and Wooyoung marked your skin and Seonghwa gentle, beautiful Seonghwa was on his knees, kissing up your trembling thigh like worship.

“Wait your turn,” Hongjoong snapped, and Seonghwa obeyed with a low nod, eyes dark with restraint.

“You hear that, princess?” Yunho whispered, kneeling beside you and dragging his cock across your cheek. “You're gonna take us all. One by one. Until you're crying.”

Tears pricked your eyes already, but it wasn’t sadness. It was too much and not enough all at once.

Mingi groaned and pulled out, panting. “She’s ready. Who’s next?”

San shoved him aside with a growl. “Me.”

Your body felt ruined in the best way, thighs shaking, lips swollen, throat raw from moaning, crying, gasping. Mingi had just left you dripping, wrecked, and open on the couch, and San didn’t wait. His hands gripped your hips like he owned every inch of you, and maybe he did.

“You’re gonna take me like a good fuckdoll, right?” he growled, dragging his thick length up your slit and teasing your entrance, already soaked from Mingi. “Or do I have to break you in again?”

You tried to answer, but San didn’t give you the chance.

He slammed into you, a harsh snap of hips that punched a breathless moan out of your chest. He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease in. He fucked like he was angry like your pussy was the only thing keeping him sane, and he needed to ruin it just to breathe.

“Fucking tight,” he hissed, pounding into you with unrelenting rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the high mansion walls.

Hands grabbed at you roughly, greedy. Wooyoung was behind you now, gripping your jaw and forcing your head back.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. You obeyed instantly.

He slid in, no warning, cock heavy and already leaking.

Your throat gagged around him, spit dripping from the corners of your lips as he held your head still and used your mouth like a sleeve. "That's it, baby," he laughed breathlessly, "so fucking pretty like this. Full like you’re meant to be."

San’s thrusts didn’t falter once. In and out, bruising and perfect, his grip on your waist tightening every time you clenched around him. “You like this shit, huh?” he grunted. “Being passed around like our little cumdump.”

Tears spilled from your eyes, mouth full, pussy full, body trembling. You nodded best you could.

“She’s crying,” Yunho said from beside you, voice amused and dark. “Should we stop?”

“No,” Jongho replied bluntly. “She’s crying because she’s happy.”

“Isn’t that right, baby?” Yeosang leaned over, cupping your face gently, contrasting the brutal way San and Wooyoung were using you. “You like being our favorite toy.”

You whimpered around Wooyoung’s cock and nodded again, choking slightly when he shoved deeper.

“She’s so good for us,” Seonghwa said softly, one hand stroking your hair. “We should reward her.”

“Reward her?” Hongjoong snorted. “She’s not here to be spoiled. She’s here to be fucked.”

San came with a low growl, burying himself deep and holding you there as he spilled inside. His moan was rough, primal, dragging out as his hips twitched. He stayed for a beat longer, panting, then pulled out with a messy squelch that left your thighs sticky and your hole fluttering.

“Next,” he said, stepping back and wiping sweat from his chest.

Without warning, Hongjoong grabbed your jaw, yanked Wooyoung’s cock from your mouth, and slapped you across the face not hard, but enough to stun.

“Eyes on me,” he growled, stripping his shirt off. “It’s my turn now, and I’m not fucking gentle.”

He pulled your body forward by the hair and forced you onto your knees between his legs.

“You want to be used?” he spat, cock slapping against your lips. “Then open the fuck up.”

You obeyed instantly, letting him fuck your throat without hesitation. No rhythm. Just need. His hands fisted in your hair and he used you, hips snapping forward again and again until you were choking, drooling, your eyes rolling back. You felt the warmth of cum still leaking from your pussy, running down your legs, pooling beneath you.

You were shaking. And they were loving it.

“You were made for this,” Jongho murmured from above, slowly stroking himself as he watched. “All holes full. All thoughts gone. Just a pretty body for us to ruin.”

Hongjoong pulled out and came across your face, thick ropes landing on your lips, your cheek, dripping down your chin. He smeared it with his thumb and pushed it into your mouth. You swallowed without being asked.

“Who’s next?” he asked, breath ragged.

“Me,” Yunho growled. “On the floor.”

They flipped you onto your back. Yeosang lifted your legs. Yunho lined up and shoved in.

It was deep. Too deep. You screamed.

“Shh, baby,” Yunho whispered darkly, wrapping a hand around your throat. “You can take it.”

He fucked you slow but mean. Long, punishing strokes, his eyes locked to yours as he squeezed your throat just tight enough to make you dizzy.

“See what happens when you offer yourself up?” he murmured. “You stop being our friend. You become our fucking toy.”

You moaned high, broken, and wrecked, and Yeosang leaned down, pressing kisses along your chest.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, but there was a cruelty behind it. “So good at being nothing.”

Then he pressed himself between your lips. No warning. No pause.

You gagged as Yunho fucked from below and Yeosang thrust into your mouth.

It was chaos. Raw. Sticky. Loud. Hands everywhere. Breath hot against your skin. One cock after another. Inside, outside, everywhere.

By the time Jongho’s turn came, you couldn’t move.

He picked you up like a doll, spread your legs, and lowered you onto him slowly. You sobbed. He was thick, heavy, hard as stone.

“You’ll take all of us,” he whispered, barely moving, just stretching you wide and holding you there. “Even if it breaks you.”

You didn’t know what your name was anymore. Only that you existed to be filled.

And they weren’t done with you yet.

He held you there cock buried to the base inside your dripping cunt, thick and pulsing while your muscles trembled trying to stretch around him. His hands were wrapped around your waist, holding you up with ease, like your weight meant nothing to him, like you were nothing but a vessel for his pleasure.

You sobbed again, body exhausted, nerves frayed to raw edges, and yet... your pussy clenched. Around him. For him.

“Did you feel that?” San barked a laugh. “She fucking tightened on him.”

“She likes it,” Mingi growled. “She lives for this.”

Your head lolled to the side as Seonghwa approached again, cock flushed and leaking, dragging it across your parted lips. He tapped your cheek twice. “Say ‘thank you,’ doll.”

You couldn’t find the words. Only a whimper.

Tap. Harder this time. “Use your voice.”

“Th–thank you,” you whispered, lips glossy with drool and spit. “Thank you for using me.”

Seonghwa slid in.

You were being impaled from both ends Jongho lifting and dropping you on his cock with slow, punishing force, while Seonghwa fucked your mouth like it was his right. You were just a fucktoy between them now. Passed around, loaded, dripping. Full.

“She’s leaking again,” Yeosang murmured from above, voice cold and clinical like he was observing a specimen. “Already ruined and still ready.”

“Not ruined enough,” Hongjoong snapped.

“Then we fix that,” Yunho said. “Flip her. Now.”

Jongho lifted you off his cock your body clenched in protest and suddenly you were on your stomach across the couch cushions, ass raised, legs spread. Hands grabbed you from every angle. Spreading you. Smacking you. Testing which hole would give out first.

Then came the snap of a condom packet.

And the wet sound of lube.

You froze.

“Wh–who’s—”

“Don’t ask questions,” Mingi growled from behind you. “Just take it.”

One thick cock slid into your pussy again too fast. You cried out, overstimulated and twitching.

Then came pressure at your ass.

“Shh…” Wooyoung's voice was sweet and mocking as he kissed between your shoulder blades. “Relax, baby. Let us stretch you out.”

You clenched involuntarily. He didn’t stop.

Mingi thrusted deep again.

Then Wooyoung pushed in.

Slow, steady, splitting you open with slick precision until both of them were buried inside one in your pussy, one in your ass your body stretched past the edge of pain and deep into pleasure you couldn’t understand. Couldn’t survive.

You screamed.

And they moaned in unison.

“She’s shaking,” Wooyoung laughed breathlessly. “Fuck, she’s clenching like crazy.”

“Keep going,” Mingi grunted. “She’s not saying stop.”

You weren’t.

You couldn’t. You were drooling into the cushions, back arched, skin marked by dozens of hands and teeth. All you could do was take. And they gave. Roughly. Mercilessly.

“She’s ours,” Hongjoong said, kneeling beside you now, brushing sweat-drenched hair from your face. “She’s not a friend. Not a guest. She’s our property. Say it.”

You tried to speak. Failed.

He slapped you. “Say it.”

“I’m... yours,” you gasped.

“Whose?”

“All of you. I belong to all of you.”

Jongho fisted your hair and pulled your face up. “Louder.”

“I’m your fuckdoll!” you screamed, voice cracking. “I belong to all of you.. Use me!”

They didn’t need more permission.

Mingi and Wooyoung moved faster, pounding into you with animal force, stretching you so wide it felt like your body was split in two. You felt it everywhere, every nerve screaming, every muscle convulsing. Cum from earlier was still dripping out of you, mess mixing with lube, sweat, and spit as your body rocked between them.

Seonghwa straddled the couch in front of you and shoved his cock between your breasts, fucking your tits as Yunho slapped your ass red, hard, over and over until you were sobbing again from sheer overstimulation.

“She’s going to pass out,” Yeosang murmured.

“She doesn’t get to pass out until I cum inside her,” San hissed.

You came again. Harder than before.

It ripped through you like lightning, your body convulsing, clenching around them as you cried out their names in one endless string of praise and desperation. Your pussy spasmed around Mingi. Your ass clenched on Wooyoung. Your mouth dropped open with a silent scream.

And still, they didn’t stop.

Because you were no longer a friend. No longer a companion.

You were theirs.

You no longer knew where your body ended and theirs began.

You were shaking. Slick. Marked. Wrecked. Laid flat on the couch, face down, drool soaking the fabric. Holes stretched wide, trembling, still gaping from the double penetration that left your mind floating.

And they were still hard.

Still waiting.

Still hungry.

Hongjoong was crouched beside you again, tilting your head up by the chin, studying your ruined expression like a piece of art. “You thought we were done?” he asked, voice dripping with mock pity. “You don’t get to be done.”

“I can’t—” you croaked, eyes glassy.

“You will,” San snapped from behind, grabbing your arms and pulling them back. You cried out as your shoulders flexed, tits dragging along the soft fabric of the couch. “You don’t decide when this ends. We do.”

Rough fabric bound your wrists. You blinked down, one of their shirts, maybe Yunho’s, wrapped around your arms and knotted tight.

“You wanna act like a toy,” Yeosang said coldly, standing above you now, “then we’ll treat you like one.”

The world blurred as they flipped you, wrists bound behind your back, chest heaving, thighs trembling. Seonghwa shoved a pillow under your hips to keep you arched, spread, and vulnerable. Someone slapped your pussy. Hard. You whimpered.

“She’s still dripping,” Mingi muttered, dragging two fingers through the mess between your legs. He held them up to your lips. “Clean it.”

You sucked eagerly, tasting your own cum, sweat, and whatever they’d left behind.

“You’re disgusting,” Jongho said. “And so fucking perfect.”

Then came the stretch again.

Yunho slid into your ass, thick and slow, pulling a ragged sob from your throat.

You barely had time to adjust before Yeosang pushed into your pussy.

You screamed.

And then Seonghwa straddled your chest, cock dragging across your spit-soaked lips. “Open up,” he ordered.

You obeyed.

Triple penetration. Every hole filled. Every breath stolen.

Yunho behind you, thrusting hard and slow. Yeosang pounding your pussy like it offended him. Seonghwa was using your throat like it belonged to him. It was too much and somehow not enough.

They fucked you like a machine. Like your body was built for this. Like this was your purpose.

“She’s swallowing it,” Seonghwa groaned. “Her throat is fucking milking me.”

“Of course she is,” San muttered. “She’s trained for this.”

Tears streamed down your face, but your hips met every thrust.

Seonghwa came first, hot cum shooting into your mouth and spilling from the corners of your lips. He pulled out, letting it drip down your chin, smearing it across your cheek with two fingers. “Don’t waste it,” he hissed.

Then Yunho cursed, voice wrecked. “Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” His thrusts stuttered as he emptied himself deep in your ass, hands bruising your hips.

But Yeosang wasn’t done.

He flipped you again, bending your knees to your chest, locking his eyes with yours as he slammed in harder. Faster. Cruel.

“Cum with me,” he growled.

You did. Violently.

Your body convulsed, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm tore through you like a bomb. And Yeosang followed, burying himself deep and unloading everything inside until it leaked out around him and down your ass.

They pulled back and left you open, gaping, dripping, ruined.

“Look at that mess,” Wooyoung cooed, kneeling between your legs and spreading you wide. “So pretty.”

He dipped his fingers inside, scooping out cum and smearing it across your lower stomach. “Marking our territory.”

Then he leaned in and licked it up, slow, wet, obscene.

Your body jolted, too sensitive, too raw.

Jongho grabbed your ankles and flipped you again, dragging you over to the coffee table. “Crawl.”

You tried. Failed. Your limbs barely worked.

So they carried you.

San held your arms. Yeosang your legs. And they laid you back on the cool glass, tits up, lips parted, body still twitching. Someone was tying your ankles to the table legs, now open, vulnerable, utterly on display.

“She’s not cumming again until we all do,” Hongjoong said.

You whimpered.

They lined up.

One after the other.

Mingi came next across your chest, his cum painting your tits.

Then San fucking your throat until he filled it, watching you swallow and then spitting on your tongue for good measure.

Then Jongho slow, cruel thrusts into your raw cunt until he finished inside with a low grunt.

And Hongjoong last.

He didn't fuck you.

He knelt between your thighs, scooped up the cum that had pooled there, and rubbed it into your clit.

“Look at this used hole,” he murmured. “Ruined. Messy. Perfect.”

You were crying. Moaning. Shaking again.

“Ready for more?”

You weren’t sure how long you’d been tied to the coffee table, your arms bound behind your back, legs stretched wide and secured to the table’s edges with rope that bit into your skin. Cum coated your thighs, your breasts, your lips. The glass was fogged with your breath. You had long since stopped pretending to be anything but their property.

They watched you like gods circling their sacrifice. Every inch of your body had been used. Every hole stretched. Every part of your mind fogged over by pain and pleasure so vicious that it all melted into heat.

“She’s so fucked out,” Mingi laughed, running a lazy hand up your calf. “You still in there, sweetheart?”

You blinked. Barely. A moan slipped out instead of a word.

“She doesn’t need to answer,” Yeosang said, voice low. “Her body tells us everything.”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung chimed in, circling behind you, something plastic clinking in his hands. “She’s not here to speak. She’s here to feel.”

You flinched as cold touched your thigh. A smooth, buzzing hum.

A toy.

Your eyes flew open.

Wooyoung’s smirk was wicked. “That woke her up.”

The vibrator pressed against your clit soaked, puffy, swollen from overuse. The jolt of sensation made your entire body seize.

You screamed behind the gag.

Seonghwa had tied it in place minutes before, a thick black silk ribbon between your teeth, knotted cruelly at the back of your head.

“Quiet now,” he whispered in your ear. “We don’t want the neighbors hearing, do we?”

As if any part of this could be hidden.

Hongjoong knelt beside you, eyes dark and wild. “Look at her twitch. She’s shaking already. She’s gonna break.”

“She doesn’t get to break,” San growled. “She breaks when we say she does.”

And they didn’t say it yet.

Wooyoung pressed the toy harder. Circles. Pressure. Cruel rhythm. Every time you got close to cumming again, he’d pull away.

Again.

And again.

You screamed into the gag, sobbing through the denial. Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked up. Heat surged and disappeared like a tease just out of reach.

“You want to cum?” Yunho asked, voice like honey and venom. “Beg.”

You whimpered.

“Use your eyes, doll,” Yeosang murmured. “Beg us with your fucking eyes.”

You looked at them pleading, shattered. Your whole body was shaking, mouth dripping spit around the gag, chest rising and falling like you were drowning in want. And maybe you were.

“Pathetic,” San said, voice thick with arousal. “So fucking needy.”

“She’s ready,” Seonghwa whispered.

They untied you just enough to reposition you.

Then came the next stage.

They pulled you onto your knees and pushed your chest flat to the cold glass. You couldn’t hold yourself up, your arms were still bound behind your back, but it didn’t matter. You were theirs.

Hongjoong shoved the vibrator inside you this time, your slick swallowing it whole. A second one followed, smaller, pushed between your thighs and held in place by a hand you couldn’t see.

Then they all took seats.

Watching.

Mingi held a remote. “We’ll start slow.”

The toys buzzed to life.

Low. Then high. Then pulsing.

You choked around the gag, body convulsing as your orgasm slammed into you immediately.

Your scream was garbled, incoherent, but your body betrayed you, hips bucking, juices pouring, back arched in a way that screamed ruin me again.

They applauded.

“Good girl,” Wooyoung purred. “Now again.”

The toys didn’t stop.

Another orgasm.

Then another.

Your body gave up trying to come down.

It just kept going, shaking, leaking, jerking against invisible waves of overstimulation.

You’d lost count.

Had it been five? Seven? More?

Your voice was gone. You were sobbing. Hands gripped your hips, Yunho again, and pushed you up against his cock.

He slid in.

You were soaking. Stuffed. Full of buzz and slick and heat.

He didn’t move. Just held you there.

“Look up, pet,” he whispered. “Show me what that throat’s made for.”

Then Yeosang got in front of you.

You obeyed.

Because you didn’t have a choice.

Because you didn’t want a choice.

He shoved in.

You were spit roasted again. Yunho behind you, slow, torturous thrusts, and Yeosang in your mouth, face-fucking with that quiet rage he always hid behind beauty. The toys never stopped. You were cumming around Yunho and choking on Yeosang and sobbing through every thrust, gagged and bound and absolutely gone.

Hongjoong approached from the side, bent down, and whispered:

“You still haven’t broken.”

He turned the toy all the way up.

You came so hard your vision went white.

Then you collapsed.

But they didn’t let you rest.

You didn’t feel yourself go.

One second your body was tensed in orgasm, shaking, soaked, used.

The next, you were gone.

Collapsed. Mind wiped clean. No words. No awareness. Just black.

But even as you passed out, they kept going.

Yunho stayed inside you, cock still throbbing, thrusts slowing but never stopping. Your cunt milked him without your permission, body reacting purely on instinct. The vibrator was still humming inside, juices spilling down your thighs, soaking the floor under the table.

“She’s out,” Yeosang said, voice emotionless as he wiped spit off his cock and stared at your slack, ruined face.

Hongjoong crouched down, cupping your chin with one hand. “Still breathing.”

Mingi looked down at your wrecked body, tied, dripping, flushed red. “So fucking hot.”

They didn’t stop.

Because that’s what you were for.

“Wake her up,” Seonghwa said gently, brushing your hair back. But there was nothing soft in his eyes.

So they did.

A slap.

A hard one. Then another.

Your eyes fluttered open.

You gasped like you’d been pulled from drowning. Air slammed into your lungs. Tears pooled instantly. Your body spasmed.

“You’re okay,” San said, but it wasn’t comfort, it was command. “You’re not done.”

Your lips moved. No sound came out. You tasted cum and spit and salt.

“She’s awake,” Jongho confirmed. “Back in the game.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Because then Seonghwa climbed up, one knee on the table, then the other, and positioned himself directly over your face.

“I’m going to sit here,” he said, voice calm. “And you’re going to make me cum. No hands. No help. Just your mouth and your tongue. Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding slowly.

He lowered himself.

Your face was smothered in skin, his thighs around your ears, his cock resting on your lips, heavy and hard.

He began to roll his hips.

Slow. Controlled. Dominant.

“Breathe when I let you,” he whispered. “Or don’t. I don’t care.”

You licked. Sucked. Moaned against his weight as he rode your face like a throne, rocking until his hips stuttered. He came on your tongue, in your mouth, across your cheeks and kept you pinned under him.

“Good fucking girl,” he whispered, brushing your hair again as you gasped for air the second he lifted.

But there was no time to recover.

Jongho was between your legs again, spreading you open to reveal the mess inside.

“She’s full,” he murmured, dipping his fingers into your pussy. “So full, it’s leaking out.”

Wooyoung joined him. “Let’s fill her more.”

“What if we kept it all inside?” Mingi asked, half-laughing. “Tied her up, plugged her, and made her hold it.”

“Watch her belly swell with it,” Yunho added. “Like she’s getting knocked up with all of us at once.”

You moaned a broken, humiliating sound.

“You like that?” Hongjoong asked. “The idea of us fucking you full until you’re bloated and dripping?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please.”

They lost it.

The last of their self-control.

Hands everywhere grabbing, lifting, pulling. You were thrown over Yeosang’s lap, legs dangling, cunt exposed and already leaking. Someone shoved the vibrator back in, then held it there. Mingi slid his cock in beside it, two thick shapes stretching you open again.

Your stomach bulged slightly under the pressure.

“Fuck, look at that,” San hissed. “She’s stretching around it.”

They took turns again.

No order now. Just chaos.

San in your ass, rough and feral. Yunho in your mouth, face-fucking with your hair knotted in his fist. Jongho on your back, jerking himself onto your spine. Wooyoung forcing your legs open and watching the mess bubble up with every thrust.

And they didn’t stop filling you.

One load.

Then another.

Until you could feel it.

Heavy. Warm. Stretching your walls, pooling deeper. Cum spilling out, sliding down your ass, dripping onto Yeosang's lap in a puddle of proof.

Then they pulled back, admired their work.

Your body was limp again. Barely conscious. Tied, swollen, painted in spit and semen. Belly slightly puffed from how much they’d left inside you.

“She’s not broken yet,” Hongjoong said.

“Then we keep going,” Seonghwa answered.

Because you don’t stop a doll when it malfunctions.

You reprogram her.

You didn’t remember how long it had been.

Hours? A full night? Time had stopped meaning anything. You were no longer a person, just a body, leaking and pulsing and shaking under the weight of every orgasm they gave you. You’d passed out. Come back. Been used. Passed out again.

Now… you were still.

Bound. Gag removed. Knees tucked under you, arms behind your back, ropes soft but firm around your ankles and wrists, hair knotted, lips bruised. Caked in spit. Dried cum smeared across your skin like warpaint. A mess. Their mess.

They circled you now quiet, calm, spent. Each one touched you like you were theirs. Because you were.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Seonghwa murmured, running a hand through your tangled hair.

“No thoughts left,” San whispered. “Just obedience.”

“Just need,” Wooyoung added.

“Just us,” Yeosang said, and his fingers ghosted over the bruises he’d left on your hips.

You blinked up slowly. Your voice was barely a rasp. “Yours.”

They didn’t laugh. No teasing this time.

Only heat.

Still.

Present.

Dominant.

“She doesn’t need a name anymore,” Hongjoong said, crouching in front of you. His eyes were wild, but his voice was terrifyingly calm. “She belongs to us. She lives to serve.”

You swallowed. You nodded.

“You want a title, pet?” Yunho asked. “Something permanent?”

You opened your mouth.

Then Seonghwa leaned in and whispered it like a blessing.

“Doll.”

That word echoed in the space like gospel.

“That’s all she is,” Jongho said. “Our doll. Our perfect, empty, ruined little thing.”

Mingi brought the collar over.

Black leather. Silver ring in front. No name tag. No need.

You lowered your head willingly.

Hongjoong fastened it.

It clicked shut like a promise.

“You don’t get to speak anymore unless we tell you to,” he whispered. “You don’t get to cum. To breathe. To beg. Unless we say so.”

“Yes, Master,” you breathed.

And that was it.

The final shift.

You weren’t the friend anymore. You weren’t the guest, the girl in the mansion, the tease they toyed with.

You were property.

And you had never felt so fucking full.

San dragged you into his lap, pressing your back to his chest, spreading your legs for the others to see. “Look at her,” he growled. “Still leaking. Still twitching. Still wanting.”

Mingi cupped your breasts.

Wooyoung sucked a mark into your throat.

Yeosang stroked himself while staring at your ruined folds.

“She’s ready again,” Jongho muttered.

But Hongjoong shook his head. “Let her rest. She’s done. For now.”

They laid you out on the rug like art. Limbs loose. Breathing heavy. Cum still pooling between your thighs.

San kissed your temple.

Seonghwa cleaned your lips with a cloth.

Yunho undid the ropes and massaged your wrists.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “You took all of us. You let us destroy you.”

“And you loved it,” Yeosang murmured.

You nodded barely.

Tears welled up. Not from pain. From something deeper. Relief. Bliss. Love, even, in its filthiest, rawest form.

“You’re ours now,” Hongjoong said. “Forever.”

Your voice cracked as you whispered:

“I wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else.”

They smiled.

And as they cleaned you, kissed you, and wrapped your spent body in their warmth, you realized something:

You weren’t broken.

You were exactly what you were meant to be.

190 notes · View notes

electric-guillotines · 2 days ago

Text

Dolls Are For Playing With

WandaNat x Female Reader

Summary: You flushed lightly, blurting out, “I think I really like Tasha.”

A mischievous light entered Wanda’s eyes at that and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to something teasing and conspiratorial. “Oh, Tasha? Is that what we call her now?”

Content: 🔞 Fluff, light angst, praise and degradation, mommy kink, Dom/sub, enchanted strap, dumbification, Natasha is "Auntie Tasha" during playtime, mild age play if you squint, aftercare

Word Count: 5,856 Also available on [AO3]

Part 3 of "Her Lovely Shadow" series

Ever since the two of you settled in Sleepy Hollow, Wanda began hosting get togethers for her female friends, most of them people you at least knew in passing, and all of them rendering you helplessly outnumbered by a pack of dommes who loved nothing more than flustering you with playful banter.

More often than not, those evenings left you feeling small and pliant, and Wanda didn’t discourage you from feeling that way, at least when it was appropriate. She made sure you knew it wasn’t to be expected of you just because you were, for the most part, a submissive. Your boundaries were paramount. But if you happened to feel softer and quieter around those friends that wasn’t anything to feel guilty about.

It took a while to get used to others playfully teasing and cooing over you like an adorable treat, so at odds with your own self-image no matter how beloved Wanda made you feel. Now, you looked forward to seeing them, happy to soak up the attention.

Pepper was almost always the first to show up, elegant, put together, and relieved to truly relax for once. She was the most like Wanda with you, sweet and doting, but always conscientious about touch and what you were comfortable with.

Next was usually Natasha, confident and casual, already familiar. She was comfortable, safe, and yet a source of increasingly confused feelings, the one Wanda gave the most slack when it came to you.

Maria tended to arrive with or just after Natasha. Quieter than the others, she seemed to take the most joy in catching you unawares with a sly comment.

Carol was always last, making up for any tardiness with a platter of baklava after learning it was your favourite. She would wink as she handed it over, like she was sharing a secret with you.

Despite the collective teasing it often brought, you enjoyed the gatherings not only because the company was great, but because the atmosphere of understanding and acceptance put you at total ease. No one batted an eye if you felt the need to snuggle in Wanda’s lap, and if they did comment it was out of affection, sending your Mommy knowing smiles or cooing over your clinginess.

For the most part, it didn’t go further than teasing remarks. If it did, Wanda wasn’t above getting territorial, touching you with deliberate, bruising purpose that left your knees weak and your cunt dripping, all the while her eyes were fixed on the offending individual. You flushed red whenever it happened, yet you couldn’t help but feel giddy over it, and there were never any hard feelings when all was said and done. It was just easy , and while you’d grown comfortable with all of them you were especially fond of Natasha.

Natasha who happened to be the exception to that territorial response, who could get away with familiar touches, hugs, and even a cuddle if Wanda was dealing with something in the kitchen.

It occurred to you that perhaps, at some point along the way, certain wires had gotten crossed in your brain, and the moment it occurred to you was during a particularly frustrating session in the gym.

The problem started when you shared feelings of discontent with your fighting techniques one evening. The last mission had seen you forced into a close quarters brawl and though you survived it wasn’t without significant bruising both to your body and your pride.

Wanda had smoothed her hand across your brow, tucking some loose hair behind your ear.

“Oh, dorogaya (darling), you know Natasha would help if you only asked her. She hated seeing you like that as much as I did.”

The suggestion was so simple you felt a little embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner.

Truthfully, the thought had occurred to you, swiftly shanked and stuffed in a closet by the aforementioned bruised pride. But Wanda was right, for all her worry and fussing on the way home, Natasha was eerily quiet, checking you for breaks with the utmost care, her gentleness catching you off-guard.

Of course, when you approached her Natasha was more than happy to help work on your weak areas and you trusted her. She was a teammate and a friend, it just made sense to feel comfortable around her, defer to her superior rank and knowledge, follow her lead—it’s what you did on missions when paired and it’s what you did in training.

Embarrassing was the only word for it as you hit the mats with a damp thud, your legs swept out from under you in a move you should have seen coming.

With an annoyed huff, you sat on your knees, hands clenched in your lap as you replayed the last few seconds in your mind and immediately noted at least three things you’d done wrong.

“That’s alright,” said Natasha, a little breathless. “Take a minute to breathe.”

She was so certain, standing over you in the same tight fitting gym clothes as you with every perfectly sculpted muscle glistening in sweat and looking so much more at ease, so much more capable .

Your stomach curdled with something sour.

The voice of your old ‘instructor’ back in Hydra flitted through your mind, as harsh and unforgiving as his boot on your neck, berating your mistakes, your shortcomings, how pathetic and embarrassing you were for not meeting their standards.

With no small amount of effort, you pushed the memory down.

”I’m not getting this,” you sighed, picking at the hem of your shorts.

Natasha shook her head. “You know improvement doesn’t happen overnight,” she said, measured and understanding. “It takes time, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost.)“

The moniker was meant to soothe, to mollify, yet it only highlighted how useless you were being.

How pathetic, to need such coddling over a mistake you shouldn’t have made to begin with.

Worthless .

Bitterly, you muttered, “and I am a waste of yours.”

Warm fingers lifted your chin, holding you like steel wrapped in velvet, immovable and gentle at the same time, and found yourself staring up at Natasha with a look you had never seen on her face before.

Her jaw was tight, the line of her lips flat and humourless and her eyes were sharp and bright, piercing like a scalpel poised against the jugular.

It made your spine straighten.

She searched your eyes, letting you sit in the sudden heaviness wrapping around you. “No,” she said, low and firm. “No, you aren’t. I never want to hear you say that again, do you understand me?”

The words caught in your throat.

It wasn’t suffocating, the weight, rather it felt grounding, like being held from all angles, fixed to this point in time and space. Everything else fell out of focus, leaving only the warmth where her fingers held your chin and the intensity of her eyes.

Natasha’s brows raised. “I said, do you understand me?” She repeated, still in that hard, quiet tone of voice that should have made you cower if not for the obvious tenderness behind it.

Swallowing thickly, you wet your lips and answered her with a soft, “yes.��

When she continued to stare, you spoke again, louder. “Yes, I understand.”

Natasha searched your eyes again, scrutinising, looking for a sign you didn’t mean it. You did, you didn’t want to upset her, and on some level you knew what you said was both unwarranted and cruel.

Finally, Natasha relaxed and the piercing steel of her eyes softened. She brushed her thumb across your chin, a small gesture of affection. ”You’ll get it right, it just takes time. Now, are you going to behave?”

With a hasty nod, you tried to hold on to some kind of coherent thought and Natasha pulled you to your feet. The rest of the session passed in a mild haze you didn’t fully shake off until you hit the showers, and Natasha was never far, only leaving you to your own devices once she was sure you’d had something to eat and drink.

She squeezed your shoulder, smiling apologetically as she encouraged you to head home. “You did good today.”

You murmured a thank you and watched her leave, the lingering warmth of her touch curling in your chest.

---

Upon returning home, Wanda seemed more attentive than usual, like she expected to find you out of sorts.

Sitting down with you at the kitchen island with a fresh pot of tea, she laid her hand over yours, brushing her thumb across your knuckles.

“How was your session with Natasha?” she asked gently.

Her eyes were warm and soft, yet intense in a way that made you want to melt into her presence.

“It was…good,” you said, a little lost. “Nat was good with me. Patient.”

Wanda hummed encouragingly.

Taking a breath, you tried to articulate yourself better. “I got frustrated with myself and she corrected me,” you said, meeting Wanda’s understanding stare. “She was gentle. Held my chin and told me to stop beating myself up.”

She tilted her head slightly, stroking the back of your hand in slow circles. “And were you okay with that, malysh (baby)?”

Rather than rush to answer, you took a moment to consider how the interaction had made you feel. Not negatively, you knew that much, quite the opposite and that brought with it a wealth of other feelings.

Taking a breath, you nodded. “Yes. I felt safe.”

Wanda smiled, eyes sparkling with pride as you gave yourself space to think it through. “I’m glad you felt safe, thank you for telling me.”

You flushed lightly, blurting out, “I think I really like Tasha.”

A mischievous light entered Wanda’s eyes at that and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to something teasing and conspiratorial. “Oh, Tasha ? Is that what we call her now?”

Blushing, you looked away and started chewing your lip.

Wanda lifted her hand to your jaw, thumb brushing across your chin. “Tch, none of that,” she chided gently. “Look at me.”

You met her gaze without hesitation, making her smile, a little smug. “Tasha is very pretty, isn’t she, dolly?” Wanda teased, adoring the way you squirmed.

Helplessly, you nodded.

Wanda grinned like a fox who’d caught the hens. “How would you feel if she could see what a good little toy you are for me?”

The thought was like a pulse through your body, making your heart jump and an ache settle between your shifting thighs.

A tiny whine escaped your throat.

Chuckling, Wanda slid from her chair to move closer, pressing light kisses across your brow, your cheeks, your nose. “Words, baby,” she urged quietly, “how does that thought make you feel ?”

You wet your lips, trying to filter out the fuzz rapidly building between your thoughts. “Excited,” you whispered. “Nervous. Shy. Wet.”

Wanda leaned back enough to meet your hazy stare, her expression softening. “Then we should talk about this when you’re feeling a little more grounded,” she said, cupping your face with a care meant for spun glass. “What do you need from me, sweetheart?”

Feeling a little restless, you bunched your hands in the soft fabric of her blouse. “Jammies in the den?”

She laughed softly, kissing your hairline. “And all the cuddles you could ever need, malyshka (little one .)”

---

You did talk about it, of course, thoroughly, and you knew Wanda discreetly discussed the matter with Natasha.

That didn’t make you any less nervous the next time Wanda hosted, welcoming everyone in for a night of movies, wine, and decadent snacks.

While the den was a preferred location, it was small and cosy, and the living room was much more practical for an entire group to comfortably fit, not that it stopped Wanda from trapping you between her and Natasha. You half expected to be teased within an inch of your life only for Natasha to flash you a soft smile and Wanda to casually lay her arm around your shoulders, both actions anchoring you to the immovable fact that you were genuinely cherished.

After that, the rest of the night was easy as you relaxed, snuggling between them, enjoying the atmosphere as jokes and commentary flew at the film's expense.

Eventually, the evening wound down and as guests began to leave you took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, saying your goodbyes as you passed.

The cold water on your face was a relief, bringing back some clarity for the conversation you knew was going to happen.

Wanda had already spoken to Natasha separately. Doubtless, Natasha would be the last to leave tonight.

If she left at all.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach.

Taking a grounding breath, you finished drying your hands and stepped out into the hall.

You found them in the kitchen, standing close enough that they looked positively conspiratorial , like they were scheming together, and that thought sent a heady shiver down your spine.

Wanda spotted you first and made a ‘come hither’ gesture, her smile so disarming that you almost forgot your nerves.

“There you are,” she murmured. She slid an arm around your waist and kissed your brow. “It’s time for that talk, malysh (baby.) ”

You glanced up at Natasha to see a gentle look on her face you’d never seen before, open and warm in a way that immediately put you at ease, soothing the butterflies in your stomach.

“Okay,” you said.

Leading you into the den, Wanda sat down and pulled you into her lap so you were sitting sideways, easily able to see Natasha at the other end of the corner couch and allow Wanda to stroke your back.

“Firstly,” Natasha started, “thank you for trusting me, both of you.”

You nodded, as did Wanda, and she continued, “secondly, I want to be clear that whatever way this goes, it’ll be done at the pace you’re comfortable with. And, if you decide this isn’t what you want, there will be absolutely no awkwardness or hard feelings. Your comfort is paramount.”

A small smile turned your lips. “Thank you, Tasha.”

Her brows raised ever so slightly at the name, and she smiled.

Wanda smirked, brushing some hair behind your ear. “Now is that the name you want to use?” she teased.

You shivered, shyly ducking your head. “Thank you, Auntie Tasha,” you mumbled, heart pounding against your ribs.

Wanda gently forced your head up. “It’s rude not to look at someone when you address them,” she whispered, her warmth breath on your neck making you twitch.

The heat in your belly was warm and thick like honey as you raised your eyes to look at Natasha properly again. “Thank you, Auntie Tasha,” you said without looking away, loud enough to be heard clearly.

Natasha didn’t look surprised in the slightest, the smile on her face shifting to a playful smirk. “Of course, kukolka (little doll) ,” she purred, a hint of condescension dripping into her raspy voice, “Mommy’s polite little girl, hmm?”

Swallowing thickly, you tried to keep your thoughts somewhat coherent and looked at Wanda.

She tilted her head at your imploring expression. “What is it, malyshka (little one )?” she asked warmly, running her finger down the bridge of your nose in a gesture that immediately soothed you.

Gathering yourself, you glanced across at Natasha. “Can Auntie Tasha stay tonight?”

Wanda and Natasha shared a look, before Wanda asked, “would you like that?”

You looked at her and nodded firmly, feeling a little bolder. “Yes, Mommy,” you said, and turned your head to give Natasha your best doe eyes, “I want her to see you fuck me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, from Wanda or Natasha you weren’t sure but it was probably both of them, the tension in the room suddenly feeling like the jaws of a beartrap about to snap shut, and you were quite happily poking the trigger, willing it to close on you.

Natasha’s eyes darkened, locked onto yours with a hunger you hadn’t seen before.

Warm lips brushed your throat. You shivered, clutching at Wanda tighter, your hips jolted in search of friction. The tingling between your thighs had become a persistent ache.

Pulling herself away from your neck, Wanda asked, “boundaries, malysh (baby.) Do you only want Natasha to watch us?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Wanda rubbed at the small of your back. “I know you have an idea in that adorable little head of yours,” she said encouragingly. “Let us hear it.”

You hurried to speak before your nerves could get the better of you. “I want Auntie Tasha to warm me up before I ride you, Mommy. Want to kiss her while you fuck me.”

Heat burned its way up your neck as the words escaped. “W-would you like that?” you asked quickly.

Wanda hummed with satisfaction. “Oh, I would, dolly , I would,” she husked.

Natasha leaned forward on her knees, her dark eyes more intense than ever. “Dirty girl,” she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and ravenous, “I would love that.”

Carefully grabbing your chin, Wanda brought your eyes back to her. “You remember what to do if you want to slow down or stop?”

Nodding, you answered firmly, “traffic lights, and my safeword is Basilisk.”

It was a word you could never forget and even saying it now made your shoulders tense, bringing a shot of clarity to your thoughts. The codename Hydra used for you when you were still just a weapon, an experiment. No one but the people involved in your rescue had that information, the public knew you by the alias ‘Revenant,’ so this was the only time you would hear it. Cold, startling, and immediately anchoring.

Wanda’s expression softened, like she was looking at something impossibly delicate, held you like something delicate, and kissed the tip of your nose. “Thank you, dorogaya (darling).”

A warm feeling fluttered through your chest, light and soothing, easing the tension in your shoulders. You pressed close, kissing Wanda properly, sliding your hands up her neck and into her hair, sliding your tongue between her lips and drawing a low moan from her.

After a moment, Wanda broke the kiss and smirked. “Now, now, dolly,” she said, “you wanted Auntie Tasha to get you ready for me didn’t you?”

Blushing, you looked over at Natasha, who was now reclining, watching the two of you with a mix of amusement and desire.

She lifted her chin with a smirk and made a ‘come hither’ motion. “Come here, printsessa (princess.) ”

The command hooked somewhere low in your stomach, Natasha’s voice low and coaxing, like honeyed smoke, and you easily got up from Wanda’s lap to stand in front of Natasha, unsure if she wanted you in hers or standing.

Natasha held out her hand like she was offering to help a princess down from the carriage.

Taking her hand, you sank down and straddled her. It wasn’t a new experience to be so close after training and fighting alongside her, that wasn’t what made your heart flutter, it was the way her eyes dropped to your lips.

Her hands slid confidently up your thighs and pulled you closer by the hips, slipping over your waist, the dip of your spine—the firm pressure of Natasha’s hand on the back of your neck almost made you go limp. Instead you leaned in and kissed her, grasping at her leather jacket.

Natasha kissed you at an indulgent, unhurried pace, taking the time to savour this new experience. She slowly kneaded at the back of your neck, helping you relax against her.

You couldn’t help your soft moan at her touch and the moment it escaped her tongue slipped between your lips, the silky sweep of it sending your thoughts into a tailspin.

Just as you began to need air, she pulled back, briefly catching your bottom lip between her teeth. She dragged them down the line of your jaw, nibbling and kissing her way to your throat.

You whined, sliding your hands into her hair so you could pull her against you.

She nearly growled, making you tremble. “Oh, I would mark you, kotenok (kitten,)” she sighed, “but your Mommy would be very upset with me. You don’t want that do you?”

Looking over your shoulder, you were met by the sight of Wanda casually lounging in lingerie, faint red wisps lingering around her body, and your cunt throbbed. The lingerie was sheer and silky, the black material stark against her pale skin, and your eyes were immediately drawn to the scarlet strap-on jutting between her thighs that almost seemed to pulse with its own unearthly light–you knew immediately what she’d done.

Gracefully, she rose from her place on the couch and leaned over you, trapping you between their bodies as she pulled Natasha into a fiery kiss.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from their lips, watching Wanda plunder Natasha’s mouth with such ease that you briefly imagined Natasha on her knees for your Mommy. Wanda casually resting a hand on Natasha’s throat only reinforced that particular little fantasy.

Pulling away, Wanda smiled down at Natasha, who looked more than happy with her position. “You are both very overdressed,” Wanda husked, “shall we change that?”

You and Natasha hurried to agree, and in a sweeping rush of red energy both of you were rendered naked.

A shiver of delight ran through you feeling Wanda pressed against your bare back and Natasha’s breasts against your own, your thoughts scattering as they caught up with the sight of her naked body beneath you.

You whimpered, squirming between them. “Please,” you begged, “need you both.”

Natasha chuckled softly. “It’s okay, kukolka (little doll) . Mommy will take care of you soon,” she soothed, slowly moving her hands down your body, teasing your breasts and rubbing your nipples in slow circles with her thumbs. “We just have to make sure you’re ready for her don’t we?”

Nodding helplessly, you whimpered and moaned as Natasha pinched your nipples hard enough to make your spine straighten. One hand she returned to your neck for stability, the other slid further down, skating across the lithe muscles of your stomach and finally meeting the soaking heat between your thighs.

Her fingers slipped through your folds, gathering your wetness and rubbing it over your throbbing clit. “Oh, your little dolly is very needy, Wands,” Natasha crooned. “Her pussy is just begging for Mommy’s cock.”

The words made you flush all over again and you whined, hips rocking in search of more relief.

Natasha grinned, pressing harder on your clit in slow, rough circles that made you tremble between them, arousal starting to drip down your thighs.

Wanda’s hands moved down your shoulders and the slope of your back, nails dragging against your skin just hard enough to raise red lines in their wake. You relaxed at the warmth of her palms sliding into place around your waist, holding you steady just as Natasha leaned in to kiss you again.

With the two of them on you you couldn’t decide where to focus your attention, pulled between the newness of Natasha and the comforting familiarity of Wanda, it was making your head spin. Not that you could do anything about it—you didn’t want to.

Something big and firm pressed between your thighs, making you squeak and cling to Natasha. You canted your hips and felt a pleasurable rush down your spine when Wanda chuckled darkly, murmuring praise you heard as intent more than words, your thoughts becoming loose and soupy.

Wanda slowly rocked her hips, grinding the strap against your slick cunt, the ridges catching against your swollen clit and making you moan into Natasha’s mouth.

Breaking off, Natasha trailed kisses down your jaw and softly bit at your ear. “Hold still, kotenok (kitten) ,” she said, sliding a hand into your hair and gripping just hard enough to keep you in place as she lavished your tender neck with attention.

You trembled but did as you were told, trying not to squirm and buck and whine for them to fuck you already. You knew if you were good you’d get what you needed, and you so desperately wanted to be good for them, even if it meant fighting your own body so you didn’t try to take Wanda’s strap before she decided to give it to you.

Wanda laughed, leaning close so her lips were next to your ear. “You’re trying so hard, dolly,” she teased, all faux sympathy, “what a good little slut you are.”

Heat rushed to your face. Your thoughts were so easy for her to hear in this state, but you trusted her completely, you knew you were safe, so all you had for her was love.

With a telling softness, Wanda kissed your temple. “I love you too , ” she whispered.

Straightening up, Wanda slid her hands down to your hips, kneading appreciatively at the swell of your ass before she carefully guided the strap to your dripping entrance. It slipped in easily, stretching you open in one long, slow push that left you trembling in Natasha’s lap, whimpering when Wanda finally bottomed out.

Natasha smirked at the slack look of pleasure on your face. “Oh, does that feel good, printsessa (princess) ?” she purred, lazily toying with your clit.

You could barely find the words to answer her and Wanda didn’t give you the chance, withdrawing only to thrust back inside hard enough to force a keen from your lips.

Her pace was steady and forceful, your eyes beginning to roll back each time she plunged into you, hitting a spot that had you clenching hard around her. Wanda growled at the sensation, pulling you back to meet her thrusts, the smack of skin on skin easily filling the small space of the den.

At a tug on your hair you refocused to find Natasha staring at you mesmerised, a lazy smile on her face. “Is Mommy making you feel good?” she teased, sweet and condescending at the same time. In a clearer headspace you might have assumed Wanda told her what effect that tone had on you, as it was all you could do was nod dumbly, whimpering and moaning as Wanda fucked every last thought out of your head.

Natasha chuckled. “Are you gonna cum on Mommy’s cock like a good little slut?”

The tightening in your belly certainly said so, but you knew better than that, quickly babbling, “please may I cum? Mommy, can I cum, please, please, please?”

Wanda dug her nails into your hips. You could hear the smirk in her voice when she said, “I don’t know, dolly. What does Auntie Tasha think?”

Desperately, you wrapped your arms around Natasha’s shoulders, doing your best to focus and look at her pleadingly.

Natasha cupped your face in her hands, staring at you like an intricate treasure she could spend hours appreciating.

The tension in your belly was only getting worse. “Please, Auntie Tasha,” you begged, “please may I cum?”

She pretended to think about it, watching every little twitch and shudder as you got closer to falling apart between them despite your best efforts to hold on. “Of course you can, kukolka (little doll),” she purred, “give me a show.”

And you did, babbling your ‘thank yous,’ your eyes rolling back, your spine arching, and the tension in your belly finally snapping, rippling through your body from head and curling toes like fire in your veins. Wetness gushed around the stretch of Wanda’s cock, your walls milking her length and making her groan, her hips stuttering against you.

Growling, Wanda fucked you harder, prolonging your orgasm while she chased her own, hissing what a filthy girl you were, so desperate for Mommy to fill you.

Natasha echoed the sentiment, “the little whore wants to feel Mommy’s cum dripping out of her needy cunt, doesn’t she?”

You keened, unable to find the words, clutching Natasha’s shoulders like an anchor in a storm.

Finally, Wanda bottomed out with a snarl, rocking into your ass as her cock throbbed inside you, spilling silken heat against your fluttering walls until it started to leak, glassy and shimmering.

You had a moment to breathe, sagging against Natasha who stroked up and down your back, kissing the top of your head soothingly. “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart, printsessa (princess) ,” she murmured.

Wanda gently pulled out, rubbing your hips when you whimpered at the emptiness. “You did so well, malysh (baby).”

A single coherent thought passed through your head and you grabbed it immediately, looking over your shoulder at Wanda. “Mommy, can Auntie Tasha fill me too?” you asked, far too innocently for what you were saying.

Both women inhaled at that, a beat of silence passing between them.

Natasha raised a brow at Wanda, silently deferring to her, and Wanda smirked. “Of course she can, sweet girl,” she said.

They easily manoeuvred you between them, Wanda reclining in the corner of the couch with her thighs spread and you nestled between them, her hand in your hair as she brought your mouth to her cock.

She smiled sweetly at you, “you made such a mess of Mommy, malyshka (little one), it’s only right that you clean up after yourself.”

You were more than happy to open your mouth for her, letting her slide her cock passed your lips and set the pace as you diligently licked and sucked all traces of yourself from the warm silicone.

Wanda lifted her free hand, scarlet energy snaking across her fingers.

Behind you, there was a brief flash of red and your heart jumped, moaning around Wanda with excitement.

She chuckled, staring down at you with adoration and just a hint of sadism in her eyes. “Yes, dolly,” she said, adjusting her grip on your hair. “Auntie Tasha is going to fuck your needy little cunt now.”

The head of Natasha’s strap found your entrance, soaked and still dripping with the syrupy magic Wanda left behind. She found no resistance when she started to push, slipping inside you so easily that she bottomed out in one swooping motion.

Both of you groaned and some distant corner of your mind wondered if this was the first time Natasha got to feel it, but now wasn’t the time for thoughts, quite the opposite.

With your hips raised and a cushion placed beneath them, you relaxed completely with Wanda’s hand in your hair and Natasha’s on your waist, both of them moving you as they wished, using your body for their pleasure.

Wet, muffled noises escaped you as she guided your head up and down her cock, sucking at the tip and rubbing your tongue against the underside when she had you all the way down. All the while she cooed at you, equal parts mocking and sweet, “aw, is dolly’s head all fuzzy?”

Words were impossible so you hummed in agreement, staring up at her with glazed, adoring eyes.

Natasha growled a quiet curse in Russian, thrusting with a steady, pounding rhythm that had the heat in your belly stoked higher and higher. Even with the new sensation, she was careful, methodical, paying attention to every shift of your body, any cues from Wanda that this was too much, only getting rougher when you canted your hips so she could fuck you harder.

Wanda smiled darkly, giving your hair a light tug and sending a tremble through your body. “Are you just a mindless little slut for us?” she teased.

You moaned loudly at that, sucking harder on her cock and making her breath hitch.

Panting slightly, Wanda held your head still and began rocking up into your mouth. “She’s such a pretty toy, isn’t she, Nat?” she hissed, her lips curling in a satisfied sneer, her eyes glowing with a faint red light you wanted to lose yourself in.

Natasha wrapped her arms around your waist, leaning down until she was flush against your back as she drove her hips into you. “ Prekrasnaya printsessa ,” she said raggedly, “ ty sozdana dlya nas (beautiful princess, you are made for us.)”

Whoever came first it didn’t really matter, one set off another, and another. All you knew or felt was a bone melting heat rushing through your body, happily swallowing what Wanda gave you, feeling Natasha throb inside you and fill your cunt with more pearlescent cum. Every nerve felt electrified and you shuddered between them, loose-limbed and hazy without a single clear thought passing through your mind.

When it finally calmed, you went slack, utterly worn out.

If they spoke you didn’t notice, all you really paid attention to were the gentle touches, the soft, soothing tone they spoke with to you as they gently extricate themselves from your body and began to take care of it. Soft, slender fingers stroked through your hair, and firm, calloused hands slowly rubbed up and down your back.

The second pair of hands withdrew when you responded to a question with a hum, recognising the intent rather than the words themselves.

A warm damp cloth began to wipe the sweat from your skin and you whined when you were encouraged to roll onto your back, clinging to Wanda whose lap you were in.

She leaned down until her hair fell in a red curtain around your faces, touching her nose to yours. “You did so well for us, sweetheart,” she said warmly, “you were perfect.”

You jumped slightly when you felt the cloth gently clean the slick mess between your thighs, whimpering from the sensitivity.

Wanda hushed you softly, kissing your brow. “It’s okay, malysh (baby) , just Tasha taking care of you just like I do.”

You blinked sleepily, looking down to see Natasha doing exactly that. When your eyes met she smiled so kindly it made your heart flutter, her stare utterly disarming like she was looking at a tired kitten.

Natasha set the cloth aside and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your stomach. “All done, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost) ,” she said fondly.

Lifting your arms, you made grabby motions at her, prompting her to glance at Wanda who just grinned. “I should have warned you,” she said with no trace of apology, “aftercare cuddles are mandatory.”

Natasha rolled her eyes with a laugh. “Alright, just let me grab us some water and snacks first,” she said, smiling down at you, “can you be a good girl and wait a little longer for me?”

You pouted but let your arms drop, grumpily twisting to hide your face in Wanda’s stomach. “Okay,” you mumbled.

Natasha got up on slightly unsteady legs and disappeared to the kitchen.

Glancing up at Wanda, you found her watching you with amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Did you have fun, malyshka (little one)? ”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes! Did you, Mommy? Did Tasha?"

She smiled, scrunching her nose at you as she leaned down to kiss your brow again. “I did, malysh (baby)," she said, "and why don't you ask her when she comes back? But I think you know the answer already."

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda x reader #reader insert #wlw fanfic #wlw smut #wanda maximoff #lesbian #wanda smut #marvel smut #series: Her Lovely Shadow #this has been haunting me for weeks #BEGONE THOT(s)

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kozykricket · 3 days ago

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i think theres a lotta good points in the above posts ^ but id like to add some of my own two cents.

ive talked to friends about like, themes of Preservation in deltarune, and like... yea, i think something that undertale and deltarune will end up both confronting in their own ways is... yearning for the past. in undertale, asriel... admits that he really just wants to reset everything, and go back to how things were. he misses the old days with chara. and what do we see in deltarune? well, two families: the dreemurrs and holidays... who seemingly had a fun past together - one spoken of very fondly, at least. Tenna sure speaks of asriel, dess, and noelle fondly.

I think... the main motive / theme around everything going on with Dess and the Knight .. is about bringing back that lost past. Carol particularly seems... very nostalgic and very determined to preserve what is left of the past. I mean, shes shown to be a bit obsessive with the whole "getting paper snowflakes bronzed so as to not lose them" she keeps dess' stuff completely untouched. She doesn't want to move forward... but now things are different and also! asgore! seems to be involved in all this weird stuff, and he for sure misses the old days of a happy family life. he wants it back.

I think it all ties in well with the clear themes of escapism. Escaping from the rough experience of the present, to the idea of different events having taken place, leading to a different present. But... we can't go changing the past or yearning for how things couldve gone. We can only change the future, y'know? Embrace the new, be hopeful of a new future. Maybe there seems to be only one path forwards now, fundamentally a sad one, but… its not just about that One Sad Way Forward . its about what you can change about the path. How, yes, there IS perhaps only one way to go from here, only one ending.

idk, this is very unorganized, which is funny bc this is the second draft. but. I think deltarune as a whole might dive particularly deep into how... maybe we are "stuck with one way to go" as in, forward. but we can still change how we approach that way forward, and... as toby has said, theres something more important than reaching the end. We can make little changes, here and there, to make that one-way-forward into a better one. And, I think susie represents a bit of both past and future. she wants a better future, but she also... like anyone else, wants things to stick to the way they are. Shes certainly not an "upholder of the status quo" by any means, but i think she... wants the "status quo" of ch2 fun-times to be how things always are.

but most of all, just. Shoutouts to this post

if dess is the knight i hope we cant restore it back to normal but it still hangs around. noelle voice this is my freaky scary sibling and i love them. and meanwhile it's just floating ominously behind her.

#jake post #deltarune #deltarune spoilers

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levanswrites · 2 days ago

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troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank.

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed.

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts.

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills.

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go.

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser.

Freak.

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug.

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this?

This he’s good at.

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page.

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced.

Then:

Churn.

Nope.

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then:

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?”

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze.

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone.

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly.

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch.

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway.

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head.

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale.

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real.

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels.

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked.

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact.

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?”

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging.

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale.

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips.

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest.

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch.

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?”

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm.

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod.

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you.

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while.

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy.

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly.

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks.

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look.

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine.

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight.

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—”

He laughs.

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window.

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall.

You lick your lips again.

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth.

After that, you go quiet again for a while.

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread.

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat.

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward.

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should.

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric.

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning.

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know.

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play.

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space.

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while.

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you.

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows.

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer.

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek.

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed.

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him.

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips.

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow.

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord.

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything.

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky.

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod.

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight.

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door.

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console.

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes.

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel.

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink.

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters.

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #stranger things #stranger things fic #fluff #angst #pining #first kiss #light angst #cw drugs

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