#but yeah. have this. one step at a time!!!!

[goblin-jr]

you don't have to know that its haunted

sequel to everything's growing in our garden

jason todd x wife! reader

synopsis: its been a week since Jason came home with a baby. and a week since nobody's heard from him. the bats are starting to get worried

words: 5.5k

---

The warehouse in the Narrows was full of angry men with bigger guns and worse aim.

Tim ducked behind a crate, firing off two smoke pellets in quick succession. “Red Robin to Nightwing. East flank’s covered.

Duke ducked a swinging pipe and countered with a sweep kick. “This would be going a lot faster if someone was here!”

“Who?” Steph called from across the concrete floor, dodging a hail of bullets like she was on a trampoline. “You mean the guy who insisted on leading this raid and then ghosted us for a week straight?”

“I’m sure he has a good reason,” Dick grunted, grappling up to a rusted support beam to take out a sniper. “Probably just... busy.”

“‘Busy’ like disappeared-off-the-face-of-the-earth busy?” Tim ducked behind a crate, flicked a batarang, and it thunked into someone’s shoulder with a satisfying yelp. “He hasn’t answered a single text!”

“No comms. No pings. No passive-aggressive threats in the group chat,” Steph added, ducking a blow and elbowing her attacker in the jaw. “I miss his threats. They kept me humble.”

Damian landed in the middle of three goons like a meteor. His sword was sheathed but his fists were doing plenty of talking.

“Hood is fine,” he said, punching a guy square in the nose. “Probably sulking.”

The fight thinned out fast after that. The last of the gang scattered once their heavy hitters hit the floor, and Nightwing gave the all-clear. Dick tapped his comm. “Nice work. Everyone good?”

Steph flipped down from a crate. “Day six of no Jason. Day six of me doing double recon. No, I am not good”

“Day seven,” Tim corrected, frowning. “He last checked in last Thursday. Sent a selfie with a crowbar and a note that said ‘feeling cute might stop a trafficking ring later.’”

“Oh right.” Steph sighed. “Day seven. That’s a whole week. What the hell.”

They regrouped at the center of the warehouse, stepping over unconscious bodies and bits of broken crate. Someone had definitely been smuggling illegal tech. Damian kicked a smoking drone away with a grimace.

“I mean, this isn’t unlike him,” Duke said. “Disappearing used to be his brand.”

“He hasn’t done it once since the wedding,” Steph pointed out. “Not since he went full domestic. ‘New year, new me,’ or whatever. He bought houseplants. He answers texts.”

“He came to game night,” Dick added, nodding. “He made cocktails. Cocktails. With little name cards.”

“Married Jason is weird,” Tim muttered. “Weird and reliable.”

Cass tilted her head. “He loves her.”

Steph nodded. “Yeah. He’s happy.”

“And now he’s gone,” Damian said flatly. “Do we think she finally realized she’s out of his league?”

Everyone turned.

Damian rolled his eyes. “What? I am simply suggesting she developed self-awareness.”

Dick exhaled slowly. “No. Something’s wrong.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough to feel the worry settle in.

“No sightings on patrol,” Tim murmured, pulling out his tablet. “No activity on his usual burner numbers. No Red Hood reports. No dead traffickers or dramatic flaming bike tracks in the street.”

Steph added, “Also no passive-aggressive tweets. Not even a cryptic one about guns and how much he loves his wife. He’s gone dark everywhere.”

“That’s not Jason,” Dick said. “Not anymore.”

Duke sighed. "We check in?"

Dick was already typing on his phone.

Delivered. Read.

No reply.

—

Your apartment looks like a Babies “R” Us exploded.

There are bottles drying on the dish rack, a folded blanket fort on the couch, diapers stacked in the corner like munitions. The baby swing clicks softly every time it rocks, a white noise machine hums from the bedroom, and you’re pretty sure the stuffed penguin Jason impulse bought on the first night may be sentient. 

This is not the life you imagined. It is infinitely better.

One week since a warehouse fire, a crying baby, a soot-covered vigilante, and the soft click of a window latch just before your life changed forever.

Briar has opinions now.

He yells at the ceiling fan. He grumbles when the bottle’s too cold. He has a deeply emotional relationship with Jason’s hoodie strings. He does not like being put down. At all. Ever. Not even a little bit.

Which is why, even though the apartment is full of lovingly Amazon-primed baby gear, Jason’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed, shirt rumpled, and hair a mess from where Briar’s been gripping it like a lifeline. He’s humming absentmindedly, tunelessly as he rocks a very serious baby against his chest. Briar, in his little footie pajamas, is holding Jason’s necklace like it grants him power. His tiny fist clenches and unclenches around the chain every time Jason shifts.

Jason’s eyes are dark-ringed, his voice hoarse.

He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful.

The baby snuffles, then lets out a soft little sigh against Jason’s chest, nuzzling under his jaw like he was born to fit there. Jason looks down with something painfully soft in his expression. He hasn’t shaved in three days. You think he’s scared to put the baby down.

“Ma,” he whispers, not even looking up. “He’s doin’ the thing again.”

You peek over. “Which thing?”

“The Velcro baby thing. Every time I move, he—” Jason shifts slightly and Briar lets out a pre-cry squawk. Jason winces. “Yeah. That.”

You laugh, and your voice cracks like old vinyl. “Congratulations. He’s imprinted. You’re the momma duck now.”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, eyes still on the baby. “Guess he’s got shit taste.”

“He has excellent taste,” you say, running your fingers through Jason’s hair. “That’s the man who saved him. You’re his person.”

Jason didn’t answer for a moment. He just looked down at Briar, who shifted closer and is currently very impressed by his own hand. Jason’s whole expression softened.

Then his phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He groans and reaches for it with his free hand, squinting at the screen.

“…Dickhead,” he says.

“Is that an insult or a contact name?”

“Both.”

You lift your head. Jason holds the phone out so you can read it:

You okay? No pressure. Just checking in. We miss you. Hope you’re safe.

You blink. “You didn’t tell your family?”

Jason looks at you. You look at the baby. Briar, still clinging to Jason like a barnacle, lets out a sleepy judgy little squeak and goes back to gnawing on his own hand.

Jason clears his throat. “I… was going to.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He wilts. “I just, I didn’t want to share yet. I wanted a minute. With him. With you. Just… us.”

You don’t say anything for a second. You just reach across the floor, touch his arm, and rub your thumb across a freckle near his wrist.

“You got a minute,” you say softly. “You got seven days.”

Jason looks back down at Briar, who is staring up at him with round, blinking eyes and one sock halfway off his foot. “He’s not gonna like it.”

“Dick?”

“No. Bruce.”

You frown, shifting so your knees bump his thigh. “He won’t be upset.”

Jason huffs, adjusting his grip as Briar decides now is a great time to arch his back and wiggle like a fish. “You don’t know him like that.”

You reach over and gently tug the tiny sock the rest of the way off before Briar can eat it. “I don’t have to. I know you. And you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Jason’s jaw works, but he doesn’t say anything. You’ve learned that silence from him doesn’t always mean disagreement. Sometimes it just means processing.

You press your hand into his. “Call Alfred.”

Jason blinks.

“Tell him we want to come over. Tomorrow. For lunch. Say we’ve got a surprise.”

Jason looks at his phone again, like it weighs a thousand pounds. His jaw works as he thinks. Then, slowly, he swipes open his contacts.

He finds the name and hits call. You can hear the phone ringing from where you sit. One ring. Two. Then:

“Master Jason,” comes the warm, unflappable voice on the other end.

Jason clears his throat. “Hey, Alfie.”

“You have been notably absent. I trust everything is well?”

Jason’s eyes flick to you. You nod. He nods back, like you’re passing courage between your hands. “Yeah. Yeah, actually. Everything’s… it’s really good. Uh. Listen, I was wondering if we could come by tomorrow?”

There’s a pause on the line.

“We?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Me and… my family.”

His voice breaks just slightly on the word.

From the other end: “Of course, Master Jason. Lunch will be ready at noon.”

“Should I set the dining room for the usual, or…?”

Jason freezes for a second. He doesn’t say anything.

And then, from the other end of the call, so gently you almost miss it:

“How many places should I set, sir?”

Jason closes his eyes. Of course Alfred figured it out. 

You watch his face. Watch the weight slide off his shoulders like dust in a sunbeam. He looks at you, then down at Briar, who lets out a tiny grunt and tugs on his shirt like dad. focus.

“…Three,” Jason says quietly. “Set three places for us.”

---

The first to notice the sound is Tim. He’s halfway through a second espresso when the low rumble of an engine cuts across the Manor’s quiet grounds.

He doesn’t look up right away, Jason’s engines are a regular soundtrack, but then he frowns.

“…That’s not his bike.”

Steph lifts her head from where she’s lying upside-down on the couch, feet thrown over the backrest, and blinks at him. “What?”

“It’s not his bike,” Tim says again, already moving to the window.

That’s enough to trigger the alarm. Within seconds, the manor is in motion.

Cass drifts silently into the hallway, already a shadow among shadows. Damian stalks down the stairs like he’s challenging someone to single combat before breakfast. Dick appears out of nowhere, half a protein bar in his mouth, phone pressed to his ear. He mumbles, “I’ll call you back, babe—yeah, promise, later tonight,” before hanging up with a sheepish grin. Duke strolls in like the only one who got a full eight hours and doesn’t secretly live in a clocktower.

They crowd the windows like old women at a neighborhood watch meeting.

Steph peels back the curtain. “That’s definitely not his bike. That’s a mom car.”

“It’s a Volvo,” Tim mutters.

Duke hums, crossing his arms. “Guess the dad era has begun.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Steph counters, “Dad Jason would be a nightmare”

Jason parks with careful precision, engine purring to a stop. He doesn’t move for a second. Then the driver’s door opens, and he steps out. He looks… calm. Purposeful.

But it’s the passenger seat that draws the real attention.

“Wait. Where’s his wife?” Steph squints. “She always rides with him.”

“Oh my god,” Tim whispers, eyes wide. “Did she leave him??”

“Is that the announcement?” Steph gasps. “Jason got dumped??”

“Finally,” Damian mutters under his breath, arms crossed like he predicted this day in a dream. “It was inevitable.”

Duke shoots him a look. “Man, could you not be so negative for, like, one second?”

Damian raises an eyebrow, completely calm. “I am simply stating facts. She is far too good for him.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Dick says, but his tone is distracted. Worried.

They watch Jason walk to the back door of the car. He opens it. Steps back.

And then—

“Oh my god,” Cass breathes.

Out steps you. Tired, radiant, holding a baby.

A very real, very bundled, tiny baby.

There’s a long pause.

Tim opens and closes his mouth like he’s rebooting. Steph makes a noise that might be a gasp or a laugh or a short-circuited wheeze. Dick drops his protein bar.

Damian stares.

“Is that—?” Steph starts.

“No,” Tim says, in a voice pitched halfway to panic. “No. He did not—”

“I knew he was acting weird,” Dick mutters.

“Oh good. Like this place needed more kids.” Damian deadpans. 

Steph whips around. “Dames, can you not be so cynical for, like, ONE minute?”

Damian just shrugs, totally unbothered. “We only have one butler.”

Jason walks around the car, casual as ever, takes the baby like he’s been doing it forever. The baby sighs, perfectly content. Jason glances up, sees the whole Batfam pressed against the glass, smirks, and waves.

Duke, faintly: “For the record, I meant the ‘Dad era’ thing as a joke.”

---

The door opens before you can even knock. Classic Alfred.

He does not react, at least, not in ways most people would see. Just steps aside, serene as ever, and says, “Welcome home, Master Jason,” with that warm gravity that squeezes your ribs a little tight.

Jason nods, jaw tense. “Alfie.”

He’s got Briar tucked to his chest, one big hand cupping the baby’s head like instinct. Briar lets out a startled, squeaky noise at the sudden change in air and light. Jason rocks him, barely aware he is doing it.

The family crowds the foyer but no one moves. You close the door behind you soft, careful. You can feel all their eyes. No one speaks.

Then, finally, Steph starts: “Okay. So. That’s a baby.”

Tim blinks hard, as if expecting the scene to glitch. “That’s a tiny baby.”

“He’s three months,” you say, voice steady. “His name’s Briar.”

Cass cocks her head, inching forward, silent as breath. Damian stays back, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Dick opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.

“Briar what?” Tim blurts, as if it’s the most important detail in the world.

You glance at Jason. He stays silent, jaw locked. You can’t help a little grin. “Go on, Jay. Tell them.”

 “Briar Vengeance Todd.” He murmurs. 

Jason’s eyes flick to Bruce. Just once. Then away.

The air cracks, like a glass dropped on tile.

“Vengeance?” Steph squeaks.

“I picked the first name. Jason got the middle,” you deadpan. “It was that or Grenade.”

Cass grins. Tim makes a noise that is probably not medically healthy.

“I fought hard for AK-47,” Jason mutters.

Jason stands his ground, adjusting Briar, who clings tighter, cheek to Jason’s chest, tiny fingers white-knuckled in his shirt.

Alfred’s voice glides in, warm as always: “I take it this was not planned?”

Jason’s eyes dart to Alfred with something soft, grateful. “There was a ring in Crime Alley. Trafficking kids. We shut it down. Building went up. Briar was the only one left.”

You add quietly, “Jason found him. Couldn’t leave him behind.”

Silence.

“He wouldn’t have survived the system,” you say, voice tight. “Gotham would’ve chewed him up.”

“And we weren’t going to let that happen,” Jason finishes, softer than anyone’s ever heard him.

Cass edges closer. “He’s yours?”

You nod. “He’s ours.”

Jason is rigid, every muscle wound tight, as if expecting someone to challenge him. He holds Briar like a shield.

“Is this… permanent?” Dick asks, carefully. “Like… legal?”

Jason answers, voice flat: “Yes. It’s all done. Adoption. Guardianship. Social security. All of it. Got it done in three days.”

You correct, “Forged in three days.”

“Forged legally.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“I gave the guy a Ducati. Legally binding bribe.”

Cass laughs, soft. Tim can’t help a reluctant smile. Dick just stares, awe and terror mingled.

Jason still won’t look at Bruce.

And Bruce stood still, arms folded, unmoving at the back, eyes unreadable.

You reach for his sleeve, squeezing. He exhales slow, heavy.

Briar squirms, makes a tiny grunt. Jason moves without thinking, soothing him. Hand making circles at his back, steady.

“Doesn’t like crowds,” Jason murmurs.

Duke snorts. “Like father, like son.”

Alfred’s lips twitch, amused and gentle. “Lunch is ready, Master Jason. I’ve set three places.”

Jason blinks at the words, at the understanding in Alfred’s eyes.

He clears his throat. “Thanks, Alfie.”

No sarcasm. Just quiet gratitude.

---

Lunch at Wayne Manor has never been this quiet.

Well, not quiet quiet. There’s the clink of silverware, the occasional shuffle of chairs, Tim whisper-arguing with Damian over who gets the last of the bread basket. But no one's raising their voice. No one’s fighting. And no one’s paying attention to their plates.

Because all eyes are on Briar.

Briar looks up at the sea of unfamiliar faces staring at him across the table, eyes wide and unblinking. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of it, so he just babbles, louder, as if that’ll answer any questions.Every sound he makes is met with stunned silence, then adoring coos and applause.

“You guys know he doesn’t actually speak, right?” you say, mildly amused.

“He’s a prodigy,” Tim whispers back, eyes huge.

“He’s expressing opinions,” Cass agrees.

Briar lets out a high-pitched squeal and flaps one arm. The entire table reacts like he just dropped a groundbreaking TED Talk.

“See?” Steph gasps. “He just made a point about urban infrastructure.”

“He said we need better support for local agriculture,” Tim insists.

“He called Drake a clown,” Damian says.

“Okay,” Dick says, leaning forward, hands steepled like he’s in a boardroom. “So I’ve been thinking. I should be the godfather.”

You blink. “We haven’t given that any thought yet”

“I’m still the oldest.”

“I’m the most responsible,” Steph says.

“You once gave a toddler a taser,” Duke deadpans.

“It was off!”

Jason hasn’t said much.

He’s sitting next to you, still subtly in that guard dog posture, shoulders squared and senses alert, like someone might try and snatch the baby out of your hands if he lets his guard down. But his eyes, those have softened. He’s watching Briar like he’s memorizing every little movement. Every blink. Every sound.

And when Briar fusses? The whole table freezes.

It’s just a soft noise at first. A little grumble, like a storm cloud forming behind his scrunched-up brow.

“Oh no,” you murmur.

Jason’s already halfway out of his seat, reaching for the diaper bag like it’s a medical emergency. “He’s hungry.”

Immediately, every Bat within a five-foot radius transforms into a bottle-wielding, pacifier-offering volunteer.

“I’ll feed him—” “Let me—” “He waved at me earlier, he likes me the best—” “I have medical training—” “You do not, Damian—”

You hand Briar off to Jason before the diplomatic crisis escalates.

Briar goes quiet the second he’s in his dad’s arms. Little fists unclench. Big, glossy eyes blink up at Jason like, finally, the peasants have stepped aside.

Jason doesn’t even look smug. Just solid. Sure.

He takes the bottle like he was born for this. Cradles Briar into the crook of his arm and guides the bottle to his mouth with one hand, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the baby's leg with the other.

Briar latches like a champ and starts drinking with such focus you'd think he was in a competitive sport.

Jason exhales, just the smallest breath, but you see it. The tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the hard lines around his eyes softening as Briar settles.

He’s still alert, still holding the baby like a precious, volatile artifact, but the edge has dulled. His jaw unclenches. The hand that had been gripping the bottle like it might vanish loosens its hold, and he adjusts Briar in his arms with gentle ease, thumb brushing over the baby's fleece-covered belly like a grounding anchor.

The dining room collectively melts.

"God, that's cute," Steph sighs, holding her chest like she’s physically in pain. "I feel like I need to sit down. I am sitting down. I need to sit more."

“Look at them,” Dick whispers, like he’s afraid to scare the moment away. “That’s like… peak contentment. That’s what monks are chasing.”

“Fatherhood suits him,” Alfred says, voice warm as ever, as he places a fresh glass of water by Jason’s elbow. “Though I do hope Master Briar’s dinner preferences extend beyond one caregiver eventually.”

Jason smirks a little at that, still not looking away from his son.

Cass watches them both, eyes wide and shining. “He looks happiest with you.”

You smile and lean back in your seat, stretching your arms with a sigh. “He is.”

Everyone turns toward you.

You hold up your hands, grinning. “Don’t take it personally, okay? He sometimes refuses to eat from me, too.”

“He just…” you glance at Jason, who’s cooing under his breath and adjusting Briar’s sock again before it can fall. “He likes his dad. That’s his guy.”

Jason flushes lightly and rolls his eyes, but he’s not really annoyed. Not even close. The teasing doesn’t reach him, not when he’s cradling one half of his whole world in one arm and keeping his son fed, safe, warm, while the other half sits by his side with stars in her eyes.

Briar’s eyes drift shut slowly, mouth still working at the bottle. His fingers curl around the edge of Jason’s hoodie.

Jason leans back just a little in his chair, legs stretched under the table, and lets the weight of his son settle into his chest.

---

After lunch, everyone moved to one of the many sitting rooms in the manor.

The room humming. Not with conversation (though there's plenty of that) but with energy. The kind that vibrates through the floorboards, soft and giddy and new.

Briar is the source of it, naturally.

He’s stationed on your lap, the certified center of the universe. His hair is rumpled from burrowing into your shirt, his cheeks pink and soft, his legs kicking idly. His hands are exploring: your sleeve, the couch cushion, the hem of his own onesie. A rotating cast of vigilantes try, and fail, to become his favourite.

Dick makes faces. Cass plays peekaboo. Steph gently offers him a stuffed bat she snuck from the batcave. Tim has constructed a batplane out of coasters. Duke is sitting still, determined not to move because Briar grabbed his thumb. Damian is...watching silently from a distance with a furrowed brow and a single grape in his hand like he’s debating whether to offer it as tribute.

Briar laughs at them all. Then immediately shoves his face into your chest, like their attention is too much and you are home base. His laugh becomes a squeak, then a shy whimper, then another giggle when you murmur something soft in his ear and press a kiss to the side of his head.

Jason watches it all from his spot by the wall.

And then he moves.

Without a word, he crosses the room and drops into the open space on the couch beside Bruce. Jason sits up straight, posture tight but deliberate. His arms cross. His jaw flexes. Then he turns his head, just a little.

“All right,” he says, voice steady. “Lay it on me.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Lay what on you?”

“You know,” Jason shrugs, a little too sharp around the edges. “The lecture. I was impulsive. Reckless. Should’ve looped you in before I brought home a baby.”

Bruce is quiet for a beat, then says simply, “That’s not what I was thinking.”

Jason glances at him, wary. “No? You've been quiet all day. I could feel you thinking”

“I was thinking,” Bruce says, “that you’re going to be a better father than I ever was.”

Jason’s head tilts, slow and uncertain. “...What?”

Bruce’s eyes are calm. “I mean it.”

Jason lets out a short, stunned laugh, like he’s not sure what to do with that.

“I—” he starts, then rubs a hand over his face. “I thought you were going to chew me out. You always said I was too hot-headed. I figured this’d be another tally on the ‘Jason acts without thinking’ list.”

Bruce huffs out a laugh. Quiet, real, almost fond. “You took in a kid you found in Crime Alley.”

He turns, expression unreadable but voice gentler than it’s been in years. “Sound familiar?”

Jason groans and slumps back into the couch as something in his brain clicks. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m just saying,” Bruce continues, a little smug now, “it’s not as original as you think.”

“Okay, but at least I didn’t put him in a cape after two weeks,” Jason shoots back, arms crossed again but not so defensively this time.

Bruce chuckles. “That’s fair.”

They sit for a moment in silence, watching as Briar takes in the peanut gallery while leaning lightly against your chest, soft baby noises muffled by your sweater. Dick is still trying to balance a toy on his head. Steph is taking selfies, Cass is staring with a small smile. Duke and Tim are locked in a fierce competition to see who can make the baby laugh first. Damian is now offering his single grape to the baby with solemn reverence, despite being ignored.

Jason glances down, jaw tense again, but softer now. “He’s… everything.”

Bruce nods. “I can see that.”

Jason swallows. Then, quieter: “I used to think you were holding me back. Being too hard on me. That you didn’t trust me to figure it out.”

“I didn’t always do it right,” Bruce admits, voice low. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to raise kids. I still don’t.”

“You tried, though,” Jason says, looking over at him. “I get that now. I—he wakes up crying in the middle of the night and I have no idea why. Sometimes I’m so tired I forget my own name. But I’d still do anything for him. Every time.”

Bruce is quiet. Then: “That’s all I ever wanted. For all of you.”

Jason nods, slow. “I know.”

Another pause.

“Thanks,” he adds, voice rough again. “For not giving me hell about it. I was expecting a lot worse.”

“You’ve grown,” Bruce says. “You love him. That’s what matters.”

Jason glances at him, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Guess we’re not so different after all.”

They both turn at the same time when a shriek cuts across the room like a tiny, furious banshee wail.

Briar, currently perched on Tim’s lap like a wiggly prince, has gone bright red in the face. His little fists are clenched. His eyes are wet. There is righteous fury in the very way he kicks his socks off.

“Oh for—” You sigh, push off the armrest, and walk over to reclaim him from the chaos. “You guys passed him around like a hot potato. He can’t even eat potatoes.”

“He was smiling a minute ago!” Steph protests, already laughing.

“He was tolerating you,” Damian deadpans.

Jason sighs and stands before anyone else can move. “Yeah. That’s enough celebrity meet and greet for one day.”

You roll your eyes fondly and catch Briar as he attempts to throw himself backward. “Okay, okay,” you murmur, shifting him into your arms and walking him over. 

Jason opens his arms like a sleepy reflex. You hand Briar off without ceremony.

The baby nestles into Jason’s chest with the dramatic flair of a starlet taking to fainting couches. He lets out a few residual sniffles, hiccups, and then… silence. Peace. His tiny fingers clutch the collar of Jason’s henley like it’s his favorite blanket.

“See?” you say, collapsing back into your seat. “Dramatic little daddy’s boy.”

Everyone watches, a little stunned.

And then Briar, who’d gone momentarily docile, blinks up at Bruce.

Stares.

Stares hard.

Jason notices it at the same time you do. “He’s locked on.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Is he… glaring at me?”

“No,” you say slowly, watching as Briar’s eyes go wide and curious. “I think he’s curious.”

Briar babbles something that might be a question. Then without hesitation, he stretches one hand out toward Bruce. Little fingers opening and closing, again and again.

“Oh,” Jason blinks. “He’s doing grabby hands.”

Bruce freezes. “He wants me?”

“I think he’s offering you a second chance,” Jason mutters, barely hiding a grin. “Use it wisely.”

There’s a long beat of hesitation. Bruce looks like someone just handed him an alien. But slowly, stiffly, like he’s trying not to trigger a trap, he reaches out and lets Jason guide Briar into his arms.

Jason’s hand lingers, steadying the back of Briar’s head.

“Support his neck,” he says quietly, adjusting Bruce’s hold. “He’s little, yeah, but he’s got a strong core. Just keep your arm here—yeah, perfect.”

Bruce lets out a breath.

Briar nestles in against his chest and promptly shoves a fist into his own mouth.

“I’ve… never held a baby this young,” Bruce murmurs. “All the kids I am used to were … a little older”

“You’re doing fine,” Jason says, lips twitching. “He hasn’t rejected you yet.”

They lapse into silence again. Not tense. Just thoughtful.

Jason watches his son curl sleepily into Bruce’s shoulder, drooling a little onto the expensive fabric of Bruce’s button-down.

“You know,” Jason says eventually, voice quieter. “He’s gonna be better than either of us.”

Bruce nods, slow. “He will be.”

He hesitates, then says, voice rougher, “I should have said this a long time ago, but… I’m proud of you, Jason. Of the man, and the father, you are.”

Jason’s breath catches, just for a second. Then he huffs a laugh, looking away. “That’s enough sap for the year, old man.”

Bruce’s lips twitch. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

Jason finally cracks a grin. “No promises.”

There’s a little contented noise from Briar then. A sigh. Full-body. Like he’s just let go of something heavy. Bruce adjusts his hold—

And stills.

Jason narrows his eyes. “What?”

Bruce looks down at his shoulder. Then at the growing wet spot spreading over the front of his shirt.

He looks at Jason, deadpan.

“Your son just peed on me.”

Jason blinks.

Then throws his head back and laughs like he hasn’t in days.

“Hell yeah,” he wheezes. “That’s my boy. I’m so proud of him.”

Briar yawns, pleased with himself.

Bruce closes his eyes. “I see fatherhood hasn’t matured you at all.”

“Not even a little,” Jason says, and grins.

And for a moment, just one, Bruce smiles too.

---

The manor is quiet now.

Dinner plates cleared. Crumbs wiped off the floor. A very serious debate about Briar’s favorite animal still unresolved in the group chat Tim started. Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s full. And Briar?

Briar is blinking slow and heavy in Jason’s arms, caught in that sweet, drifting space between sleep and wake. He’s clutching your shirt in one tiny fist, his other hand gripping Jason’s neck, like he wants to hold onto both of you at once.

You’re walking the halls in soft steps, trying to lull him deeper into rest. Jason’s the one rocking him, murmuring little things under his breath like they’re secrets:

“That cabinet right there? Alfred’s sacred china. He says it’s for ‘important guests.’ We had Superman over once. Still didn’t make the cut.”

“Uncle Dick has tried to swing from that chandelier every Christmas since I was twelve. He says he’s being festive. Alfred says he’s being stupid.”

“See that portrait? That’s the one I drew a moustache on when I first moved in. Didn’t go over great.”

It’s soothing, this little loop. You and Jason side by side, swaying in rhythm as you trace your way through the familiar turns. And maybe it’s just instinct or fate, but somehow the walk takes you down further. Below the main halls. Past the wine cellar. Deeper.

To the Cave.

Jason doesn’t even realize where you are until the lights above flicker on.

And you’re standing there, together, facing the glass.

The Robin suit stands in its case like a ghost. Perfectly preserved, perfectly still. Yellow cape. Red tunic. The words etched on the front still sting, even now:

“A Good Soldier.”

Jason doesn’t flinch. But his breath catches for a second. That’s enough. You shift closer, brushing your shoulder against his. Let your hand rest lightly at the small of his back. Not pushing. Just there.

Briar stirs, sighs, and burrows into his father’s neck.

Jason’s eyes stay on the case.

“He won’t wear a mask,” he says eventually. Voice flat, but not cold.

You nod. Say nothing.

“He’ll have scraped knees and dumb jokes and weird hobbies. He’ll cry when his fish dies and hate broccoli and ask ‘why’ every five seconds.”

You huff softly. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Sounds like freedom,” Jason says.

And you see it then. The shift. The way his grip on Briar softens. The way he leans a little closer to you, like he’s not carrying this alone anymore. Like he finally believes it.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to. Your hand slides over his, fingers brushing where he cups the back of Briar’s head. A quiet thank you. A quiet I’m here.

Jason’s thumb moves again, those slow, steady arcs.

“He’ll never know what any of this meant to me,” Jason says.

You shake your head. “He’ll just know you love him.”

Jason looks at you then. Really looks.

And it’s there. All of it.

The fear. The past. The choice.

The love.

Your free hand finds the back of his neck. You press your forehead to his temple and breathe him in. “Let’s go home,” you whisper.

Jason turns away from the glass.

And walks.

------

I don't know how, but I'm taller It must be something in the water Everything's growing in our garden You don't have to know that it's haunted The doctor put her hands over my liver She told me my resentment's getting smaller No, I'm not afraid of hard work I get everything I want I have everything I wanted

------

a/n: so... i wasnt going to do a part 2. then i realized its jason's birthday. and my internship ended yesterday which meant I had a whole day of bedrotting and writing. also the lyric 'Everything is growing in our garden' is a two parter so I just had to do it.

and yes the baby is named after a bush. it grew on me and fit the garden theme. and promise promise promise the last part of Is it a crime to lie? is coming soon <333

[sainztropez]

be your lover - ln4

summary: best friends aren't supposed to fall in love, are they?

reader x lando norris

smau + 3,1k written blurb

genre: fluff, idiots in love/friends to lovers, driver yn.

fc: cindy kimberly

warnings: reader talks about virginity once or twice, mentions of magui corceiro (just a mention, not implying anything good or bad about her), curse words.

author notes -> mention of "goatjo" and "Throughout Heaven and Earth, I alone am the honored one" refers to the anime Jujutsu Kaisen.

taglist: @jenxjar @devilacot @ketsuekiakane @seokjamz @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @ladscarlett

liked by scuderiaferrari, lando, sabrinacarpenter and 4,668,555 users

yn 2025 season kicks off in a week and I just wanna clarify something: yes, I trained hard. no, it wasn’t just me sunbathing on my boat with a cocktail in hand 🙄 (although that did happen. frequently.) I’m mentally, physically, and spiritually prepared. speaking of spirtuality, may God grant us the right to dream? because I may or may not have promised my virginity to the forest gods in exchange for a wdc and wcc <3

scuderiaferrari Yn, we need to have a serious discussion regarding appropriate boundaries. Kindly refrain from sharing details of your personal sexual activities on social media platforms. yn i'm doing a sacrifice for yall and this is how you show gratitude? i could've asked for a wdc only... 🙄

user Never get PR trained 🙏🏻

user Lando already lurking in likes oh god here we go again yn he wants a piece of this delicious meal mhmhm

lewishamilton Spiritual preparation is underrated. Manifesting greatness for all of us! ❤️ liked by author yn thank you, my king!

user and when i turn into a forest spirit then what yn ohhhhhh i'm shy, take me on a date first user I LOVE YOU QUEEN

user thank god ferrari decided to sign you, my favorite 2024 rookie is now going to shine even brighter.

charles_leclerc16 I pray to god one day I'll have a normal teammate. Welcome to Ferrari, Yn! Forza. yn hi cutie 😏

yn posted a story "is it hot in here? am i hot? oh? ps.: i didnt drink anything, just took this pic, had dinner and went to my hotel room prepare for quali (for legal reasons I have to clarify)"

replies

lando yes you're hot yn stoooooppppp i'm shy lando you're not yn lemme beat u in quali tmrw and i'll let u have a peek at my undies deal or nah lando DEAL yn you're insane 📸 yn sending this to mclaren asap lando YOU TRICKED ME

🎙️ Pre-Race Interview — Melbourne Grand Prix 2025

Driver: Yn (Scuderia Ferrari)

Position: P3 in Qualifying

Interviewer: F1 Media Team

Interviewer: Yn, welcome to your first race weekend with Ferrari. We didn’t get a chance to speak with you before qualifying yesterday—how are you feeling ahead of your debut?

Yn: Honestly? I’m super anxious. Ferrari’s been my dream since I was a kid, and now I’m here, living it. It’s a whole new vibe, but everyone’s been so sweet and patient with me. I feel really supported. [Laughs]

Interviewer: You’re stepping into Carlos Sainz’s former seat. We know you’re a big fan of his—how has that transition been?

Yn: Yeah, I adore Sainz. At first, it was kinda awkward, like… am I really taking over his seat? He’s insanely talented. But we had a real talk, cleared the air, and he’s been super chill about it.

Interviewer: So, no tension between you two?

Yn [raising an eyebrow]: Why would there be? We don’t make the calls—teams do. It’s not like I stole his seat in a poker game. [Laughs] It’s all been handled respectfully. [Looks directly at the interviewer]

Interviewer: Well, congratulations on P3 in qualifying. What are your expectations for the race?

Yn: Melbourne’s kinda personal for me. Last season, I had a rough time here—couldn’t even finish the race. It felt like a stain, you know? First woman in years to race in F1 and boom, DNF. [Takes a deep breath] But today? I’m manifesting good vibes. Maybe even a podium. Fingers crossed. [Smiles]

Interviewer: McLaren’s upgrades seem to be working—Lando Norris will be starting behind you in P4. Do you feel any pressure?

Yn [grinning as she spots Lando approaching]: Pressure? Nah. I don’t think Lando’s crazy enough to try passing me, right babe? [Locks arms with Lando, who nods with a smirk]

Interviewer [turning to Lando]: What’s McLaren’s take on that?

Yn [cutting in]: McLaren doesn’t need to take anything—I’m his boss, right dear?. [Lando nods dramatically, then mouths “no” to the camera, laughing]

Interviewer: Your friendship is clearly strong. Is there any rivalry between you two?

Yn: Oh, 100%. We tease each other all the time, but when we’re in the car, it’s serious business. We both want to win. [Lando nods in agreement]

[Lando leans in as the interview wraps up.]

Lando [off mic, whispering]: You finished ahead of me… so, do I get to find out the color today?

Yn [laughing]: Only if you behave.

[The camera captures the moment as they walk off together.]

comments section

user Charles watching this like ‘I asked for some peace of mind and Ferrari gave me Yn’ 💀

user From DNF last year to podium contender this year… Yn’s redemption arc is cinematic!!!!! Shine bright, love.

user "do i get to find out the color?" THE COLOR OF WHAT ????

scuderiaferrari We need to get her media trained asap. user NO DONT DO THAT... user dont cut out the wings of an angel

user Are they lovers? user worse

user "only if you behave" gurrrrrllllll

yn posted a story "back to my fav trainer"

replies

oscarpiastri just admit you guys are dating, it's getting old yn we are not? oscarpiastri ... yn stfu kangaroo hugger or wtv

lando now post a pic in those little shorts you were wearing lando its urgent yn gonna post somethin even better babes lando dw a took a pic while you werent looking <3 yn HARRASMENT? lando i was joking 🙄🙄 im not a sick

lando posted a story "she said 'wanna work out?' and when we left the gym she suddenly decided she really needed pie"

replies

yn you’re totally jealous of this hottie😌 lando jealous? lol never yn ugh. perv 🙄

carlossainz55 Mate. Just date already. lando we are just friends tho ? lando no feelings carlossainz55 From your side or from hers? Because I can totally picture you having feelings lol. lando nonsense ?

yn posted a story "i need oscar to leave us alone for a sec"

replies

oscarpiastri ouch? what did i do? yn you're blocking my view from this fine ass delicious honey oscarpiastri yall are disgusting, just get a room already

lando PLEASE LOSE PLEASE LOSE PLEASE LOSE PLEASE LOSE PLEASE LOSE lando you're too good at poker yn you sure want me to lose? yn im not wearing anything under my shirt lando PLEASE LOSE PLEASE LOSE 🕯️ lando lets give osc a parachute and kick him off <3 yn perv.

liked by scuderiaferrari, lando, yn and 1,554,444 users

vogue Sweet. Fearless. Untouchable. Is Yn Too Perfect for F1?

She’s many things: the first woman to race for Ferrari, the first to secure a podium in over a decade, and the only female driver to last more than one season in Formula 1. Her achievements are historic —but they’re only half the story.

Yn’s presence on the grid is magnetic. With a face that could dominate fashion week and a gaze that belongs on billboards, she’s a walking contradiction: beauty that could build an empire, and a passion that chose speed over spotlight. The world wanted a model. She gave them a champion.

📸 Read the full interview now at vogue.com/article/yn-1120

lando when are these pics dropping in hd? i need that info asap fr yn 🙄 gonna airdrop for you user THEY SHOULD DATE ALREADY

scuderiaferrari Our girl!

user How is she real?? Like… she drives for Ferrari AND looks like that?? I’m unwell.

user look at me Im yn, Im pretty, everyone loves me ooooh fuck you (affectionaly)

user I read this and immediately started manifesting a Yn x Met Gala moment. Someone call Anna Wintour.

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc16 and 2,665,444 users

yn almost halfway through the season and nor me nor ferrari are leading the championship. i gues the spirits of the forest doesnt really care about my v card

lando i am actually a spirit of the forest 🪴 yn you just wanna mess with me 🙄 lando LOVE PLEASE yn too much of a playboy reputation

oscarpiastri if i had a coin for everytime you talked about your personal things like that, i'd have a lot of coins. which is crazy. yn i'm gonna crash on you and lando will lead wdc lando yeahhhhh yn would you crash on someone for me ? lando ofc love yn i dont feel very much true in your voice tone yn and that's how you wanna get into my pants ;/ lando I'M SO SORRY. I APOLOGIZE. I'LL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN. oscarpiastri just get a room

user i'm shook by how many times she had talked about being a virgin... yn bc being a virgin is ok? i think this is the kind of taboo we should break. user QUEEN user yn 💜

scuderiaferrari We give up! Go on queen, talk your thruth! ❤️ liked by author

user actually, whos this in the last slide? yn its lando user sooooo dating? yn god forbid a girl gets tired of sitting in the cold hard chair lando i was hard too yn you're on very thin ice. lando i'm sorry my queen

liked by user, user, user and 400,555 users

f1wags 🚨 SPOTTED IN IBIZA: Lando Norris & Portuguese model Magui Corceiro!

Well, well, well… looks like the paddock’s favorite flirt has found himself a new muse. Lando Norris was seen cozying up with Magui Corceiro in Ibiza this weekend — and yes, there are photos. 😏

Now for the heartbreak: this one’s for all the delusional defenders of “Landoyn” (you know who you are). Apparently, the couple never existed. (Let’s be honest, they always said they were just friends… but you guys were shipping them like it was a Netflix rom-com.)

Still, we can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Remember Hungary? Post-race conference? Yn and Lando casually mentioned they were going somewhere together — and it didn’t sound like a joke. 👀

So what happened? Whatever the reason, it seems the Yn x Lando era might be over before it even began. 😢

Wishing happiness to the new paddock couple — but also lowkey hoping Yn posts something chaotic in 3… 2… 1…

#lando #magui #yn #f1gossip #landoyn #paddockdrama #wagswatch #ibizagate

user Wait but didn’t Yn say she wasn’t dating him? You guys might be overthinking too much 🥴

user so we just gonna pretend Hungary (and all their story) didn’t happen?? They were literally flirting on camera 😭

user I KNEW IT. Lando was never serious about Yn. user and was Yn ever serious about him? ... yall r delulu user Just look at her face whenever he's around, look at how people talk about them? Don't be dense...

user I feel like osc knows something.

user “They were just friends” yeah and I’m just casually giving heart eyes my “friend” and whispering about our summer break plans together. OKAY.

user Was it casual when they (landoyn) were spotted on his boat last month, having what looked suspiciously like a date? They said it was just a casual meet-up between friends. So tell me… is it still casual now?

user no one's talking about his new girl is cracking me up lmao user thank god yn fans ain't shitting on her

liked by carlossainz55, iamrebecad, oscarpiastri and 3,665,444 users

yn sorry for disappearing these past few weeks of summer break. crashed out so badly I had to reconnect with nature.

oscarpiastri did you seriously spent all summer break in a farm? yn as i said... reconnect with nature! oscarpiastri ... sure

user i missed her so bad i started doing drugs. yn pls never leave again

user i’m gonna start crashing out too if it means i get to look this good after yn I do not recomend!

scuderiaferrari Wait… Yn media trained?? We used to light candles for this moment to happen. yn Not fun guys...

user so no one's gonna adress the elephant in the room? user Which is? user she disappeared when photos of l*ndo and his gf were posted,..,,. user Oh

user i would also disappear if i had to deal with ferrari’s strategy team ❤️ liked by author

user yn’s absence = breakup recovery arc? i’m looking at you, Ibiza photos user was she dating anyone? user landoyn??? user delulu.

yn posted a close-friends story "when you wanna cry but you don’t wanna cry you just wanna throw up and dye your hair blonde and quit this racing nonsense and give up everything and just wanna crash into the first wall but the FIA doesn’t care and pairs you up for press conference with your crash-out reason ex-best friend who’s now in a happy relationship with a beautiful girl you’re jealous of because she’s everything you ever wanted to be or it just ever happned to me"

replies

oscarpiastri first of all. i said you were into him and you didn't believe yn WHO'S HIM yn i could be talking about anyone... like lewis hamilton or wtv oscarpiastri didn't know you were bestfriends with lewis, that's news to me. yn stfu yn im gonna kms <3 oscarpiastri nonsense. you're not yn he even ohhhhhh god i love that man like nobody can oscarpiastri mind you your're talking about lando norris... oscarpiastri i think you should put yourself together and be a professional yn on god i'll

✩✩✩‧₊˚

your gaze swept across the conference room. ferrari’s staff hovered beside you, trying to fix the smudged makeup on your face before you stepped in front of the cameras. you gave them a weak smile — the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. one of them looked at you with that expression that said, “girl, i’m not paid enough to deal with this.” you whispered an apology, lips barely moving, like you were afraid to hear your own trembling voice.

“want me to ask if they can move your slot?” paul, one of the staff, asked. his voice was soft, careful, like he didn’t want to hurt you by being too firm.

“it’s fine… i’m a big girl, i can handle this,” you said, sighing.

“i’m not gonna ask what happened or what didn’t happen, but i hope it doesn’t mess with tomorrow’s quali. you’re fifth in the championship — still a shot at fourth.” he spoke gently, dabbing a tissue at the corner of your eye. “go on…” he pointed to the couch.

only one seat was left — right in the middle, between lando and carlos sainz. you wanted to ask carlos to scoot over, wanted to say, “please don’t make me sit next to him, i don’t think i can handle it.” but you couldn’t. the cameras filming didn’t allow it. besides, lando norris could be a lot of things, but he wasn’t to blame for your own madness.

you sat down, trying to control your breathing, your heart pounding like every camera flash was a painful reminder poking at your wound. the microphone in front of you looked bigger than it should — like an impossible obstacle. carlos adjusted himself beside you, fiddling with his mic before offering a polite smile to the room. on the other side, lando looked far too relaxed — the posture of someone who hadn’t noticed the distance that had grown between you in recent weeks.

the first questions went to carlos. you pretended to listen, but the sound of cameras and muffled chatter from journalists blended with your own thoughts. your mind drifted to the rumors, to the photos of him with another girl, to the silence you both carried since then.

then you felt a subtle movement. lando leaned in, his voice low, just out of reach of the microphones:

“you okay?”

it took you a second to register. you glanced at him, too scared to meet those eyes that always looked too innocent. you just nodded quickly, like any hesitation would expose the chaos inside you. he accepted your answer with the same ease of someone who never noticed anything wrong.

“next question, please.”

a journalist asked about ferrari’s strategy after the summer break. you had the answer ready in your head, but before it was your turn, lando started talking about mclaren. and that’s when you got lost.

the way he spoke, gesturing lightly with his hands, the focus in his deep, calm voice… it was so familiar. for a moment, you remembered how many times you’d heard that same voice in casual conversations, inside hotel rooms, laughing at inside jokes only you two understood. the difference now was — you couldn’t laugh anymore. now, every word felt like it was pulling pieces from what you were trying to hide.

“yn?” — a journalist’s voice snapped you out of it.

you blinked fast, like waking from a trance.

“ah, sorry…” — a nervous smile slipped out, trying to mask it. “i think the summer break is still messing with my head.”

the room laughed with you. but you just wanted to shrink into your chair and disappear.

the questions kept coming. carlos answered with elegance, always composed. lando, with that playful charm, made the room laugh. you tried to stay present, but every time he spoke, your gaze betrayed you. you noticed things no one else did — the way he ran a hand through his hair before starting a sentence, how his mouth curved slightly when he spoke with confidence, how the room seemed to orbit around him without him even realizing.

then came the question you feared.

“it seems everyone here is in a happy relationship. will you be bringing your partners to the next race?”

you felt the air leave your lungs. your smile froze. the microphone in front of you felt like it weighed a ton.

“i don’t have a... partner, actually.”

it came out low, almost a whisper.

there was a brief silence before the journalist mumbled an apology. you tried to pull yourself together, but it was too late. carlos answered, as charming and polite as ever. lando joked, got more laughs. but when he started talking, you stopped existing in that room. your eyes lost focus, your body present only out of obligation. you gave minimal answers when needed, nodded with empty gestures, and let the conference go on without you.

when it finally ended, you were the first to stand. you walked fast, not looking to either side, like the ground might collapse if you stopped. you rushed through the corridors, dodging anyone who tried to stop you, and only truly breathed when you saw the rental car. you opened the door and got in all at once, the flashes outside catching your red face, your teary eyes you couldn’t hide. no smile, no wave — nothing like the warmth you usually offered the journalists who always treated you kindly.

the car door slammed shut. and for the first time in a long time, you let the silence weigh more than any word.

the drive through zandvoort’s streets felt blurry, like the city had been wrapped in a thin veil. you drove like you knew the roads, but none of it felt familiar. the car, heavy in your hands, seemed to mock your experience; you, who were used to controlling violent machines at over 300 km/h, now couldn’t keep steady on a simple steering wheel. maybe it wasn’t the car. maybe it was the weight of your own heart.

your hands tingled, fingers gripping tighter than they should. you hated this — hated feeling so weak because of a man. worse: because of him. your once best friend. the boy who had been by your side since year one, when everything was hostile, when you were just a girl trying to survive formula 1.

zandvoort, with its salty air and cold wind from the coast, welcomed you in silence. you parked without thinking, carelessly, in a secluded spot by the beach where no one else was. the engine still hummed when your phone started ringing — over and over. you answered on reflex, ready to hear a scolding from someone at ferrari.

but it wasn’t.

“where are you, love?” — the soft voice, with that british accent you knew too well, hit you straight in the chest.

you closed your eyes, the lump in your throat impossible to hide. all you wanted was to ask him to leave you alone. but you couldn’t lie.

“at the beach… i don’t know where exactly. it’s far.”

silence on the other end, then a firm reply:

“i’m coming. don’t move.”

your first instinct was to run. drive away, keep going until the gas ran out. like movement could dissolve the feelings. but they were rooted. planted, nurtured, too deep inside you.

you sat on the cold sand, the wind hitting your face, when you heard the car stop behind yours. you didn’t need to look to know it was him. you felt it. every cell in your body knew. your eyes were red, watery, tired of holding back. and for the first time, the smile that always followed you wasn’t there — and that’s what he noticed first.

“want to talk?” — he asked, voice low, steady. he didn’t ask if you were okay — he knew you weren’t. didn’t ask what happened — maybe because he was afraid of the answer.

you took a deep breath, but your voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper:

“i don’t know.”

he stepped closer, the sand crunching under his feet. stayed near, but not too close. eyes fixed on you, waiting.

“is it about the team?” — he tried. “or the pressure? or… did someone say something?”

you closed your eyes, wishing the world would stop. you wanted to scream and hide at the same time. your chest burned, your breath faltered. until you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“it’s you.” — the confession came out torn, almost a sob. you looked at him, eyes blurred, but finally facing him. “it’s always you. you haunt me when i sleep, it’s your face i see when i dream, your voice in every corner of my head. i wish things had been different, but it’s too late now. i like you. too much. i can’t control it.”

silence. he blinked, surprised, like your words were punches.

“why didn’t you tell me before?”

you laughed without humor, a sad laugh.

“it doesn’t matter now. you’re with someone else. you should just be happy with her…”

he laughed. genuinely. and you frowned, confused, even more hurt.

“what are you laughing at?”

“i’m not dating anyone.” — his voice was calm, almost amused, like he couldn’t believe you actually thought that.

“but…?” — you tried, but the words wouldn’t come.

he ran a hand over his face, shaking his head.

“i did go out with her, yeah. but during dinner, i called her by your name like three times.” — his eyes were shining, locked on yours. “and she told me i should ‘grow a pair and confess to you.’ that was the final straw.”

you were speechless, frozen.

“we’re both idiots.” — it was all you could say.

he laughed again, softer this time, almost tender.

“i thought about telling you, so many times. but you seemed off, i figured it was work, the pressure… i didn’t want to stress you out even more with something so… trivial.”

you bit your lip, your eyes welling up again.

“i spent my summer break crying. every single day.”

he sighed, finally closing the distance between you. his hand brushed your hair gently, tucking a wind-blown strand behind your ear. it was delicate, intimate, like he was afraid of breaking you.

“i’m sorry.”

the word hung in the air, along with the sound of the ocean, your racing heart, and the heavy silence that was finally starting to crack.

you blinked, trying to swallow the tears, but the lump in your throat wouldn’t budge. before you could say anything, he leaned in. the touch was soft, hesitant at first, until his lips found yours like they already knew the way. the kiss wasn’t just apology, or desire — it was a silent plea: “don’t leave.”

when you pulled apart, both of you were smiling without realizing. he rested his forehead against yours, laughing quietly, his warm breath mixing with the salty breeze.

“you…” — he started, voice slow. “you complicate everything.”

you let out a nervous laugh, trying to catch your breath. “and you only make it worse, you know?”

his laugh came easy, and soon you were walking back, hands almost touching, like any wrong move would lead to another kiss. and it probably would.

on the empty road, with both cars parked crookedly, the scene repeated itself: side by side, but each in front of a different car. you pointed to yours, biting your lip with a barely hidden smirk.

“well, i guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

he raised his eyebrows. “wait, are you serious?”

“what? each of us has our own room, our own bed, our own hotel.”

lando huffed, throwing his arms up. “you’re kidding me. i’m not letting you drive back alone. i’m a gentleman.”

you laughed. “yeah, a gentleman who loves to argue with me.”

“i’m driving you back.” — he declared, already grabbing his car keys. “i’ll figure out someone to pick up your rental later.”

you sighed dramatically. “always bossy, huh?”

“only when i know i’m right.” — he opened the car door for you, like it was obvious there was no room for debate.

on the way, you let the comfortable silence grow, but when you reached the hotel entrance, you couldn’t resist.

“wanna come up?” — you said it simply, but with a weight that made the meaning clear.

he swallowed hard, laughing nervously. “yn…”

“what?” — you teased, voice trembling between playfulness and confession. “i’ve got separation anxiety now. don’t wanna be apart.”

he shook his head, laughing out loud. “you’re impossible. i can’t say no to you.”

the elevator felt too small with both of you inside, and when you reached the room, you dropped the keys on the table and pulled him in again by the collar — another kiss that felt inevitable.

between laughs and whispers, he paused, looking into your eyes with sudden seriousness.

“just so you know…” — he began, still smiling. “i’m going to ask you out properly. the most traditional, cheesy, over-the-top way possible. so get ready.”

you raised your eyebrows, pretending to be shocked. “bold of you to assume ferrari and mclaren will let us date in peace, without hiding.”

he shrugged, his hand still on your waist. “doesn’t matter. i’m asking anyway.”

and you couldn’t hold back the laugh before kissing him again, knowing that, for the first time in months, the future felt a little less terrifying.

the hotel hallway was quiet, except for the echo of your hurried footsteps. outside, the sea still roared beneath the night’s veil, a deep, constant sound that seemed to follow lando like a lingering memory of the recent fight. he walked beside you, hands buried in his pockets, as if afraid that if he let them loose, he’d give in to the urge to touch you.

when you reached the door, you stopped. there was a mischievous glint in your eyes, still damp, but now shimmering with something that mixed vulnerability and boldness. you turned the key, opened the door, and before he could protest, leaned against the frame, silently inviting him.

“come in.” — you said, simple, but with a firmness that shattered any resistance he still had.

he stepped inside slowly, like entering sacred ground, and sat on the couch near the bed, trying to hold onto a rationality that was already slipping. the room was lit only by the soft yellow glow of the lamp, and the distant sound of waves filled the silence between you.

you walked to the open suitcase on the armchair and started rummaging through clothes, picking something light to change into after your shower. the gestures seemed casual, but every movement carried silent intention. the curve of your shoulders, the way you tied your hair up, the soft laugh that escaped your lips — everything felt designed to disarm him.

“you’re dangerous.” — he murmured, barely realizing he’d said it out loud.

you turned, raising your eyebrows with fake innocence. “me?”

lando rubbed the back of his neck, nervous. “yeah… always knewn i was crazy about you, and still you posted bikini pics every single week. like you knew exactly what it did to me..."

you laughed out loud, falling back onto the bed, your hair spreading like a halo around your head. your eyes, still red from crying, sparkled with a mischievous joy that left him breathless.

“and you invited me to train wearing the shortest shorts in your closet.” — he continued, unable to stop the flow of words, like a late confession demanding to be heard.

you rested your face in your hands, looking at him like someone watching a secret unfold. “i did all that and you still didn’t feel motivated to ask me out?” — you laughed, sweetly ironic. “must be karmic, then.”

he sighed deeply, looking away. “don’t say that… i always wanted to. but what if it ruined our friendship?”

“it’s okay. that part’s over.” — you said, rising from the bed with ease and crossing the space between you. with a gesture almost innocent, you settled into his lap, leaving no room for him to pull away.

lando’s heart raced. your perfume-scented skin, mixed with the sweetness still clinging to your hair, seemed to intoxicate him. he tried to speak, but the closeness reduced him to silence.

“i think it’s time for me to go…” — he whispered, trembling, more like a plea to himself than a decision.

“stay a little longer… please?.” — you ran your fingers through his hair, and he let himself close his eyes for a moment, surrendering to the tenderness of the gesture.

when he opened them, yours were fixed on his. pleading eyes, eyes that begged without words.

“should be special for you, love.” — he confessed, voice cracking, almost believing in his own resistance.

but you smiled — that smile he’d come to recognize from miles away. not the one you wore for cameras or friends, but one loaded with something he couldn’t name — maybe vulnerability, maybe desire, maybe both.

“but it’s special because it’s with you.” — you murmured, with a quiet certainty that completely disarmed him.

you looked at him with a confidence that felt impossible for someone confessing such raw emotion. and before you could stop yourself, you let it slip:

“if there’s one person in the world i want to… fuck with, it’s you.”

as soon as the words left your mouth, heat rushed to your cheeks. you looked away, biting your lip, and he had to take a deep breath to stop himself from laughing at how sweetly nervous you were.

“should i have said ‘make love’ instead?” — you murmured, voice trembling, almost childlike in its hesitation.

he nodded slowly, eyes still locked on you like he was trying to absorb every detail of what you’d just said.

you leaned in, inch by inch, like every second was a test of how long he could hold back before giving in. he didn’t move. his whole body was tense, breath shallow, like temptation had taken over every muscle.

and when your soft laugh escaped, calling him “silly,” it was like every wall he’d built over the past few months came crashing down.

he pulled you closer, arms wrapping around your waist, forehead resting against yours.

“you drive me insane,” — he whispered, voice low and wrecked. “i’ve wanted you for so long, and now you’re here, saying things like that, and i don’t know how to breathe.”

you smiled, brushing your nose against his. “then don’t think"

for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were falling apart.

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, alexsaintmlux and 4,445,444 users

yn zandvoort ❤️ loved each minute here.

maxverstappen1 I'm sure nude swimming is against the law yn and here comes mr no fun 🙄🙄 lando no it's not maxverstappen1 And here comes the defense squad

alexsaintmlux Pretty girl ❤️ liked by author

user THE ENERGY? LANDO LIKING? SHE'S HAPPY?

user the fact that she took a pic of lando pouring champagne and just cut out his face. queen.

oscarpiastri you two good now? yn me and ? oscarpiastri don't make me say bc i'll. yn bold.

carlossainz55 😏 yn gossipers everywhere 🙄

charles_leclerc16 Great performance today, Yn! yn thanks 🙏🏻 you did well too!

lando 😏😏 yn 🍆🍑🏨⌚? lando 😁😁 yn 😏🙏🏻👌🏻💧💧😋? lando 👌🏻👌🏻💧🍑 scuderiaferrari STOP YOU TWO. yn ? just sharing some emojis, is it a crime? oscarpiastri i’m not saying anything but i’m saying everything yn ??? ok

lando you cropped me out but kept the 🍾? rude yn had to gatekeep lando omg cutie

user if #they’re not dating then i’m not breathing

yn posted a story "on god he'll win wdc"

replies

scuderiaferrari Yn, please. We can not have a say in your personal life, but it's getting out of hand. You can't root for another competitor. yn but... :( but daddy i love him ! scuderiaferrari Oh, god.

oscarpiastri give him some brown contacts pls oscarpiastri damn we see them yn he's always staring into my soul yn Throughout Heaven and Earth, He alone is the honored one oscarpiastri you DID NOT compare the goatjo with lando norris. yn 🙄 - lando oscarpiastri 🙄

carlossainz55 Thank god you guys worked things out yn wut carlossainz55 Too much tension around yn 🙄

lando posted a story "yn ❤️"

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yn ass fat Yeah I know. lando 🍑🍆???? yn again?

end

[legacygirlingreen]

That you are || Johnny Storm

Pairing: Johnny Storm (FFFS) x female! reader

Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful... (No use of y/n)

Warnings: lonliness, tooth rotting fluff, Johnny is that perfect blend of soft/uncertain/scoundarl, office sex, desk breaking, don't get to blow a load but I think it's better this way...

Word Count: 25,000+ (I got carried away...)

Author's Note: Couldn't help myself after seeing it a second time for my birthday. You are getting Johnny round two. Loosely inspired by the vibes of Hozier's "that you are", because I was feeling soft and slow and easing one's self into love. Enjoy folks.

How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?

Perhaps it wasn’t all intentional. Bias was unavoidable to a degree. Woven into human nature as certain at times as our hair color or eye color. We built our opinions from scraps of known information, shaped by learned behavior and the neat little patterns our brains insisted on seeing. It was biology to use that information in order to protect oneself from harm. And it certainly didn’t help that the temporary promotion came with a gentle but pointed warning from Mrs. Richards herself…

“I need to warn you about something that comes along with the territory the next few months—”

“I think I’m prepared to handle the job’s tasks,” she interjected, aiming for a mix of humility and quiet confidence in her abilities.

“Oh, it’s nothing to do with your skills,” Sue assured, though her pause lingered a fraction too long. Ever the diplomat, she weighed each word with care, as if balancing her professionalism against the instincts of an older sister.

“Johnny is…” Sue’s eyes softened, but there was something underneath. An almost imperceptible flicker of concern. “A handful.” The warning hung in the air, far heavier than the casual delivery suggested. A handful could mean many things. Immature. Demanding. Reckless. Charming in that dangerous sort of way. And yet, no amount of quiet bracing could have prepared her for the moment he actually walked in.

The door swung open like it had been waiting for his entrance, and if his sister’s comment had summoned him. The faint scent of motor oil and something faintly burnt drifted in with him. He wore the grin of someone who’d never been told no. A confidence in his step that made it feel like he knew the entire world stopped and stared at him alone. “Hey, Sue—” his gaze slid, easy and unhurried, until it caught on her. 

Sue gestured between them. “Johnny, this is—”

“The temporary assistant,” he finished for her, stepping forward without hesitation. “I’ve heard plenty about you.” His handshake was warm, literally, and he held it for half a beat too long, grin deepening like he wanted to see what it would take to make her blush.

“I hope it was all relevant to the job,” she replied, meeting his eyes with the same measured steadiness she’d use in a boardroom. Her tone wasn’t cold, but not open either; it was precise, like every word had passed inspection before leaving her mouth.

Johnny tilted his head, studying her. “Guess we’ll find out.”

She withdrew her hand, smoothing the edge of her clipboard against her palm. “If there’s anything you need work-related, you can go through me. Otherwise, I’ll be coordinating with Mrs. Richards directly.”

“Oh, I think we’ll be talking plenty,” he said with an easy wink. It was the kind of gesture most people would let linger in the air. She didn’t.

“As much as the job requires, Mr. Storm.” Her nod was crisp, professional.

“Please, call me Johnny.”

“I prefer to keep things professional in the workplace,” she said evenly. “It helps maintain clarity.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work for me,” he said, grin leaning more boyish at that moment.

Sue stayed quiet, her expression unreadable. As if deliberately letting the moment stand. It was both proof of the warning she’d given moments ago and a silent test to see how her new assistant would handle the man in question. Luckily, the charms of the Human Torch seemingly missed. Without missing a beat she replied, “Then we’ll just have to disagree on the matter until you give me a real reason to adjust to informality.”

Johnny’s eyebrows lifted, and for the briefest moment, amusement and curiosity sparked in his eyes like a struck match. “Well,” he said, leaning back just enough to suggest he’d conceded without actually conceding, “guess I’ll just have to earn the downgrade to ‘Johnny.’”

“Highly unlikely, given this arrangement is only through the duration of Mrs. Jones’s maternity leave,” she replied, tone even. “However, I can’t dictate how you choose to spend your time, Mr. Storm.”

“A challenge.” His grin sharpened, all boyish confidence. “I like that.”

“Okay, Johnny,” Sue cut in, her voice edged with older-sister authority. “That’s enough harassing the poor girl.”

“I reject that. I’m not harassing.” He scoffed, looking at the woman mouthing can you believe her, only to be met with an unamused shrug. 

“Go.” Sue’s tone was flat, firm. It was the kind that brooked no argument.

“Leaving.” He tipped his head toward her in mock salute, then glanced back at the assistant. “Pleasure meeting you, Sweetheart. I’ll see you around.” And with that, he’d left as casually as he’d arrived, like the interruption had been nothing more than a warm-up act.

Thus began a steady procession of small, unavoidable run-ins with the man. The first came during her opening week on the job. Sue suggested a short trip back across town to the Baxter Building. Something small to act as a private celebration before Tabitha’s send-off to bed rest ahead of her little one’s arrival. Just the three of them, some bakery pastries, and coffee spread across the couch in the quiet living area.

The peace lasted all of ten minutes.

“Alright,” came a voice from the elevator, carrying the particular brand of mischief that seemed to announce him before he actually appeared. “I return the galactically powered menace to your watchful eye. After letting him skip nap time and pumping him full of sugar.” A blond head poked its head into the living space, eyes lighting up as they saw her. “Oh, speaking of sugar…”

Johnny strolled in like he owned the floor beneath him, Franklin perched easily in his arms. The toddler’s little sneakers bounced against Johnny’s side with every step, the boy practically vibrating from whatever sugar-laced adventure they’d just had. Judging by the spark in Johnny’s eyes, he himself was in a similar state.

“Johnny,” Sue scoffed, already sensing the trouble before it unfolded.

“What?” He grinned, all innocence that didn’t fool anyone. “I gotta beat Ben at being the Funcle.”

“How’s my favorite non robotic assistant?” he’s eyes darted to Sue’s regularly staffed assistant who looked at him unamused. “No offense Tabby,” He told her as she rolled her eyes, hands settling on her swollen belly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Storm,” Sue’s newest charge replied evenly, offering him the same professional nod she had the first time they’d met.

Johnny grinned, as if her resistance was the best thing that had happened to him all week. “Y’know, most people would’ve cracked by now. You’re starting to make me nervous.” When she didn’t respond to his comment he continued. “Guess I’ll just have to find another way to win you over. Maybe Franklin can help.”

At the sound of his name, Franklin beamed at her and held out a tiny hand. She reached forward and shook it gently, the faintest smile touching her lips. “See that? He likes you already,” Johnny said, shifting his hold on the toddler. “And the kid’s got great instincts.” Sue made a quiet, knowing sound from her corner of the couch, and Tabitha sipped her coffee to hide a grin.

The assistant straightened, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Instincts aside, I’m sure Franklin’s affections are much easier to earn than mine.”

Johnny’s brows were lifted in a mock challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

Sue cut in, her voice warm but pointed. “Johnny…”

“What? I’m just talking,” Johnny said innocently, bouncing Franklin on his hip with practiced ease. The toddler let out another gleeful squeal, arms flailing in delight. Johnny's eyes, however, lingered on the young woman next to him on the sofa. That ever-present smirk playing at his lips never wavering. “We’ve got months, Sweetheart,” he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough. “I’m a patient guy.”

His gaze flicked toward the coffee table. Years of living with Sue had trained him not to ask before grabbing what he assumed was fair game. Especially with a toddler in the mix. In the Baxter Building, "what's mine is yours" was practically law between the Storm siblings. So, without a second thought, he reached out and snagged the to-go cup resting beside a stack of picture books and spare pacifiers. He popped the lid, took a confident sip... and immediately regretted it.

Instead of the lightly sweetened, milky, vanilla thing Sue usually drank, he was hit with a full blast of unadulterated espresso: jet black, no sugar, extra strong. He paused mid-sip, visibly tensing like someone who’d just been punched in the taste buds.

Sue caught sight of him and let out a sharp breath. “Johnny—”

He grimaced, forced the liquid down with theatrical suffering, then stuck his tongue out like a scolded child. “Who drinks this willingly?” he rasped, eyes watering. “This isn’t coffee, it’s punishment in a cup.”

Setting the drink down with exaggerated caution, he glanced back at the woman, her amusement clearly growing behind her smirk. Something ignited in his stomach watching as her less than rigid act came at his displeasure. The first time she’d let down the professional act even for a moment.

Johnny leaned in, tilting his head, his grin finding new life. “You know,” he said, voice smooth now, “a girl who drinks coffee like that... probably needs a little sweetness in her life.” He let the words hang, just long enough to be felt before flashing her the kind of grin that usually came with a warning label. “Lucky for you, I’m happy to provide...”

“Out.” Sue’s voice cut through the air, firm and unforgiving as she extended her arms toward Franklin. Her expression left no room for argument, just the steady authority of an older sister who’d long since run out of patience for Johnny’s antics. Johnny raised his hands in surrender, already backing toward the door, mischief practically radiating off him. But as he stepped away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, eyes locking onto the woman again.

With a wink and that signature smirk, he added, “Rain check on the Sweetness. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

He hadn’t been entirely wrong, either. Because it wasn’t long after that moment that he surprised her. Not with another joke, or a ridiculous stunt, but with something far more disarming.

Three days. That’s all it had taken. Three days into managing the carefully coordinated chaos of Sue Storm’s professional life, and she was already debating whether or not she should fake her own death and vanish into the mountains. Tabitha had officially left for maternity leave and the mess left behind had fallen squarely into her lap. She was doing her best not to buckle under the pressure, holed up in the adjoining office, a fortress of to-do lists, unanswered messages, and too many events to cram into someone else’s schedule. Sue Storm really was Mrs. Fantastic, if she managed this much on a normal basis. 

A vinyl record spinning low in the corner, some vintage jazz number meant to soothe her fraying nerves. It almost worked. Until the faint murmur of voices in the hallway reached her. It was barely noticeable over the gentle crackle of the record, but enough to prick her ears. Then: a knock. Polite. A beat too casual. Followed by the door opening anyway. She didn’t look up, figuring it was Sue, back early from her meeting. But the footsteps were too light, too familiar in their rhythm. Then a voice.

“Man, you look tense, Doll.”

She blinked, then raised her head. Johnny Storm stood next to her desk, grinning like he’d just stumbled upon something far more interesting than whatever his day had originally held. Her glasses were crooked. Hair a mess from her anxious fingers running through it all morning. She knew she looked a wreck. Not the kind of way anyone wants to be caught in, and especially not in front of him. But then again, he was just her boss’s younger brother. Still, the sting of his observation made her wince.

“Way to make a lady feel great about herself, Mr. Storm,” she said, voice dry as paper. The apology started to form on her lips, soft and automatic. “I’m—”

But he laughed. A real, unpolished sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It hit the walls of the office and filled the space entirely, as it worked to clear out the tension just a little. “No, no, you’re right,” he grinned, holding up his hands in theatrical surrender as perched himself on the only empty corner of her cluttered desk. “I mean, I’ve been waiting to see a crack in that ironclad wall of yours,” he said, head tilted as he looked down at her, not with judgment, but with curiosity. “Gotta say, I like it.”

“Not much in here that lets me know more about you,” he said after a beat, voice thoughtful. “I thought I’d come do some recon, but looks like all you dragged up here was some music.” He gestured toward the corner, where the record player spun something low and moody. All smoke and soft brass, filling the spaces where words might’ve been too much.

She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his comment. For once there hadn’t been teasing. Just… genuine curiosity. Still, she shrugged, returning to her screen without really seeing it. “There’s not much to know,” she said lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a girl trying not to drown in Sue Richard’s impossibly packed schedule.”

In her tone she tried to push off the soft, dismissive, nature with her practiced kind of armor. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be known. Not here. Not by him. But Johnny didn’t push. Instead, he sat something onto the desk beside her keyboard with a quiet thunk. A to-go cup.

Her eyes flicked to it, then to him. He nodded to it without a word, his eyes effectively saying for you. She’d been expecting, instinctively, something saccharine and ridiculous. A caramel swirl monstrosity with six sugars and whipped cream, and enough milk to supply a whole maternity ward. A callback to his over-sweetened preferences, that time he’d drank from her cup when he’d assumed it Sue’s.

But the cup was plain. The aroma sharp. She lifted it slowly, cautious and took a sip. Dark. Strong. Bitter. Exactly the way she drank it. Her brows lifted, just slightly, and for once, words didn’t come easily. She glanced at him, surprised, and found him watching her with a small, satisfied smirk. Not smug. Just… pleased. “Didn’t think I’d get it right?” he asked, a playful edge to his voice, though his posture hadn’t shifted.

She blinked once, then set the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the warmth. “Honestly?” she said, glancing back at him. “No.”

“Well,” Johnny leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, but his grin anything but. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

And damn him, he was. His words tugged at something in her chest. Something small and inconvenient and far too easily stirred. She hated that it caught her off guard, hated more that he didn’t seem to notice the ripple his presence left behind. His gaze had already shifted, roaming over the cluttered corners of her office again with idle interest, like he was seeing it for the first time.

“You know,” he added casually, “you should really make this space yours. At least for now. Studies say people work better when their environment actually feels like them.”

She huffed a small breath through her nose. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Johnny straightened then, clapping his hand lightly against the desk as he stood. “Anyway. I’m off. Some charity golf thing. Sunshine, cameras, pretending I know what a nine iron is. You know how it is.”

She offered him a glance, amused, maybe even a little reluctant to see him go, but it was brief. Controlled. “Thank you,” she said softly, fingers curling around the warm cup still nestled beside her keyboard. “For the coffee, Mr. Storm.”

He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair as he turned toward the door. “One of these days,” he tossed over his shoulder, “it better be just Johnny.” And with that, he disappeared,  leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the lingering heat of the espresso, and an absence she suddenly wasn’t sure she was thrilled to notice.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saturdays were sacred. Or at least they were supposed to be. A quiet little corner carved out of her week, untouched by phones ringing or emergency scheduling changes. No Sue, no international crisis, no chaos in superhero suits. Just her and the worn spines of old books, the scent of paper and dust, the ritual comfort of a place that didn’t expect her to perform.

The shop was tucked away. Not the sleek chain store down the block, but a tiny, tucked-in independent with uneven floors and the kind of silence that invited exhale. She came here often enough that the owner, a soft-spoken man with thick glasses and a deep love for Victorian ghost stories, knew her name. She was halfway down the second-floor fiction aisle, a stack of paperbacks already under one arm, when a voice spoke from just behind her. “Didn’t peg you for a poetry girl.”

She froze. Turned. And there he was. Johnny Storm, of all people, standing a few feet away, sunglasses pushed into his hair making it look disheveled, a to-go coffee cup in hand, and the most unbothered expression she’d ever seen him wear. He was in jeans. A white shirt. Some kind of casual jacket. Not the polished charm of his media persona, not the gleam of a man trying to impress. Just… a guy. In a bookstore. On a Saturday morning before most of the city bothered to be awake.

She blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What, because I know the British romantics?" he grinned, stepping closer and casually leaning against the shelf. “Give me a little credit. I read things. I went to college. I suffered through English class. Birds and mountains, all that jazz.”

“I bet you pretended to read them. Or got some girl in your class to give you the bullet points ahead of class with that charming smile.”

He laughed and held up a hand in mock defeat. “Guilty. But seriously, Rime of the Ancient Mariner?” he nodded at the book in her hand. “You into seriously ruining the vibes of a wedding?”

“I’m into the classics,” she said, slipping it into her stack.

“Well,” he said, with a half-smile, “guess I’ve been categorizing you under the wrong genre.”

She raised a brow, skeptical. “What genre did you have me under?”

He sipped his coffee, thinking for a beat. “Non-fiction,” he said finally. “Sharp, efficient. All structure, no fluff. Certainly not poetry.”

She snorted before she could help it, and regretted it instantly when his smile brightened like he’d just won a bet with himself. “I try to be professional,” she said, mostly to herself.

“And you’re great at it,” Johnny replied, surprising her with the sincerity behind the words. “But I’d like to assume there’s more to you than lists and calendar reminders.”

Her arms tightened around her books, something about his tone striking too close to something she hadn’t let herself think about in months. That she’d built her entire life around being useful. Efficient. The calm in someone else’s storm, and somewhere along the way lost a bit of the things she found enjoyable. It was hard to have a life when the majority of your working life revolved around keeping someone else afloat. “Shouldn’t you be at some event?” she asked, shifting the subject, her voice steady again. “Shaking hands, lighting things on fire for charity?”

He shrugged. “Needed a reset. My therapist says I have to find quiet places that don't come with a camera pointed at me.”

That surprised her. Enough that she glanced up from the shelves of gently loved books in front of her. “You have a therapist?”

“Why does everyone sound so shocked when I say that?” he laughed. “I’ve seen things. Fought things. Spend quite a bit of time on fire. That can mess with the mind I’ll admit. Sue cried the day I voluntarily booked my first session.”

She laughed, and he smiled like that had been the goal all along. Then he held out the coffee in his hand. “Trade you. You recommend a book I’ll pretend I’ll finish, and I’ll give you this, on the condition I get something that doesn’t taste like battery acid in return.”

She eyed the cup with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Straight espresso,” he said, lifting it like a dare. “No sugar, no cream. I’m branching out. Figured if you drink enough of this stuff to kill a man, it must be worth the risk. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It's still crime in a cup.”

She took it, sniffed, and sipped. Bitter. Strong. Exactly how she took hers. He didn’t joke after that point. Didn’t smirk. Just turned and walked toward the front counter and waited for something better from the tiny espresso machine tucked into the back corner of the store, installed by the owner’s wife in what looked like a quiet rebellion against the chain cafés nearby.

She brought the cup to her lips again, pretending not to notice how easily he left it behind in her hands, like it was second nature to share. Like the fact that his mouth had touched it before hers wasn’t worth remarking on. Not that it mattered. She’d drunk after him once before. This just felt… different.

Her eyes followed him as he drifted toward the shelves, one hand brushing the spines like they might give him the answer to some quiet question. No rush. No bravado. Just a guy wandering a bookstore like the world outside wasn’t made of crime, gossip columns and headlines. Then she recalled his request. Something for him to read. 

Johnny Storm didn’t strike her as the kind of man who read often, and certainly not by choice. There was too much velocity in him, too much need for movement and distraction. She imagined him more of a fan of the cinemas than novels. There was strong doubt he sat still long enough to fall into a story unless the pages were filled with action or something lude. And so, she'd never quite assigned him a literary genre in her mind. No tidy label. No easy shelf to place him on.

Something accessible seemed safer, palatable, maybe even charming in its simplicity. So by the time he returned, a faint grin curving his mouth, one hand cradling a new cup of something more suited to his taste, the other tucked coyly behind his back like it contained a secret, she already had a book waiting in her hands.

She wasn’t entirely sure what made her reach for that particular one. Maybe it was a quiet rebellion against his reputation. A subconscious test, curious to see how he'd handle a story that offered less escape and more reflection. One with a title that might resemble a mirror. Maybe she simply liked the way it looked, worn and quietly tragic among the glossier titles. Whatever the reason, she held it out between them.

The Beautiful and Damned. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “This isn’t some cryptic signal for me to back off, is it?”

She shook her head, lips twitching. “Not unless it needs to be, Mr. Storm.”

Johnny turned the book over in his hands, scanning the blurb with a surprisingly thoughtful glance. “Read Gatsby a while back. Liked it more than I thought I would. I’m sure it’s good. Thanks for the recommendation.” Then, without missing a beat, “Which brings me to my much more superior suggestion for you.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean, your suggestion for me?”

“I’m giving you a book rec. Equal exchange. A little literary diplomacy if you will. We read, we reconvene, we give each other another and so on.” Something about that phrasing caught her off-guard. We reconvene. Casual, natural. Like it wasn’t strange at all. Like they were just two friends with overlapping routines and not… whatever this was. It wasn’t quite friendship, was it? And it certainly wasn’t nothing.

A quiet discomfort flickered at the edge of her thoughts. It was all a little too casual, too familiar. Too easy. She worked for his sister, after all. There were boundaries, weren’t there? Unspoken, maybe, but understood. Sue had never forbidden anything, never drawn a line in the sand. Her only warnings had been gently pragmatic: that Johnny could be a lot. Loud. Reckless. The type who flirted with beautiful women because he didn’t know how not to.

But she’d never said stay away.

Before she could dwell on it too long, Johnny was already extending the book toward her with something like pride glittering in his eyes. The Blazing World, by Margaret Cavendish. Her brows lifted slightly, surprised by the choice. A name she didn’t recognize. A curious blend of science fiction, philosophy, poetry and in ambitious prose. Strange and brilliant in ways that rarely showed up on casual reading lists, and even fell through the cracks of scholarly work.

She took it slowly, fingers brushing his as they passed the slim volume between them. His skin was warm, unsurprisingly, given he carried the sun’s power in his body. She let her thumb skim the edge of the pages, not yet opening it. Her voice came quiet, more contemplative than she'd expected. “You’ve read this?”

“I’ve attempted to read it,” he said, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t get far. But I liked the idea of it. Worlds colliding. A woman building her own Empire. Seemed like something you’d appreciate more than I could.” The comment caught her off guard. Not because it was simply flattering, but because it was…observant. It showed his understanding of her tastes, given the little information he had on her, and provided a thoughtful recommendation. It almost made her feel sheepish, given she’d picked something off best sellers lists to pass along to him, where he’d put in more effort.

She glanced up at him, studying the way he leaned back slightly, letting her set the tone. No teasing. No firework smile. Just him, standing there, strangely sincere beneath all that practiced bravado. “It seems weird,” she said finally, thumbing the cover. “But brilliant. The kind of thing I’d stumble upon.”

He grinned again. “Sounds like I provided a better suggestion,.”

She tried not to laugh but didn’t quite succeed, and he looked far too pleased with himself. They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the space between them a breath too close, books cradled like offerings in their hands. Then, casually he said, “So. Same time next week? For the post-mortem?”

She blinked. “You’re seriously going to read it?”

He shrugged, but there was something steady in his eyes. “I said I’d try. Besides…” He nodded toward The Beautiful and Damned in his hand. “Feels like the kind of deal you don’t back out of.”

She smiled. It was small, restrained, but real. “Same time,” she said softly before she could overthink how unprofessional it was to be seeing her boss’s brother on a familiar basis. It was the kind of thing she’d scold herself for… later. 

He offered a mock salute before turning to leave. He didn’t bother her after passing a few bills to the owner. Didn't even turn back around. She could hear the bell above the door jangling as he stepped out into the late afternoon light. She watched him go, unsure what it meant. If it meant anything at all. But with the book still clutched in her hands, she tried not to dwell. And when she finally cracked open the cover, she found herself smiling.

Not because of the words on the page. But because, against every reasonable assumption, Johnny Storm had just surprised her.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights were too bright when she came back in. The kind of artificial white that bleached out time and made everything feel faintly unreal. Her meeting had run over, leaving her with a dull headache and the vague sense that she’d forgotten something important, though she couldn't name what. She set her folder down with a muted thud, shrugging off her coat before freezing mid-motion.

There was something on her desk. Not just something. A book. She recognized it immediately. The worn, wine-colored cover. The familiar weight of it in her memory. The Beautiful and Damned. Only, this copy wasn’t hers. Hers had never been dog-eared like that, the spine a little more cracked now than before, the corners softened as if handled too often in too short a time. She stared at it, unmoving. A note might’ve made it easier. An explanation. Even a dumb sticky note with Told you I’d finish it in his cocky handwriting would’ve fit the narrative she’d built for him in her head. But there was no note. Just the book, left deliberately.

Slowly, she pulled out her chair and sat down. The silence of the office folded around her. When she opened the cover, her breath caught. The margins were full of ink. Not dense, frantic scribbles or anything that suggested pretense. Just... notes. Small, blocky handwriting in black pen. He hadn’t annotated passages with inherent rhyme or reason or filled every blank space. He’d written where it seemed to strike his fancy.

She flipped to a random page.

“This guy's self-pity could power the city grid.”

“Does Gloria actually like him or is she just bored?”

“This part… hits harder than I wanted it to.”

She turned another page. Then another. Every few leaves, there’d be another brief line in the margins. Some funny. Some startlingly intelligent. Some… vulnerable in a way that made her heart trip a little in her chest. Not because they were bold confessions, but because they weren’t. They were insights. Real glimpses into how his mind worked. He’d read it. Not skimmed, but truly read it. In a matter of days. And he’d thought about it. Enough to leave pieces of his perspective tucked between the lines. 

She wasn't sure what she had expected from him on Saturday. Maybe a careless toss of the book back into her hands, some joke about the slow downfall of rich people, a sarcastic rating. But not this. Not a thoughtful connection with the literature. Not ink on paper. Not something left behind, with no need for acknowledgement or using it as an excuse to harass her at work. Just a quiet answer to a question she hadn’t realized she’d been asking.

There was more to Johnny Storm than he truly let on. 

Her eyes drifted back to the desk. Nothing else was left with it. But there was something in the way the book had been placed deliberately there without spectacle. Like he wanted her to find it. Like he wanted her to notice. But he didn’t want to be around when she flipped through it. The realization was almost endearing in a way. Perhaps he wasn’t fully confident with the situation after all.

She leaned back in her chair, the book still open in her lap. The office buzzed faintly around her, but she didn’t hear it. Instead, she felt the weight of those pages, of everything between the lines. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bookstore was quieter than usual. No light filtered through the front windows, not with the snow falling outside. And the cold shift in weather seemingly kept everyone away. A coffee grinder rumbled briefly before dying into stillness. The smell of cinnamon and old pages curled in the air. She was already in the same aisle when he found her, pretending to browse, fingers resting lightly on the spine of a book she wasn’t reading.

“Hey,” came his voice, softer than usual.

She looked up. Johnny stood a few steps away, hair slightly windblown, coffee in one hand, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t look like someone who set things on fire for a living. Here, he just looked... a little uncertain. Maybe even a little hopeful. He nodded toward her, then toward the shelves. “So. Did you finish it?”

It took her a beat to register the question. She gave a small nod, folding her arms. “I did.”

A pause. He took it in stride, stepping closer, careful not to get too close. “And?”

She tilted her head, fingers still resting on that forgotten book beside her. “It was strange,” she said finally. “Dense. Messy. Ahead of its time. Kind of brilliant. Kind of exhausting.”

A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So... you loved it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She rolled her eyes, but softly. “What made you pick it?”

He shrugged. “I remembered the title from an old lecture back in college. Seemed like it’d match your energy. A woman building her Empire and all, with that dramatic energy of hers.”

That pulled a laugh from her, and she tried not to internally scold herself for the involuntary nature of it. “You think I have dramatic energy?”

“I think you build your own world,” he said, too quickly, before glancing away like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Or, you know. Something like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... charged. She watched the way he sipped his coffee, how his fingers wrapped around the cup like he needed something sure to ground himself in the moment. “I liked the annotations,” she said after a moment. “You are actually funny when you aren’t trying too hard.”

“I can’t say I get that a lot,” he said, but the smile was modest. No fireworks. No bravado. He looked at her then and for a second she didn’t feel like she was standing in a bookstore at all. Just suspended, caught between the margin of something she hadn’t named yet and something he wasn’t forcing her to.

He gestured toward a nearby display. “Okay. Your turn.”

“For what?”

“New picks,” he said. “I’m clearly on a streak. I’ll try not to ruin it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is this becoming a regular thing now?”

He gave a half-shrug, half-smile. “Only if you want it to be.”

The words hung in the space between them, casual on the surface, but landing somewhere far less casual inside her. He said it with the same ease he said most things, like nothing mattered too much, like no moment was ever heavy enough to be held too tightly. But now, with him standing just behind her, following her lead as she turned down a quieter aisle, she couldn’t quite ignore the way her thoughts tangled around the simplicity of it.

Only if you want it to be.

What did she want it to be?

She let her fingers trail the shelves, touching covers she didn’t read, spines she didn’t care about. Searching. A book for him, that was the task. Another title. Another exchange. Something witty or unexpected. Something that said I see more in you without actually saying anything at all.

And yet her mind refused to focus. Because now, the game felt different. Slightly altered in its stakes. It had been harmless, hadn’t it? Originally just a test to see what he was made of. Now it could be a flirtation wrapped in pages and margins, passed between them like a secret handshake. Now it felt like she was making choices with weight. Choosing a book meant choosing how much to show. What version of herself she wanted him to hold in his hands. How much of her growing appreciation for him she’d let on.

Behind her, she could hear the subtle shift of his footsteps as he paused somewhere down the aisle. Not crowding her. Not pushing. Just… waiting. As if he knew better than to fill the silence too soon. She pulled a title from the shelf, turned it over, and put it back. Too grim. Another. Too ridiculous. Another. Too transparent.

How did you find the perfect book for someone who was suddenly no longer a passing curiosity? What does he see when he looks at me? The question slipped in before she could stop it. It wasn’t that she needed an answer. But lately, the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, it was quieter than the Johnny Storm she’d been warned about. No charming remarks. No obvious lines. Just these brief, disarming glances. Like he was trying to understand her.

And now here she was, stalling in front of the fiction section. Like what she picked for him could open or close a door she hadn’t even decided she wanted to walk through. She glanced sideways, found him leaning lightly against the end of the shelf, idly flipping through something he hadn’t really chosen. He looked relaxed. At ease. He was watching her, eyes lifting from the pages every so often to her, then back down. Not like he was even particularly curious about the outcome. Just... present. There. Noticing. She turned back to the shelves, pulse ticking louder than it should’ve. Eventually, her fingers settled on a slim paperback. One she remembered liking years ago but hadn’t thought about since.  She turned, holding it out to him before her mind could make her lose the nerve. 

Johnny took it, thumb brushing the edge of the cover, then flipping through a few pages like he was testing the weight of it. “From the Earth to the Moon, huh? Any particular reason?”

She hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. “Sue mentioned once that you liked space. Said it was your first love. Probably would be your last.”

That pulled a faint smile from him, the crooked and boyish kind, but something flickered behind it. He leaned into the shelf beside him, posture casual but gaze a little more focused now, the book still resting open in his hand. “Asking my sister about me,” he said, voice lighter than the look he gave her. “Now that’s unexpectedly personal.”

“I wasn’t asking about you,” she replied, too quickly, too defensively. “She mentioned it, and I simply cataloged the information.” Her voice was clipped, her posture a touch too stiff. Like she’d said more than she meant to and was trying to shrink it back into something neutral.

But he didn’t tease her for it. Didn’t grin or throw out some easy line the way she expected. He just watched her. Not with judgment, but with something far more subtle. Curiosity, maybe. Or understanding. She couldn't tell. He flipped the book closed with one hand, the soft sound of the pages coming together. “Well,” he said at last, eyes flicking to the cover, “it’s a good pick. You’re not wrong, by the way. About space.”

She raised an eyebrow, surprised he was still on that thought. “I used to memorize the constellations,” he continued, more to the book than to her. “Could name them all before I hit eight. Used to think the stars made more sense than people did.”

That last line hung there, a small piece of himself that was unguarded. Like it had slipped past his usual filter of flirtation. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched the way he shifted his weight, his free hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, like maybe he regretted the truth of it.

“You don’t think that anymore?” she asked, carefully.

“I think,” he said, glancing up again, “that the older you get, the harder it is to look up. So much happening around you, all the responsibility of being an adult, it leaves little room for those daydreams of distant stars.” He said it like it wasn’t profound. Like it didn’t carry a weight that caught her off guard.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, aching to fidget, to ground herself in something tangible. Instead, she said, “That’s why I picked the book. Thought maybe you could use a reminder of simpler times.”

That made him smile again. “I’ll read it,” he said, voice low. “Promise.” She gave a small nod, unsure what else to do with the weight of him looking at her like that. Like she wasn’t just a person passing through his orbit, but something fixed. A point of gravity. Then, thankfully, he broke the moment. “Alright,” he said, tucking the book under his arm. “I owe you one now. You want to cry, laugh, or question the futility of existence?”

She smirked faintly, relief bleeding into the expression. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Dangerous words,” he said with a wink, stepping away from the shelf and back toward the café corner of the shop. “Alright, emotion roulette it is.” She followed a few steps behind, bookless, hands tucked into her sleeves. But the space between them wasn’t awkward. It was almost familiar; comfortable in a way that snuck up on her.

“Okay,” he said, a little breathless, like he was admitting something that might cost him. “I’ll confess, I did some research before today. So this isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment pick. I might’ve also called ahead to make sure they had something in stock.” He didn’t wait for her reaction. Just pressed the book gently into her hands before she could protest. She looked down.

John Clare.

A collected volume. Thick, matte-bound, the kind of edition usually found in academic libraries or quietly aging on secondhand shelves. It wasn’t a single title, not a curated selection by the poet himself, but a posthumous compilation. Normally, she avoided those. They always felt like someone else’s hands had been too involved. Like the purity of the author’s voice had been filtered through other intentions.

But this time, she didn’t move to hand it back. Not when he stood there, a little hopeful. Like he knew it wasn’t flashy, and certainly was off the beaten path, and had still chosen it anyway. She traced a thumb lightly along the edge of the pages. The spine cracked faintly under her grip, and she could already feel the density of it. The weight of someone’s entire lifetime of work captured in the binding.

“You called ahead,” she repeated softly, not quite a question.

He shrugged, half-apologetic. “Didn’t want to wing it. Figured if I was gonna bring you poetry, it should be something thought out a bit more than your Frosts of the world."

That answer surprised her more than the book itself. She opened to the first page, letting the weight of it settle in her hands. The paper was thinner than she liked. The font, a little too small. But there was something in it that made her pause. A sort of stillness she hadn’t expected. “Clare’s not one of the poets I’m largely familiar with, but I know of him. A bit more accessible  than most,” she said.

“Yea,” he agreed. “I read a few of the shorter ones. There was this one about a field, or maybe it was a tree? Either way, it didn’t sound like much. But then halfway through one of them just… it made sense in a way I didn’t expect.”

She blinked. That wasn’t the kind of reaction she expected him to admit. Especially not about a 19th-century poet who wrote about hedgerows and abandonment in the same breath. “So you picked this for me,” she said slowly, “because… it got under your skin?”

“I picked it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “because it felt honest. Messy. Kind of sad, but not in a showy way. Thought maybe you’d like that. I thought breaking up the rich academics with a man who spent time in an asylum or living amongst paupers would have a genuine nature you’d enjoy. You don’t seem to like flashy things.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down at the cover again, the faint embossed lettering of Clare’s name. Something inside of her shifted. Like a door opening somewhere she hadn’t noticed was locked. Normally, she would’ve dismissed the book. Too long. Too curated. But he’d gone looking for it. For her. With intentionality. And that changed everything. She didn’t say thank you. Not because she wasn’t grateful, but because the words felt too shallow for what he’d just handed her. Not the book itself, but the thought behind it. So instead, she just held it. And that seemed to be enough for him.

Johnny didn’t press. He didn’t wait for a reaction like he needed validation. He just gave a small nod, "There's a table open near the back," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the café corner, where a window seat sat mostly in shadow, partially hidden by a crooked row of nonfiction titles and a wilting potted plant. “If you’re not in a rush.”

She hesitated, then followed. Neither of them said anything as they settled into the space. He placed his drink down, she set the book beside hers, and for a while, the only sounds were the low murmur of voices across the store and the soft shuffle of pages turning somewhere nearby. She watched him over the rim of her cup. He’d leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the shelves across from them as if thinking through something he didn’t want to name. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the wood, quiet and patient.

Finally, she reached for the book again. Her thumb flipped through the first few pages. The introduction. The publication note. The timeline of Clare’s life, compressed into neat paragraphs. Born poor. Largely self-taught. Obsessive. Unwell. Brilliant. Forgotten.

She landed on a random poem.

“I am! Yet what I am, none cares or knows.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. It was the kind of line that didn’t require understanding. It simply existed with profound truth. Like someone had written down a thought that had once lived, wordless, at the back of her own mind. And now here it was, plain and devastating and true. She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t want him to see the way the words had impacted her. But he must’ve noticed something. Because after a beat, his voice cut in, quiet.

“That one stayed with me, too.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to his. He didn’t smile. Didn’t try to soften the weight of it. He just looked at her like he knew. And it wasn’t the intensity that got to her, it was the ease. The way he let silence exist between them without rushing to fill it. He was simply present.

She closed the book carefully, ran a finger once along the edge of the pages, and asked, suddenly needing to know, “Why are you doing this?” Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. “This,” she said again, motioning vaguely between them. “The books. The effort. Poetry, for God’s sake. I know you’re not doing this just to cure some momentary boredom. I’m sure you could find much better company for that.”

There was no accusation in her tone, just quiet curiosity, laced with something more hesitant underneath. A softness mixing with caution. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled once through his nose, and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Honestly?” he said. “I’m not totally sure.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh, more reflex than anything else, and looked down at the table like the words might be hiding there. “But when I’m around you,” he continued, slower now, “it’s like I don’t have to keep being whoever everyone thinks I am. I don’t have to try so hard to be entertaining. Or clever. Or whatever version of me people are used to.”

His eyes lifted to hers again. “You don’t look at me like I’m supposed to prove something. That’s… rare.”

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t look away either. “And I think there’s something about you,” he went on, quieter now, almost hesitant. “Something still. Like, there’s this kind of loneliness to you, but not the sad kind. More like you made peace with being on your own. I don’t exactly like to just sit with myself and my own thoughts if I can avoid it.”

That made her inhale a little too sharply. His expression softened, but he didn’t apologize for saying it. “I guess I just like being around that,” he said. “It feels safe. Real. I don’t know. Maybe that sounds selfish.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, almost before he finished.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not about impressing you. If it was, I’d be doing a way worse job, trust me. I’ve got a knack for putting people off at a point when the ‘charming’ nature no longer seems, well, charming. I think I just… want to know what it’s like to be seen by someone who doesn’t already have an idea of me in their head.”

She held his gaze, heart ticking too loudly in her chest. She felt guilty. Just because she hadn’t made the thoughts known, she did have ideas in her head. Ones that were constructed from Sue’s warning. From the articles she tried to avoid. Small giggled conversations on her walk home from young women calling the billboard of him half exposed dreamy. The only contradiction to those being from the sparse moments he’d shown her since those flirty interactions at the beginning.

This version of him — stripped of bravado, all the golden-boy confidence gone — felt startlingly close to something she hadn’t realized she missed in the company of people. A kind of honesty that didn’t ask for anything back. She looked down at the book again, ran a thumb along its frayed edge. “Well,” she murmured, her voice soft but not without a hint of dry amusement, “you’ve shown me a few sides I didn’t expect to experience, Mr. Storm.”

The use of his name was deliberately formal, but not cold. More playful than professional now. A tease, laced with familiarity. The kind of formality that invited contradiction. He caught it immediately. His grin flickered to life. “Careful,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” He tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. “It’s already in there.”

She rolled her eyes, but it lacked any real bite. The weight of the moment hadn’t lifted entirely. It lingered beneath their words, steady and quiet, but this, the soft return to banter, felt like exhale. Like an acknowledgment that they could hold both things at once: the intimacy, and the distance. The honesty, and the pretense. Johnny took another sip of his coffee which had long since gone cold, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze drifted back to the book in her hands, then to her. For a moment, something uncertain passed through his expression. Almost as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next now that the conversation had settled, now that silence had taken root between them again. 

He looked away, toward the front windows of the shop. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. What had started earlier as a quiet flurry had built slowly into something more committed. The light from the streetlamps cast soft halos through the drifting flakes, and the sidewalks were turning from gray slush to something closer to white. “Huh,” Johnny murmured, more to the window than to her. “Coming down harder now.”

She followed his gaze. People passed by in heavy coats, shoulders hunched, breath visible in short bursts of steam. The kind of cold that made your bones feel thinner. “I could walk you home,” he offered, lightly. 

The words were casual. He tried to make them sound that way, at least. But there was a quiet earnestness underneath. She looked at him for a second too long. Long enough that his confidence wavered just slightly, a flicker behind his eyes. “Are you planning to set yourself on fire for warmth if I say yes?” she asked, deadpan.

He grinned, his shoulders loosening with the shift in tone. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to, but I could probably manage it if things got desperate.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. She stood, the book still in hand. “Fine,” she said, slipping her coat on. “But if you turn this into some dramatic chivalry act, I’m leaving you.”

“Noted,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “Subtle heroism only. Got it.”

They paid for the books without conversation. Just silently ringing up, bags wrapped tightly around the precious cargo so it wouldn’t get damp. Then they stepped out into the street together. The snow greeted them in silence. Clinging to their hair and eyelashes as they walked side by side down the sidewalk. The city felt smaller in the snow. The world reduced to a few feet ahead of them, the hush of their footsteps, and the occasional flicker of streetlight through the white.

They were halfway down the block when the wind came slicing between the buildings, sharp and sudden. It cut through the wool of her coat like it wasn’t even there. She flinched at the cold and instinctively curled in on herself, shoulders tucking tighter, hands disappearing deeper into her pockets. A shiver worked its way through her before she could stop it.

Johnny noticed. He glanced sideways at her, brow lifting just slightly, like he was trying to decide how much trouble he'd be in for what he was about to do. Then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and tugged her gently into his side. One arm slung easily over her shoulders, like it had happened a thousand times before. Effortless. “Pretty sure Sue would kill me if I let her assistant freeze to death on the street,” he said, casually. Light on the surface. 

But his arm stayed where it was. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. Her steps faltered for a half-second. Less from the physical shift and more from the fact that it felt... Natural. Not like something he was doing to be charming. Not to get a reaction. Just a kind gesture to keep her warm.

She glanced up at him, lips parted slightly like she might object on principle. But he was staring ahead, focused on the snow, pretending like he hadn’t just closed the distance between them with no ceremony whatsoever. “You really think Sue would care that much?” she asked, tone deliberately flat.

“Oh, she’d absolutely care,” he said. “She really likes you. Warns me pretty repeatedly not to run you off.”

She let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. And then, surprising even herself, she didn’t move away. His warmth radiated through the fabric of her coat. The snow was still falling, heavier now, and the sidewalks were turning slick with a fine sheen of frost, but beside him, tucked neatly into his side, she didn’t feel quite as brittle in the cold.  They kept walking like that. No big moment. No shift in the world around them. Just his arm around her shoulders. And her letting it stay there. Which, for both of them, felt quietly remarkable.

They rounded the final corner before her building, the familiar stoop materializing out of the haze. She slowed her steps, and so did he. “This is me,” she said quietly, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

He stopped with her, but didn’t pull away just yet. His arm stayed where it was for a second longer than necessary before he let it drop. The absence of it made the cold return too quickly. He looked at the building, then at her. Snow clung to the edges of her coat, melted on the curve of her collar. She didn’t meet his eyes right away.

“You warm enough now?” he asked, tone light.

She nodded. “More or less.”

He gave a slow exhale, breath fogging in the space between them. Then, almost as if to explain the gesture retroactively, he added, “Didn’t want Sue to kill me for letting her assistant freeze to death on a Brooklyn sidewalk.”

She huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close. “How noble of you.”

“I have my moments.”

She glanced up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. Snow was caught in his lashes, and melted into the blond fringe over his forehead. There was nothing performative in his face now. No smug smile, no raised brow. Just a softness she didn’t quite know how to answer.

“Well,” she said, adjusting the book under her arm. “Thanks for the escort, Mr. Storm.”

He gave a slow nod, as if there were words he wanted to say but chose to hold back. Then, with a small, familiar tilt of his head, he said, “Anytime.” Stepping back from the stoop, he added, “I’ll see you Monday.”

The reminder settled between them. Sue’s schedule, the foundation ceremony for their late mother, with Johnny needing to be there for part of it. She nodded, the thought grounding her. They’d see each other again in less than forty-eight hours.

“Goodnight, Mr. Storm,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she started up the steps. She didn’t look back, but her fingers curled tighter around the book she carried. Eager to lose herself in its pages. In something that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She didn’t see him on Monday. Not because he’d flaked. Johnny was many things — sometimes reckless, often loud, and rarely on time — but never unreliable when it counted. Especially when it was related to his family. 

She didn’t see him because she never made it to work at all.

Sunday night had slipped into a quiet blur, the kind of fatigue that wasn’t cause for alarm. But morning came with a harsh jolt. A fever burning through her, a stuffy nose that wouldn’t clear, muscles aching in a dull, persistent throb. The flu had claimed her completely. She spent the day wrapped in blankets, while she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Outside, the world moved on, but inside her house, everything felt still. Except the steady, frustrating pulse of illness.

Sue had told her to stay home. The call had gone through that morning. Franklin crying in the background, muffled sounds of bickering between Ben and Johnny over cereal and Sue’s  gentle insistence and no-nonsense warning. “You need to rest. You’re not permitted in the office until you feel better. That’s an order.”

She had reluctantly agreed, lips pressed tight, even as guilt settled heavy in her chest. Missing work felt like failure. Like letting Sue down. Letting Johnny down, especially since the foundation was in memory of their parents, stung especially hard given their recent… breakthrough. But the fever that had clawed its way into her bones didn’t care about guilt. It demanded surrender. And so she surrendered, curling deeper into tangled sheets, the weight of the blankets somehow both comforting and suffocating.

The hours passed in a strange blur. Outside, daylight faded from pale to gray, then sank into the muted shadows of early evening. The city’s usual hum dulled to a low, distant thrum. The apartment felt hollow.  She’d never put much effort into updating the place. Where most clung to sleek, modern trends, she preferred the warmth of older things: a four-poster bed, a worn chestnut wardrobe, faded floral wallpaper, candle holders still half-used. It had a quiet kind of charm. A lived-in elegance, even if she rarely spent time there. Her fever-glossed eyes drifted over the room. Past the quilted blanket draped over the plush chair in the corner, the wooden record player and vinyl stack beside it, the shelf overflowing with books, titles spilling onto the floor like fallen soldiers.

And there, on the nightstand, lay the book Johnny had given her. Still unopened.

She closed her eyes again. The television murmured in the background, turned low, more ambient noise than entertainment. The stillness was a comfort.

Until it wasn’t. A knock. Hesitant. Unexpected. She froze. The room seemed to shrink around her. Another knock came, firmer this time, breaking the fragile calm. Her pulse fluttered. Who could it be? Friends? She didn’t have many in the city. Family? Even fewer. Maybe the fever was playing tricks on her. When the knocks didn’t come again, she sighed and sank back into the pillows. Probably someone at the wrong door. A delivery. A mix-up. She was too sick to care.

But then, light. Not the flicker of the television, but something warmer. Like a fireplace glow. That’s nice, she thought hazily. Fireplaces are nice. A small, delirious smile tugged at her lips as she buried herself deeper under the covers.

Another knock. Not from the front door this time. From her bedroom window. She sat up, breath catching, sheets clinging to her overheated skin. Panic lanced through her, briefly, until she registered the source of the flickering light outside the glass. She stumbled toward the window, ignoring the fever-sweat clinging to her back, the weakness in her knees. Fumbling with the latch, her fingers finally managed to pry it open. A blast of cold winter air rushed in, stealing the breath from her lungs and chasing heat from her cheeks.

And there he was. Hovering just above the fire escape, flames curling lazily around his shoulders and hands, casting flickering light across the snow-dusted ledge behind him. Johnny Storm. “I thought I had the wrong window for a second,” he said, grinning, though his voice held something gentler than his usual swagger. A thread of concern tugged behind the humor.

She blinked, dazed, gripping the windowsill like it might keep her upright. “You’re here?”

“Uh... yes? Is that a question?” he replied, one brow arching in that familiar, teasing way.

“Just... fever,” she mumbled, her gaze drifting past him, toward the soft mess of her room. The nest of blankets, the tissues, the half-empty mug of cold tea on her nightstand. “Wasn’t sure I was hallucinating.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. Instead, he stepped closer, the flames fading from his skin until only the natural warmth of him remained, haloed in faint light. Then, before she could even process it, his hand reached forward. Back of his dexterous fingers, cool and gentle against her forehead. “Oh, doll… you’re burning up,” he murmured, brow furrowing.

She turned her face slightly, attempting a weak smile. “Bit ironic coming from the Human Torch.” That led to a chuckle, short-lived though it was, as it dissolved into a sudden coughing fit. She braced herself against the window frame, chest heaving, head spinning.

Johnny’s hand hovered, uncertain, ready to steady her if she swayed too far. “Easy. I’m not worth laughing to death over, yeah?”

She gave him a look, still half-glazed from the fever. “Do you... need me to come down and unlock the front door?”

Johnny tilted his head, a spark returning to his grin. “What? And ruin the moment? I’m Prince Charming, Sweetheart. I can crawl through the window like Romeo.”

Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. She stepped back, giving him room. “Just don’t fall, Hotshot.”

“Oh, I never fall,” he said smoothly, one foot swinging over the windowsill. “I fly.” With practiced ease, he climbed inside, landing softly on the hardwood floor beside her bed. The moment he was in, she noticed the bag slung over one shoulder. Navy blue backpack, slightly beat-up, and obviously full.

Her brows furrowed. “What’s in the bag?”

“Supplies,” he said matter-of-factly, already setting it down on the floor. “Soup. Electrolites. Cold meds. Every single cough drop the corner store had. A thermometer shaped like a dinosaur, don’t ask, and your favorite cookies. Which, for the record, I had to bribe someone to get the last pack of.”

“You really came all the way here... just to bring me cold supplies?”

He shrugged, kicking off his sneakers. “Sue said you were sick, and when you didn’t show up today, I figured I’d do what any irresistible fire-powered hero would do.”

“You broke into my room.”

“I entered with style,” he corrected, “Huge difference.”

She sat on the corner of the bed, the warmth in her cheeks no longer just from the fever. “You’re ridiculous.”

Johnny pulled out the soup can, shaking it gently. “And yet, here I am. Ridiculous with a side of chicken noodle.” She watched him move around her space like he belonged there. Like it wasn’t weird at all that a literal superhero had just flown into her bedroom window in the middle of a winter night. Or that her boss’s brother, Jonathan Storm himself, was standing in her room with a bag and concern written all over his face. Like taking care of her was just something he did now.

Almost as if he could sense the direction her thoughts had drifted, Johnny’s gaze wandered across the space. His expression shifted. She followed his line of sight, bracing herself. It wasn’t the Baxter Building. Not even close. He lived among glass walls and touchscreens, floors that practically cleaned themselves, and a fridge that probably told you the weather and your mood. Her apartment, in comparison, felt like it belonged in another century. The kind of place with creaky floorboards and mismatched furniture passed down, not bought.

Framed photos lined her dresser. A school portrait from second grade with pigtails. A blurry snapshot of her with a chocolate-covered mouth at a birthday party. Trinkets from forgotten vacations. A chipped ceramic dish that held earrings and loose change. The floral wallpaper had peeled in places, but she hadn’t bothered to fix it.

And then… the books. He turned toward the far wall, stopping short. “Whoa.” Her eyes followed his. Three narrow shelves were mounted unevenly, packed end to end with novels. Classics, sci-fi, romance, history. Some stacked sideways, others crammed on top of one another like a game of bookish Tetris. And that wasn’t counting the ones on the floor. Piles of them leaned against the wall, curling at the corners, some clearly re-read until the spines cracked.

“You… uh,” Johnny said, gesturing at the organized chaos. “You ever think about getting an actual bookcase?”

She blinked. “The shelves work fine.”

“They’re working overtime,” he replied, stepping closer. “You’re one sneeze away from a paperback avalanche.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “They’ve survived this long.”

“I think we oughta ban you from the bookstore until you figure out a better way to display this incredibly large collection of yours,” he teased, eyeing the leaning towers of novels like they might collapse at any moment.

“That’s only about a third of it,” she admitted, voice raspy with exhaustion. “I’ve got boxes tucked in closets. Bit of a hoarder when it comes to books…”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Johnny said, still grinning. Then, after a beat, his expression softened. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making you talk this much. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel.” He glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on a small door just to the right of her bed. “Bathroom?” he asked, nodding toward it.

She nodded. Without another word, he made his way over and opened the door. She frowned slightly when it didn’t close behind him, her curiosity rising, until she heard the faucet turn on.

The sound of running water filled the room, followed by the creak of a cabinet and the soft clatter of what she guessed was a soap dish. He emerged a moment later, brushing his hands together. “Alright. Got the water running. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to ease the pain.”

She blinked at him. “You drew me a bath?”

He shrugged, casual. “Better you try it while someone’s here to make sure you don’t drown or fall and hurt yourself.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. That’s… unexpected.”

“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart.” He turned, walking back toward the window like he might be heading out. But then he stopped and looked back at her with a more serious expression. “I’ll wait downstairs. Unless you want me to go?” His voice was light, but there was a flicker of something unsure beneath it. His eyes dropped to his sock-covered feet, as if she might suddenly ask him to grab his sneakers, climb back out the window, and forget this ever happened.

For a moment, she said nothing, just watched him, feeling the warmth behind her ribs outweigh the fever in her skin. “You can stay,” she said softly. His head came back up at that, relief flickering across his features. “But,” she added, clearing her throat, “no making fun of Mr. Bear or anything else mildly embarrassing you may come across. I’m too fevered to fight back right now.”

He gave a low chuckle, hand already over his heart. “Scout’s honor. I’ll be on my best behavior. And I’d never mock… Mr. Bear,” he paused, testing the word as his eyes settled on the little brown teddy bear on her bed. 

She rose unsteadily from the bed, and for a second, he instinctively stepped forward, attempting to steady her but she waved him off gently, managing her way to the bathroom door. Just before disappearing inside, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Hey Jonathan?”

“Yeah?” Hearing his full name, not the one he went by, was a step in the right direction, but still felt entirely too formal for his liking. Still, he fought the grin threatening to take over his face at the small concession she’d offered.

“Thank you,”

His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but what came out was softer. “Anytime, Doll.”

She lingered just a moment more after the door clicked shut, listening faintly as his socked footsteps padded away from her bedroom. A second later, the soft creak of the floorboards in the hall told her he was far enough to respect her privacy. She exhaled slowly and turned toward the bathroom. Warm steam curled gently around the frame as she stepped inside. The tub was already filling, the water swirling with just enough heat to soothe without scalding. But what stopped her wasn’t the bath. It was the candles.

Three of them. Set along the edge of the sink and the corner of the tub, flickering softly. Matchbook she kept in the drawer absent. He’d lit them. So she wouldn’t have to use the bright overhead light. Her chest tightened. Just a little. She didn’t dwell on it. A few minutes later, she sank into the water, the warmth pulling a shaky sigh from her lips. It didn’t erase the ache in her bones, but it helped. The low flicker of candlelight danced across the tile. Johnny Storm. Lighting candles. Drawing baths. She smiled faintly to herself. 

Ten minutes. That was all she could manage before the fatigue started tugging her under. She climbed out carefully, dried off, slipped into fresh clothes. Sweats, thick socks, and the hoodie she usually reserved for laundry days. It smelled like clean cotton and fabric softener. Damp but brushed hair soaking through the material, she padded down the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance.

Her apartment hummed. Soft record on the turnstyle, Elvis it sounded like, and the occasional soft clink of metal against ceramic. When she turned the corner into the kitchen, she saw him. Johnny was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup with focused intensity. He’d found one of her oversized mugs and had clearly decided it doubled as a bowl.  He hadn’t noticed her yet.

She leaned against the doorway, watching him. This was... new. Unexpected. And honestly? Kind of nice. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of her. “Didn’t burn the place down, did you?” she rasped, voice still rough but lighter than before.

Johnny turned, surprise flickering across his face before it gave way to something softer. “There she is,” he said, voice low, dramatic in that way television hosts announced the mundane like it was breaking coverage. “Looking a little more alive.”

She moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen. Her legs were still shaky, but the bath had cleared some of the fog in her head. “I’d say it smells good, but I currently can’t smell much,” she murmured, eyeing the oversized mug he was ladling soup into.

“I didn’t screw it up, or go snooping while I waited,” Johnny said. 

She slid into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cold, grounding. “Thank you,” she said simply.

He set the mug down in front of her, along with a spoon, then sat across from her, forearms resting on the table. For a moment, there was only the sound of the spoon clinking against ceramic as she stirred the soup, letting the steam warm her face. She felt the weight of his gaze but didn’t look up. “You didn’t have to stay,” she said eventually.

“I know,” he replied. “Didn’t really feel like leaving.”

She glanced up at him then. His hair was still tousled from the wind, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold. He looked almost out of place in her old kitchen, like a snapshot from someone else’s life. “You could’ve just dropped the stuff off,” she said.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I just, wanted to be sure you were okay.”

She broke eye contact, focusing on the soup instead. “This is a lot of effort for someone who is simply your sister’s overglorified secretary.”

Johnny smiled faintly. “I stopped seeing you as just ‘Sue’s assistant.’ a long time ago.”

She went still at that. He didn’t push it. She took a slow sip of soup, Let it warm her from the inside out. He waited patiently, watching her without hovering. “This is good,” she said after a beat, voice low.

“Not much of a cook, but I’m good at heating things up,” he said. “It’s kind of my thing.” That got a small smile from her, the first real one since she sat down.

Johnny stood slowly, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile. For a second, she thought he might walk off, give her space again. But instead, he circled the table and lowered himself into the chair beside her. She turned slightly, eyes following him, uncertain. He didn’t speak, just reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her forehead. His palm was cool, fingers steady. She leaned into it without thinking.

Still too warm. His brow twitched. His touch moved gently, sliding from her forehead to the side of her face, then drifting into the damp strands of her hair. He paused there, fingers tangled loosely in it. “You’re soaked,” he murmured finally, barely above a whisper. “It’s going to keep you sick.”

Her breath caught, at the quiet concern in his voice, at how close he was now, at the way his fingers held more tenderness than she was used to. Before she could say anything, he pulled back slightly. Palm smooth over her head, and then: Warmth.

Not fever-warm, but something softer. A slow, radiating heat that started at the base of her skull and traveled through the heavy strands of her hair. She could feel it shift, lifting dampness, drying gently. It was careful, completely in control, and absent of the heat she knew him capable of. She closed her eyes. When it faded, her hair was dry. Still tousled and messy, sure, but no longer soaking through her sweater. No longer clinging to her skin.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Johnny’s hand dropped, resting lightly on his thigh. He didn’t meet her gaze right away. His eyes were on the floor, like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line. She didn’t say anything. Just reached for the spoon again, when she noticed his other hand resting near it. She brushed their fingers together intentionally.  His head turned toward her at that. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Thanks.”

He only nodded. But he didn’t move away. “Our mom used to get on Sue about going to bed with wet hair,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough at the edges now. “She’d lecture her every time, like it was some cardinal sin.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, even as exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. Johnny glanced at her again, then down at where her hand was still resting on his. “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked first.”

She shook her head. “Johnny, it’s okay.” The name slipped out too easily, too naturally. Her eyes widened slightly at the sound of it. So did his.

“You called me Johnny,” he said, turning more fully toward her now.

“Yes,” she murmured, suddenly self-conscious, “but—”

“No ‘Mr. Storm.’ No ‘Jonathan.’ I admit, I kind of thought you’d take that to your grave.”

She gave a tired, almost embarrassed laugh. “Blame the fever.”

He didn’t smile this time, just looked at her a beat too long. “You don’t have to pretend with me right now. You don’t have to be professional. I sought you out, remember? After hours.”

Her fingers shifted slightly against his. “You’re my boss’s brother,” she said, though it came out thinner than she intended. The old lines she’d drawn between them felt faded now, like chalk in the rain.

“And you’re not at work,” Johnny replied, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “You’re sick, and alone, and I’m not here because anyone asked me to be. I’m here because I want to be.”

She looked down again. Not at their hands, but somewhere past them. “I don’t… let people see me like this,” she admitted. 

“I noticed,” he said gently. That pulled her gaze back to him, an almost startled kind of glance. He held it. “I mean, you are practically apologizing every time you cough. Got those apologetic eyes,” he added, more lightly, but the warmth in his tone didn’t waver.

She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I guess I thought if I stayed professional enough, you’d stop looking at me like I was…”

“What?” he asked.

“Like you are right now,” she whispered, too worn down to keep the words in.

Johnny’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think I could stop looking at you like this if I tried.”

The words hung in the space between them. They were irritatingly sincere. Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady, like she was grounding herself. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The moment felt too fragile. Heavy with something she wasn’t sure she had the clarity to unpack just yet. Not tonight. Not like this, bleary-eyed and fever-warm, emotions unguarded and closer to the surface than they usually were.

But what struck her most was that he didn’t push. He didn’t follow it up with another line or ask her what she was thinking. He didn’t move closer or lean in. He just… gave her room to sit with it. And that, more than anything, made her exhale a quiet, breath of relief. Because the truth was, she didn’t trust herself right now. Not with her head foggy and her heart aching and all these new emotions rising like steam off hot pavement. She couldn’t tell yet if they were real or just fever-drunk fiction. And she needed space to know the difference.

“Alright,” he said, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. “Moving on before I say something less than charming and ruin the whole mood. If you’re done with that” he nodded to her soup, “I’ll take care of it while you go lay back down.”

She blinked. “I can—”

“Nope,” he cut in. “Your only job right now is not fainting on your way to the couch. I’ll handle the rest.” She watched him collect her mug and spoon with an ease that made the whole thing feel normal. Like he’d done this before. Like taking care of her wasn’t some burden or performance. He turned back, halfway to the sink. “Also, I put on something actually worth watching. What’s the point of being sick if you’re stuck with the news? You need something comforting.”

She narrowed her eyes faintly, wary. “Like what?”

“Like something you enjoy,” he said over his shoulder, rinsing out the mug and tossing the rest of the soup.

She wandered toward the television, feet dragging softly across the floor. She hardly watched anything these days, but her fingers moved on instinct, flipping to the one channel she remembered always airing the reruns that brought her a strange kind of comfort.

By the time he returned and dropped onto the couch beside her, she had already sunk into the cushions, blanket pulled around her shoulders, the black-and-white with intro music drifting through the room. He raised a brow, surprised. “The Twilight Zone?”

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, glancing over.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just wouldn’t have guessed you were a Serling girl.”

“It’s my favorite,” she said, voice low but sincere.

Johnny leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel. “Can I let you in on a secret?” She arched a brow, waiting. “It’s my favorite too.”

A soft scoff escaped her lips before she gently shoved his shoulder, surprising even herself with the casual contact. “You are such a liar, Jonathan Storm.”

He grinned, relaxed and unbothered. “I’m not. You can ask Susie. I still make her watch them with me, though she claims I just like how dramatic the opening theme is.”

She gave him a sideways look. “That does sound like you.”

He turned back to the screen, his expression growing briefly more thoughtful. “I really like that one with the World War I pilot. Y’know, the guy who disappears through the cloud and ends up going back to save his comrade.”

Her eyes flicked over to him, a little surprised at the depth of the reference. “That’s a good one,” she murmured, tucking her legs up beneath her. “Kind of poetic, actually.”

She tried not to unpack the notions under his favorite episode. The idea he saved lives for a living, and he seemingly understood what standing one’s ground to save others meant. It was a sad thought. One day he may do the same to save his family or a civilian. 

He smiled, oblivious to her internal thoughts, and said nothing else. For a moment, the show filled the room with that strange mix of eerie music and philosophical narration. The light flickered gently on both of their faces, shadows shifting as they sat in silence. Then Johnny glanced over at her and frowned. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her hands were balled beneath the blanket and her skin was noticeably pale.

“You’ve got chills,” he said, already sliding closer. “You should be under like, six blankets right now.”

“I’ve got one,” she pointed out, feebly. He didn’t say anything, just reached for the other end of the blanket she had half-draped over herself and scooted closer until he could pull it around both of them. She went rigid. “Johnny, don’t. I don’t want you to get sick.”

He gave a short, soft laugh. “Sweetheart, cosmically altered DNA makes it nearly impossible to get sick”

“But still—”

He turned slightly to face her, his expression gentler now. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Let me take care of you.”

She looked at him for a long second. Her guard almost rose again, but didn’t. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the warmth he gave off, literally and otherwise. Or maybe she was just too tired to keep pretending she didn’t want him close. So she nodded, and leaned, just slightly, into the space between them. And Johnny, in his own quiet way, shifted to make room. Pulled her in.

He was warm. But it wasn’t harsh. It was like curling up beside a sunlit window, steady and soft, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her without expecting something in return. Actually, the last time was the night he walked her home. She rested her head against his shoulder, her body finally beginning to settle, her muscles less tense, her breathing slower. “See?” he murmured, voice close to her ear. 

She huffed out a faint laugh. “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Unbelievably.”

The episode played on, but she barely registered it, her body finally relaxing into the pull of warmth and fatigue. Every now and then, she felt Johnny’s fingers shift where they rested along her arm, just light, absentminded motions. 

“You really don’t do this much, do you?” he asked after a quiet minute. She didn’t answer right away. “Let people take care of you,” he clarified gently, as if afraid to spook her.

“I don’t really know how,” she admitted. “I got used to being the person who handles things. Who keeps the wheels turning.”

Johnny nodded, not teasing now, not performing. “I see that.”

“Being vulnerable,” she added, “it never felt safe. Even when it was.”

There was a beat of quiet between them. “You don’t owe anyone softness,” he said, voice low and even. “But you deserve to have it. When you want it.”

That made her blink. Not because it was overly sweet or romantic, but because it was… kind. Thoughtful. Honest. And completely unexpected coming from someone the world painted as a hotshot. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it.

“For what?”

“For being much more than I originally thought you were. You’re, well for a lack of better words, kind.”

Johnny chuckled at that, his hand brushing over her blanket-covered arm in a casual motion. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, her voice already starting to drift with sleep.

“Noted.” Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, and Johnny didn’t move, just adjusted slightly to let her rest more comfortably, eyes flicking back toward the screen but not really watching. Outside, the city moved on. Cars in the distance, and the hum of nightlife. But in that little pocket of warmth and television static, she was finally still.

And Johnny, for once, was content to be quiet.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She was back at work. Back to pressed collars and polite emails, back to the soft echo of her heels against the polished floors. Her desk was where she’d left it. The schedule just as full. Sue had barely let her finish “I’m fine, really” before sweeping her into two meetings and asking for three updates. It was easier, in a way: Slipping back into routine. No vulnerability required. No warmth, no weight, just structure and the quiet comfort of being needed.

And yet. Her fingers paused on the keyboard.Her mind drifted back to that night. To the TV flickering in her living room, the glow of black-and-white episodes washing over her walls. To Johnny’s arm around her, steady and warm. He hadn’t stayed. At some point, long after she’d fallen asleep, he’d moved her upstairs to bed. She hadn’t even stirred. Just woke the next morning under her own blankets, still flushed with the remains of fever and confusion, the TV off, a note on the counter in barely-legible handwriting:

Didn’t want to wake you. Get some rest, and I’ll check in later. — Your own personal Prince Charming aka Johnny Storm

She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Sue. Not because it was a secret, but because the words weren’t easy to find. Something had shifted, but she didn’t know what name to give it yet.

Not a romance, not exactly. But something more than familiarity. Something quiet. Unrushed. She rubbed her temple absently, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bottom corner of her monitor. A little past three. The week had crawled and sprinted all at once, especially after returning on Tuesday. Her gaze drifted toward the tote bag tucked under her desk. She’d brought the book with her. The one Johnny had picked out. 

John Clare had been a delightful surprise. There was something raw and untamed about his work, brilliant and aching in a way that clung to her long after she’d set the book down. He wasn’t polished like the other Romantics. His verses didn’t care for perfection. They bled loneliness and dirt and madness, and somehow, they still made her feel seen. Clare was a laborer, a man of the earth, not the universities. His longing was not performative, but primal. Honest. It had struck a chord she hadn’t expected. 

She still had a day left before Saturday. What had started as a casual coincidence now felt like something... A rhythm. A tether to something outside her routines. It wasn’t grand, or loud, or public. But it was theirs. And she was looking forward to it. More than she wanted to admit. Not just for the books. Not even for the quiet comfort of thumbing through dusty spines in side-by-side silence.

But because she was genuinely eager to hear his thoughts on Verne. His take on the moral gray areas, the invention of impossible machines, the way he always seemed to latch onto the underdog character no one else noticed. She wanted to talk about what she’d read. Wanted to see the way his eyes lit up when he made a point, or how he interrupted himself when he got too excited. She wanted to know what he’d pick next for her. She wanted to sit next to him and—

God. Those eyes. That particular shade of crystalline blue that somehow still felt warm. The bashful smile he sometimes slipped into when he was proud of something and didn’t want to say so. The way it curved gently at the edge of his full lips like a secret. 

She blinked hard, realizing she was staring at her monitor, her browser still open to a tab she hadn’t meant to click. With a quiet sigh, she closed it. Her fingers returned to the keyboard, but the page in front of her looked like static.

Focus? Long gone.

It was as if Johnny Storm — brash, ridiculous, too-handsome Johnny Storm — had shown up with that ridiculous navy blue backpack and cracked something open in her. Not with grand gestures. Not with fire and flair. But with soup. With gentle whispers into her damp hair. With the quiet, unexpected way he’d tucked her in and left without needing to be thanked.

And that was the part she couldn’t shake. Johnny Storm was kind. Truly. In a way people didn’t give him credit for. He was the type to pay attention when no one thought he was looking. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee. Who lit candles so the light wouldn’t hurt your eyes when you were sick.

He was careful with her. Considerate. Like she was something delicate and worth handling gently, not because she was fragile, but because she deserved the opportunity to be if she chose it. That’s what he said. Said she deserved the choice of being soft. And somehow, that made her head pound worse than any flu ever could.

The quiet hum of her thoughts was broken by the subtle ping of the pager clipped to her waistband.

SUE RICHARDS : OFFICE. ASAP.

She sighed, already pushing back her chair, straightening her blouse in the reflection of her black screen. Back to business. Back to the part of her life where everything made sense, where emotion had its place. Boxed and filed neatly beneath efficiency. But as she reached for the doorknob to close the door behind her, something stopped her. Soft yellow and crooked at the corner, a sticky note clung to the wood just above eye level. She stared for a beat before plucking it off.

"Hope your day is fantastic. See what I did there? Fantastic. Anyways, Johnny"

There was a tiny doodle of a winking face next to his name. Also a little doodle of their team's logo next to the word fantastic. Of course there was.

Her lips twitched. And then, despite every effort not to, she smiled. It was ridiculous. The handwriting was awful, and the joke barely qualified as a pun. But it was so very him. Playful, charming, and still, somehow, thoughtful. He hadn’t made it into a performance. Just a small note, as if to be respectful of her packed schedule with the lost days this week. Meant for her, and no one else. She pressed it flat between her fingers for a moment, then carefully tucked it into the side pocket of her planner before heading down the hall toward Sue’s office, still smiling. 

Saturday needed to hurry up.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saturday morning came quietly, sunlight sifting through gauzy curtains in pale ribbons. The kind of morning that felt like a breath held just a little longer than usual. She put on music while getting dressed. Something light and old. The kind of record that made the apartment feel like it belonged to a version of her she hadn’t let exist in a long time. Normally, Saturday meant comfort. Casual. Efficient. But today…Today, she hesitated over her wardrobe. No T-shirt. A sweater instead: soft blue and warm against her skin. A nicer pair of jeans. The nail lacquer she’d brushed on the night before had dried into a muted burgundy that made her feel quietly elegant. Her makeup was subtle, but thoughtful. Deliberate. She didn’t think too hard about the why. Not yet. Maybe for once, she didn’t need to analyze or compartmentalize what this was. Maybe she could just let it be. It wasn’t a confession or a declaration. It was a choice. To feel something. To want something. To allow herself to be soft. 

A lightness threaded through her chest as she smoothed down the hem of her sweater. Something weightless and unfamiliar, like the feeling of stepping outside just before a storm breaks and realizing, for once, you don’t mind if it rained.

A knock at the door. Startled, she blinked and glanced at the clock. He wasn’t supposed to meet her at the shop for another thirty minutes. Curious, she jogged down the narrow staircase of her townhouse, feet against the old wood, and pulled open the front door, only to be met with…Wood. A solid wall of it.

She stepped back instinctively, eyes adjusting to the unexpected sight. It wasn’t a wall. It was furniture. A bookcase. A towering, beautifully worn, dark walnut bookshelf stood on her porch like some kind of offering from the gods of literature themselves. And behind it, peeking over the top, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, was Johnny Storm. “Surprise!”

Her eyes widened. “What in the world—?”

“I know we said bookstore,” he said, edging the bookshelf forward with careful steps, “but I figured if I’m going to keep enabling your addiction, you need somewhere to put your hoard.”

“My collection,” she corrected, stunned, still standing in the open doorway.

“My mistake,” he said solemnly, stepping into full view. His hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows. He looked infuriatingly handsome. Like he’d just stepped out of an autumn-themed magazine spread. “I rescued it from a junk shop down in Brooklyn,” he added. “Had to sweet-talk the guy to part with it. Said it belonged to some ex-college professor who chain-smoked and read philosophy aloud to his cats.”

She blinked at him. Then at the bookcase. Then back at him. “You… dragged a whole bookcase to my house?”

“I carried it,” he corrected proudly, setting it down with a grunt just inside the threshold. “Didn’t trust a delivery service not to damage it. Plus, dramatic entrances are kind of my thing.”

She stared for another breath. Then, without fully meaning to, she laughed. Not a polite chuckle. Not a tight-lipped smile. But a genuine, bubbling laugh that warmed the air between them. Johnny’s grin softened at the edges as he looked at her. “I figured if we’re going to hang out in bookstores every Saturday, you need a place to keep the spoils.”

She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.” But he didn’t step back. Not yet. Just stood in her doorway like he belonged there, looking pleased with himself and, at the same time, strangely... hopeful. She rested a hand lightly on the edge of the bookshelf, fingers grazing the worn wood. It was beautiful. Not new. Not modern. But solid. Thoughtful. Like he’d really looked for something that would suit her, not just fill a space.

“I love it,” she said quietly. And she meant it.

“I saw it and immediately thought of you,” he admitted. She looked up at him then, brows faintly lifted. “Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just… it felt like something solid. Not some new modern thing that doesn’t fit the vibe of your place, but something that would last a couple generations.”

She nodded once, slow. “It’s perfect.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. Eyes soft, the usual spark of mischief dimmed down to a low, steady glow. She was still in the sweater she’d picked carefully that morning, her hair half-tucked behind her ears, eyes brighter than they’d been in days.

“You feeling better?” he asked finally.

“Getting there,” she said.

“Good.” He leaned slightly against the bookshelf, arms crossing. “Because I was hoping maybe we could still do the bookstore. Unless you want to stay in. I can take down those poor shelves and set up this bad boy. Promise I’ll try not to set anything ablaze if I get frustrated.”

She laughed, “I think the bookstore’s still on the table,” she said, then glanced at the shelf again. “But maybe we move this first? I don’t want it sitting in the doorway all day, reminding the neighbors how weird I am.”

Johnny grinned. “You mean how classy and well-read you are?”

“I mean how I’ve let a man deliver furniture to my door like some Regency-era courtship ritual.”

He smirked. “If this is a courtship ritual, I’m definitely doing it wrong. I should’ve brought flowers.”

She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Next time, maybe.”

He arched a brow. “So you’re saying there’ll be a next time?”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “Get the bookcase in the door first, Romeo.” With a dramatic sigh and an over-the-top bow, Johnny lifted the bookshelf again and carried it inside, the wood groaning slightly as he maneuvered it through the narrow entryway. She closed the door behind him, warmth curling at the edges of her stomach as she watched him start up the stairs without being told what to do. 

Johnny Storm had been in her home before. Enough to feel comfortable navigating it on his own. Something that should’ve felt more disarming than it did. She followed behind him. He knocked her bedroom door ajar with his foot and stepped in, mindful of the pair of shoes she’d been planning to wear before he showed up unannounced. Glancing around her tidy room he smiled as he looked at her made bed. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Bear. Survived the great fever of the century, huh?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile. “I thought we had a no-teasing agreement about Mr. Bear.”

“We did,” he said, already walking toward the corner where the old wall shelves sagged under the weight of her books. “But it was provisional, and frankly, I’m reconsidering the terms.”

She scoffed softly, leaning against the doorframe as he set the bookcase down with care. He was already sizing up the room, scanning for a suitable spot. “Do you happen to have much in the way of tools?”

Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. “Sparse would be generous. I have a sad little drill I found at a pawn shop in Harlem. Missing most of the bits. Pretty sure it gave its dying breath the last time I tried to hang a curtain rod.”

Johnny winced in playful sympathy. “Let me take a look. Maybe I can coax it back to life.”

She raised a brow. “Since when do you fix power tools?”

He glanced over at her, feigning offense. “I do have an engineering degree, you know. I wasn’t just invited to the Baxter Building for my charming smile or last name.”

Her lips twitched. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He grinned, that easy, spark-in-his-eyes grin. “I actually worked. Built things. Ran simulations. Helped Reed maintain the ship before everything went sideways. Just because I light on fire doesn’t mean I forgot my mechanics classes.”

She nodded, quiet again. Another layer. One more thing about him that didn’t come through in headlines or swaggering entrances. It wasn’t loud or performative, it was subtle. Quietly competent. Jonathan Storm was kind. He was loyal in a way that wrapped around the people he cared about without asking for anything in return. And, frustratingly, he was smart. Not just clever, but sharp. Capable.

It was borderline infuriating to watch him revive the half-dead drill with a few taps and a muttered, “Come on, don’t embarrass me now,” and then methodically take apart the sagging old shelves. He moved with a purpose, placing the new bookcase against the wall like he already knew exactly how she’d want it.

She’d meant to help. Maybe even offer to hold a side steady or hand him screws. But she’d ended up sitting there instead, caught in the tangle of her own thoughts, watching him work like he belonged there. And then he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his warmth brushing against her skin. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice soft.

She hesitated, then let out a breath. “Just thinking.”

He nudged her knee gently with his own. “About...?”

“You.”

He turned his head to look at her fully. “What about me?”

She swallowed, gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards. “I just… I was wrong about you. In so many ways.”

There was a pause.“How so?” he asked quietly.

She exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. “You told me you liked that I didn’t have this idea of you in my head. And maybe it looked that way from the outside. But Sue warned me before I ever took this job what I’d be dealing with. And I don’t live under a rock, Johnny. Your face is everywhere: News outlets, gossip blogs, billboards. You’re a public figure, and people talk.”

He didn’t flinch, just listened. “I didn’t want to make assumptions. But... It's human nature, isn’t it? You take what you’ve seen, what people tell you, and whether you mean to or not, you start to build a version of someone in your head.”

She laughed softly, almost bitterly, and looked away. “But then you showed up. You took care of me when I had no one else around. You noticed I didn’t have a bookcase and carried one across the city for me like it was nothing. You’ve been thoughtful. Selfless. And every time you do something like that, it makes me feel guilty. For getting you so incredibly wrong.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low but steady.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being careful,” he said. “And yeah... people do look for patterns in others. We make snap judgments to protect ourselves. I’ve done it, too.”

He shifted, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze again. “But when I said I liked that you didn’t have an idea of me in your head, I meant that you didn’t treat me like I was just the Human Torch. You didn’t flirt, or flatter, or try to get something out of me.”

She blinked, surprised. “I had a wall up.”

He smiled faintly. “Exactly. It was all business. No games. And for some reason… that was comforting. Honest. You didn’t pretend to like me.”

“I didn’t know you.”

“And now you do?”

A beat. Her voice dropped. “I’m starting to.”

Johnny’s expression softened, but he didn’t push. He sat with it for a moment, then gave a half-smile. “Well… I guess it’s my job now to keep getting to know you without screwing it up somehow, huh?”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted to the bookcase again. The dark wood, worn at the edges, like it had lived another life before finding its way to her room. “Why me?” she asked quietly.

He blinked. “What do you mean? I feel like I just—”

“No, not really,” she cut in gently. “You’ve said pieces. But I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. You could be anywhere. With anyone. And somehow, you’ve ended up… here. Sitting on my bed. Moving furniture. Talking like this. With your sister’s assistant.” He opened his mouth, but she kept going, voice tightening just a bit. “And before you say it, yes, I am Sue’s assistant. That’s how you know me. That’s the reason we’ve spoken at all. But why go past that? Why become… familiar? Why keep showing up?”

Her eyes met his, searching for something. Johnny sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t answer right away. “When I first met you,” he said slowly, “you treated me like I was just another guy getting in the way of your schedule. You barely looked at me. You were busy. Focused. Unimpressed.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.

“And yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,” he admitted. “The Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt… refreshing.”

His gaze found hers, steadier now. “You weren’t trying to be liked. You weren’t interested in some version of me that other people expect. You were honest. Blunt. Professional to a fault, honestly. And then, little by little, I started noticing things.”

“Like?”

He smiled faintly. “Like how you hum when you’re trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you don’t care about your desk plants dying but secretly bring in new ones every time. Or how you never ask for help, even when you obviously need it.” Her brows lifted, surprised. “I noticed, because I started caring. And I didn’t mean to, not at first. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized you were someone who listens more than she speaks. Someone who takes care of everyone else and doesn’t let anyone take care of her.”

He paused. “And I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell won’t ask. I can’t wrap my mind around someone who’s so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so he’ll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.”

The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. “You make it hard not to care back, you know.” Johnny’s eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fire—”

“Three steps,” he said automatically, lips quirking.

She shot him a look, but didn’t lose her thread. “And then it just… shifted. Somewhere along the line, I started looking forward to seeing you come around. You brought me coffee and I started enjoying your nonsense. The teasing. Even the interruptions.” She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.”

Johnny blinked, then gave a quiet smile. But there was something softer behind it now. Something grateful. Like hearing it from her was something he'd wanted, but hadn’t expected. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who aren’t family. It’s easier to be that version of myself so people don’t go digging.”

She shrugged a little. “You’re not that hard to understand, Johnny. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be more than what people out there know you for. And you are. You’re so much more.”

The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They weren’t touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. “You don’t have to decide anything today,” he said quietly. “But if you ever wonder why it’s you, it’s because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.”

Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. “I already decided,” she said. That made him still. “I don’t know what it means yet,” she added, voice barely audible, “but I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.”

He grinned wide and disbelieving. “That was your moment?”

She gave a soft, shy smile. “Yeah. That was it.”

A beat. “Can I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?”

She didn’t speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. “It wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said.

And that was all it took. Johnny leaned in. Not rushed, not cocky, not the flirty bravado he used to wear like armor, but careful, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. His hand hovered at her cheek, giving her the space to stop him if she wanted to. But she didn’t. When their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending, but like something already known.

She felt him exhale through his nose, slow and steady, like even he couldn’t believe it was finally happening. His hand brushed her jaw, thumb resting lightly at her cheekbone as he pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching now. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured.

She laughed under her breath. “You taste like smug satisfaction.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Can’t help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."

“That was literally the first thing I ever said to you.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

He opened his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. Probably.” And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.

A few minutes later, they’d migrated back to the pillows, not in a rush of passion, but a slow sprawl of limbs and conversation. The bookcase stood quietly against the far wall, half-filled with the books Johnny had started placing before everything spiraled into confessions and kisses. She lay on her side, head resting in her palm as she watched him stretch out beside her, one arm slung over his stomach.

“Does Sue know you’re here?” she asked, teasing.

Johnny snorted. “She knows I’m with you. Doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but she’s definitely suspicious.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“She is usually right,” he said with a grin.

Her fingers drifted lazily across the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she was trying to memorize the feel of it. “Hey Johnny… This... whatever this is between us, it doesn’t have to be some big, dramatic thing.”

He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. “No. It doesn’t. But it’s something. And I’m not going to pretend it’s not.”

She nodded once. “Good. Because I’m done pretending, too.”

There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. “So... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?”

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. “Please don’t say ‘go steady.’”

He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. “That’s not a no,” he murmured.

She smiled, soft and certain. “It’s a yes. I’d love to let you take me out.”

“Perfect.” He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. “Can we still go to the bookstore?”

She let out a laugh, surprised by how easy it was to imagine. The two of them wandering between shelves, arguing over paperbacks, drinking coffee. They’d done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, they’d be pretending they weren’t quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was looking…

“Yes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

One month later… 

If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never would’ve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.

New York’s most famously charming rake? Absolutely. A flirt with a face made for magazine covers and a reputation to match? That checked out. Maybe, at some point, he had lived up to that image. She wasn’t there for all of it. Maybe he was that guy once.

But not now. Not with her.

Not since that quiet Saturday with shared kisses in her bedroom, hands brushing in the bookstore, smiles traded like secrets. Since then, Johnny had been something else entirely. 

Yes, he was still unmistakably Johnny, goofy when he thought he could get away with it, always ready with a smart remark and a ridiculous grin, but there was a kind of intention behind everything now. His coat slung over her shoulders without her asking, just because the air turned sharp in the evening. Kisses that rarely wandered beyond knuckles or the curve of her cheek in public, like he wanted to keep something about it just theirs. Doors held open. Seats pulled out. And the truly indecent comments? They were now whispered low and slow, right against her ear, where only she could hear them and usually accompanied by a devilish smile that made her want to roll her eyes and kiss him all at once.

It was strange, really. She hadn’t expected this version of him. But maybe what surprised her more was how much she liked it. How much she liked him.

Not the version plastered across gossip columns or paparazzi photos, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses at night, the so-called hotshot of the Fantastic Four. But this version. The one who sent her pager “I’m proud of you” after a long day she hadn’t even mentioned was weary. The one who was slowly making his way through all her books, writing notes in the margins, just so she could read them later. The one who showed up to the office unprompted with a coffee in each hand and no real reason to be there other than the fact that he wanted to be.

It scared her sometimes, how easily he slipped into her life like he belonged there. And it surprised her even more how little resistance she’d put up when he did. Sue had taken the news with an almost alarming amount of grace. No lectures, no big-sister glares, no stern “don’t-hurt-her” speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.

“She’s good for you,” she’d told Johnny one morning over breakfast. He’d tried to play it cool, said something like, ‘Don’t start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,’ but she could tell how much it meant to him.

And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, “He’s steadier with you around. Not dull. Just… softer.”

That had stayed with her. Softer. Because that’s how he made her feel, too. He didn’t dim things down. He didn’t take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like he’d always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didn’t feel loud or chaotic or fast. It just felt real.

With the territory of being his girl came a quiet shift in her world. A soft deviation from the life she’d been living, subtle at first, then all at once. What used to be long nights at the office, microwaved leftovers eaten in silence, and waking up to do it all over again had become something warmer. Cozier. Messier, in the best possible way.

Now there were dinners at the Baxter Building, where laughter bounced off the high-tech walls and a giggling toddler often ended up curled in her lap, sticky-fingered and beaming. There were double dates with Ben and his sweet-natured schoolteacher girlfriend, Rachel, who always brought homemade dessert and insisted they share it, no matter how full they were. There were evenings where Johnny roped her into ridiculous experiments with H.E.R.B.I.E., and she caught herself scratching the robot's “head” without thinking, just like Johnny always did.

She started keeping an extra box of that absurdly sugary marshmallow cereal in her pantry, because Johnny was prone to munching throughout the evening even after he swore he was full. Somehow, a drawer in her dresser had emptied itself without her even meaning to, only to slowly fill with worn t-shirts that smelled like smoke and soap and him. A second toothbrush had appeared in her bathroom. He didn’t even mention it, just left it there like it belonged. Hair gel. Cologne. A familiar hoodie draped over the back of her couch. Socks in the laundry she hadn’t bought. These weren’t big declarations. They weren’t moving boxes or dramatic speeches.

They were small signs that he wasn’t just passing through. That somehow, somewhere between the bookstore and those soft, sleepy mornings in her bed, Johnny Storm had started taking up space in her life. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just… genuinely. And the wildest part? She liked it. All of it.

Even the cereal.

She hadn’t really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No “so… are we dating now?” moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didn’t. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words “here, take this.” It had just appeared on his keyring one day, nestled between the fob to the garage at the Baxter Building and a tiny glow-in-the-dark Saturn “Franklin” had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into “I’m already outside” calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didn’t intend to let go.

But. Despite the closeness. Despite the sleepy mornings and stolen glances and passionate kisses that left her breathless, nothing had happened in that arena. They’d slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. She’d felt the tension. She knew he had too. The way his breath would catch sometimes, the way his hands would still on her waist, gripping like he was afraid to want more. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want her. That much was clear in the way he kissed her when no one else was around. Deep, slow, full of heat and intent, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth.

But Johnny always stopped short. Sometimes with a soft groan into her neck, sometimes with a sheepish laugh, sometimes with nothing more than a lingering touch and a whispered, “Not tonight.” At first, she’d wondered if it was nerves. If he was afraid to push. Then she thought maybe it was a phase, a slow burn he wanted to savor.

But as the weeks passed and the boundaries held, close but never quite crossing, she started to realize something else. He was waiting. Not out of fear or disinterest, but… respect. Control. Maybe even intention. For a man so famously impulsive, Johnny had been anything but with her. There was restraint in the way he handled her. Not cold. Not distant. But reverent. As if what they were building was fragile in the best kind of way.

And she couldn’t lie. It made her fall even harder. He could’ve had anyone. That was never the question. But he’d chosen to go slow. With her. To let this unfold without pressure or expectation. To give her time, or maybe give them time, for whatever it was they were growing into. And the way he looked at her when she caught him watching, full of something she couldn’t quite name yet but felt like the beginnings of forever, made her wonder if, somehow, he already knew what they were becoming. Maybe he was just waiting for her to catch up.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t increasingly growing a bit… frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnny’s patience, his gentlemanly restraint, his whispered goodnights and feather-light touches, there were moments when she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dark, aching. The way his hands fit around her waist, the way his mouth moved against hers when he stopped holding back just long enough to make her dizzy, it was maddening. A kind of slow, controlled burn that curled low in her spine and settled in her chest, tightening every time he pulled away with a kiss to her shoulder and a barely-there “Goodnight.”

She wasn’t inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasn’t simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and he’d press his forehead to hers like he was grounding himself. It was those long pauses in between kisses when her hands found the hem of his shirt and he caught her wrists, kissing her palms instead.

She wasn’t sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want more. She did. God, she did. There were times when she nearly said it aloud, nearly asked him why they were still dancing around the line. But the truth was… some part of her liked that he didn’t expect it. That he hadn’t made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t turn her desire into an obligation. It felt… safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldn’t deny how much it meant. That, for once, someone wanted her, not just her body. That he could spend the night tangled up beside her and still walk away in the morning with nothing more than a sleepy smile and a joke about the way she hogged the blankets.

And yet, underneath all that comfort and affection, there was this hum of anticipation. An unspoken current that ran just below the surface. She felt it in the way his hands lingered on her back a little longer each time. The way his voice dipped when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he wasn’t doing. And it made her wonder. How long could they keep this up? Because love was growing. So was want. And somewhere between soft restraint and quiet intimacy, she knew they were on a path.

That didn’t make the waiting any easier. Especially not when she seemed to be the one feeling it most. That quiet ache followed her even when Johnny wasn’t around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie he’d left behind again, slipping into bed alone and finding his scent still clinging to the pillow beside hers. She hated how often she caught herself imagining him there, not just beside her, but with her. Close. Pressed against her in the dark, mouth warm and purposeful, his voice gone hoarse from saying her name.

She’d never needed someone before, not like this. Not in that bone-deep, restless way where just the thought of him adjusting his sleeves or raking a hand through his hair made her chest feel too tight. Worse still, it crept into her daydreams. Mid-meeting thoughts where she’d suddenly imagine his mouth on her neck, or what it might feel like to wake up to more than just his arm slung across her waist. She’d snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.

He’d ruined her. And he didn’t even know it. Or maybe… maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didn’t feel it too, but because he wanted her to be the one to say it first. To ask. To choose. And part of her hated how much she wanted to. But the other part? The other part was already starting to plan what she might say the next time they were tangled up in each other’s arms, all breathless laughter and too-close proximity. The next time his lips paused just beneath her ear, and his voice dipped low enough to make her stomach twist.

The next time it would be her who didn’t allow them to stop.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights had long since dimmed to half-power, casting a quiet glow across the Building's upper floor. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, but her desk was still a pool of light and blue screens, surrounded by open folders, highlighted notes, and a half-empty coffee cup gone cold. Sue had tried to coax her out earlier: twice, actually. Once with gentle persuasion, and again with a sharper edge when persuasion didn’t work.

"You’re going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "It’s just a press conference."

"It’s not just a press conference," she’d countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "It’s the first time we’ve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesn’t go smoothly, Reed’s going to spiral, and the board’s going to blame you, and you know it."

Sue had sighed, muttered something about overachievers, and finally left her to it. Now, the halls were quiet. The only sound was the soft clack of her keys and the occasional hum of the cooling vents. She didn’t even notice the elevator chime at first, or the soft, familiar footsteps that followed. Johnny leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His hair was a little windblown, probably from flying, and he had that infuriatingly relaxed aura about him, like showing up uninvited at 11 p.m. was perfectly normal. “You know,” he drawled, “most people go home when the sun goes down.”

She didn’t look up from her screen. “Most people don’t have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.”

“Mm.” He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. “Well, most people also don’t look this good in computer lighting, so you’ve already got a head start.”

“Johnny.”

“Just saying.” He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. “Come home.”

She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “Not yet. It’s got to be perfect.”

“It’s already perfect.” His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. “You know how I know that? Because you wrote it.”

Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. “Flattery doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” he agreed, lips brushing her temple, “but maybe a little light kidnapping would.”

She let out a soft laugh, finally turning toward him. He stood over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. “Johnny, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.

And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadn’t gone anywhere, but something heavier sat just beneath it. That restraint. That way he looked at her like he wanted more, but was holding himself back from asking.

She swallowed. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get close. And then stop. Like we’re both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.”

He didn’t deny it. Just watched her. “You said you wanted slow,” he said softly.

“I said I wanted real,” she replied. “And this, us, it is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. That I don’t want more than just—” She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.

Johnny’s brow creased. “You think I don’t feel that too?”

“You never let it show. You always stop.”

He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. “Because if I don’t stop… I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Her heart stuttered. He stepped closer, slower now, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against her jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want everything with you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s all I wanted.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because that was it, wasn’t it? The thing she couldn’t name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadn’t been holding back because he didn’t feel it. He’d been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. “You’re not just some guy I’m passing time with,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for casual.”

He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just… grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. “Neither am I.” The air between them shifted: Warmer, denser, laced with something neither of them could ignore much longer. This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t pull away. 

His mouth met hers like it always did, a familiar rhythm, but something had shifted. There was more behind it now. More intention. More heat. The kind that curled low in her belly and made her press in closer without thinking. His hands found her hips, steady, warm, fingers flexing but he didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t frantic or messy. It was deep. That kind of kiss that quieted everything around them and filled the room with nothing but breath and skin and want. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, and for once, he didn’t stop her. Didn’t deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered “Not tonight.”

His lips just moved with hers, hungrier now. More certain. Then, just as she started to slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, he froze. Not pulled away. Just… paused. She felt it immediately. That subtle change in pressure. That catch of breath. That moment when his self-control kicked back in, like a hand on the brake.

“Wait—” he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. “Are we really about to do this in the office?”

She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. “No one’s here,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “It’s almost midnight. Everyone’s gone.”

His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasn’t moving. Not yet. “I just—” he exhaled, eyes closed. “I don’t want this to feel like something it’s not. You deserve… more than some desk and low lighting.”

Her voice was soft but firm. “I’m tired of waiting, Johnny.” He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. “Do you really think it’s going to mean less because it’s here? Do you think I’ll look back and regret it? Because I won’t. It’s not the location that matters.” Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. “It’s you. Being with you is the part that matters.”

Something in him broke loose at that. The last of his hesitation slipped through his fingers like water, and when he kissed her again, there was no more holding back. No more careful restraint. Just months of slow-burning tension finally unraveling. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a bed with candles or soft music. It didn’t matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.

In fact, the heels were helpful.

Johnny wasn’t absurdly tall, but he had enough height on her that the added inches made things smoother, more aligned, as they stumbled in tandem, laughter and heat tangled between them. The edge of the desk bumped the backs of her thighs, and with one sweeping motion, papers went flying to the floor, coffee tipping sideways in a startled arc. Johnny barely broke rhythm. With one hand still bracing her waist, he flicked his other toward the spill, steam hissed as the liquid vanished in an instant, evaporated before it could touch a single document.

And then she was on the desk, perched firmly as he stepped between her knees. “God, I love these little skirts,” he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. “You have no idea.”

She did, in fact, have some idea, judging by the reverent way his hands slid along her thighs, fingertips pressing in like he was discovering her body for the first time. His mouth dipped to the hollow of her throat, and he nipped there, just enough to make her breath hitch, leaving heat pooling under her skin.

Her hands moved with growing urgency, untucking his shirt with practiced ease as his own fingers toyed at the waistband of her skirt. That same slow-burning control was there in every movement, but this time there was no pulling back. No hesitation. Just the rising intensity of months of reined-in desire finally breaking surface. “You're still—” she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, “—obnoxiously overdressed.”

He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. “You started it. And I could say the same to you,”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, okay.”

But there was no teasing now, not really. His grin softened as he looked down at her, hands stilling just long enough to give her one more chance. One last out. She leaned forward instead, brushing her mouth against his, slower now. More certain. “I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He answered her without words. Just action: swift, sure, and full of intent. He leaned back, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric landed in her desk chair without a second thought. Then he was back, sliding between her knees again like he belonged there.

His hands found the edge of her blouse, tugging it free from where it was tucked neatly into her skirt. The buttons gave beneath his fingers one by one, slow at first, then with a quiet urgency, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t stand the wait anymore. “You always look so put-together,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. “Drives me crazy.”

His palms pushed the material off her shoulders, leaving the fabric of her bra as the only thing covering her from the waist up. Low lighting, darker now that the computer had kicked into reserve power, he still glanced at her longingly. Blue eyes tracing the exposure without hesitation. Her breath hitched, goosebumps racing along her skin as his palms slid over her sides, memorizing her shape like he needed it etched into memory. He smiled against the skin of her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “You ruin me. You know that, right?”

She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his jeans, kissing him hard enough to answer. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of his infamously tight chinos, cursing under her breath as the fabric refused to budge. The effort alone made her laugh, a soft burst of amusement she couldn’t hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.”

She rolled her eyes, still grinning. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at these pants. They’re a crime against movement.”

He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. “They’re flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.”

“They’re a straightjacket for your legs,” she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. “Seriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?”

Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. “What can I say? I make insanity look sexy.” With one final tug, the pants finally gave in, sliding down over his hips in defeat. She leaned back, victorious, breathless from the effort, and maybe a little from the view.

He stood there with all the smugness of a man who knew he looked good half-undressed, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She shot him a look. “I’d argue that it is quite hard…”

His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. “They always say it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, literally. A faint warmth always clung to his skin, like the sun had taken a special liking to him and never quite let go. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I wear them because I always hope you’ll end up taking them off.”

She looked around at the dark office, her shirt and his tossed to the side, now his pants removed. Only her bra on her top half but completely dressed from the waist down from where she sat perched on her desk: nylon, skirt, undergarments, heels. Johnny seemed to notice this fact as well as his fingers traced the outside of her thighs and his eyes darkened. “Speaking of taking things off…” he gestured to her tights. 

She only had it in her to nod, allowing his large hands to work their way under her skirt. Scooting to the edge of the desk to make it easier she lifted herself for a moment as he tugged them from her waist, leaving her skirt bunched up as he then pulled them down the length of her legs. Kitten heels knocked off, tights gone, but skirt still remaining, she looked at him expectantly. 

"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I won’t lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your office…” came sarcasm dribbling into his tone. He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her neck as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath sent a ripple down her spine. One of his hands slid upward, finding the pin tucked into her hair. With a gentle tug, the twist unraveled, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders, soft waves catching the dim light like silk. Johnny pulled back just enough to take her in, one brow lifted. “Hmm… that’s an improvement.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the flush that bloomed across her chest and up her neck. “Do you say that to all the women you undress on desks?”

“Only the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.” His hands were already at her waist again, thumbs brushing over the exposed edge of her skin, just above the waistband of her skirt.

She laughed, but it faltered slightly when he leaned in again, lips ghosting over her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Every brush of contact was heat and patience and promise. “You always flirt this much when you’re half-naked in someone else’s workplace?” she managed, fingers threading into his hair.

His grin was pure trouble. “Only when I’m with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of me…” Then his hands slid lower, anchoring at the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, their bodies aligned, breath mingling. For a heartbeat, the teasing stilled. “I don’t think I can look at this office the same again,” he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.

She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. “Yeah me either”

“Mind if I try something?” he asked, voice uncertain for the first crack in his bravado since this had escalated. She nodded, and he brought his hands to her waist, tugging her until she stood in front of him. He knelt, reaching back up her pencil skirt until he found her panties, eyebrow raised for permission as she nodded, holding his shoulder lightly for balance. He tugged them free, tossing them on top of the growing pile of clothes and standing once more. 

Gently, he turned her to face the desk, the warmth of his hands a steady guide. She heard the soft rustle of fabric behind them, and when she glanced down, she saw his briefs pooled around their feet: quiet evidence of just how far they'd already gone. Fingers, deft and unhurried, brushed her hair to one side, exposing the line of her neck. His mouth followed, lips grazing her skin before he caught her earlobe between his teeth, just enough to make her inhale sharply. “I’ve gotta say,” he murmured, voice husky with laughter, “the skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for me…”

She smiled, lips parting around a breath. “Yeah?”

“Oh, definitely.” He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. “Just picture it. You laid out across your desk…” As he spoke, his hands slid over her waist, guiding her down with gentle pressure. Her stomach met the cool surface of the desk, the contrast sending a ripple up her spine. She turned her head to the side, hair spilling like a curtain as she felt his palms move over the bare skin just above her hips. “God,” he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His touch never rushed. Each pass of his hands over her body was like a promise, one he fully intended to keep. Her eyes drifted down from his face to see all of him. Exposed, standing behind her. His manhood stood at attention, already flushed and solid. A bit larger than she’d honestly have expected. Either way, the anticipation and long month of having it restrained behind his sweatpants and pulsing on her backside as he slept made her desperate to finally experience it all. Widening her stance she looked at him with a nod, hands seeking the edge of the desk to brace herself. 

“Yeah much better than just a fantasy,” he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along she’d gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away. 

Johnny didn’t ask as he lined himself up, bunching the skirt around her waist in the process. He didn't ask permission as he pushed his way inside either, grunt filling her office as he bottomed out relatively easily. He did, however, pause and ask permission before moving. “Wow, that’s, are you—”

“Please move,” she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him. 

“Yes Ma’am,” and that’s all it took. From one bashful, always stopping advances man, to fucking her right and raw against the desk. The wood groaning, the smacking of skin filling her silent office. After all that time waiting, heavenly. 

“Oh, Johnny,” she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath she’d been holding for far too long. Every thrust was a sweet, relentless ache. Stretching, filling, claiming. He moved with purpose, no hesitation, only the kind of need born from restraint finally shattered.

“Yeah…” he breathed out, the word barely more than a hiss, forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, uneven and desperate, syncing with the rhythm of his hips as he drove into her.

The desk beneath her creaked with every movement, sharp staccato echoes of skin meeting skin reverberating through the quiet office. What she'd once imagined might be slow and tender like the nights they’d shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. They’d simmered into this: a moment neither of them could pull back from.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to hold onto something solid while her body threatened to dissolve around him. “Johnny—” her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. “Don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it,” he gritted, one hand splaying across her hip, grounding himself. The other slid up her back, slow and reverent, tracing the curve of her spine through the mess of lace bunched fabric from her bra. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.”

She couldn’t answer, too far gone in the rush of sensation. Her world had narrowed to the heat of him, the sound of their skin meeting, and the tension spiraling through her with every breath. That was when she heard it: a groan. Not hers. The desk.

“Johnny—” she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. One more thrust, rough and deep, and—CRACK. The desk gave with a sharp, splintering snap, the legs buckling beneath them in dramatic betrayal. Papers flew. An empty coffee mug that survived his initial clearing hit the floor and shattered. And they dropped, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.

She landed with a thud, his weight half on top of her, half braced by what was left of the desk. Wide-eyed, she blinked up at the ceiling, catching her breath.

“Well,” Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, “I guess we’re filing this under workplace hazard.”

She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. “You broke my desk!”

He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. “Technically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.”

She stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and breathless. “How am I supposed to explain this to Sue?”

That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. “Okay, please don’t mention my sister while I’m still inside you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. “Right. Sorry..”

“Thank you.” He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. “Now let’s go back to the part where I was making you see stars.”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. “Pretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.”

His grin widened. “Oh? So I am that good.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.”

“I didn’t let you,” she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “You did that all on your own.”

Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. “Excuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “I did not say ravish.”

“You didn’t have to. I read between the lines,” he said with a wink. “Here I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romantic…”

“And instead, you went full ‘raunchy office scandal,’ like this was some bad porno,” she deadpanned.

He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. “You encouraged it. Don’t go rewriting history now.”

She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. “God, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.”

Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. “I can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then I’ll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.” He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. “The desk was just the… prologue.”

She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. “You better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.”

He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. “No promises.”

“I’m serious,” she warned, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s an antique.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re irresistible,” he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. “Now come on, I wanna do this properly.”

She stood with a quiet laugh, brushing off imaginary dust and tugging her skirt back into place, still slightly rumpled but beyond the point of caring. Around them, the remnants of chaos — cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button — told a story neither of them would ever live down. But somehow, in the aftermath, it all felt worth it. They dressed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional smirk or lingering glance exchanged across the room. Johnny, shirt still half-buttoned and hair a charming disaster, held the door open for her with an exaggerated bow.

“After you, Miss Desk Slayer.” She rolled her eyes but stepped through, her fingers brushing his as she passed.

And later, after the food had gone cold on the coffee table and the city lights flickered softly outside her townhouse window, he touched her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No games. Just quiet, deliberate care. The kind that only comes after you stop pretending there’s nothing to lose. His hands moved over her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to know every breath, every shiver, every unspoken truth. And she let him, opened herself to him fully, as though their bodies could speak the words of a now familiar language.

When it was over, when they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest and their fingers still laced together, the room felt suspended in a place as vast as space and timeless as infinity. She broke the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to come find me tonight.”

He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. “I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. “You say that now.”

Johnny’s voice was soft. Softer than she’d ever heard it. “No. I mean it. Wherever you are... that’s where I wanna be.”

Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he murmured, already slipping into sleep, his arm pulling her in tighter. And as the night settled in around them, warm and still, she realized something she hadn’t let herself admit until now.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Thanks for reading!

[woso-dreamzzz]

Air Force

Ingrid Engen x Sister!Reader

Summary: You go off base to visit your sister

"Ingrid!" You roar.

It's something deep in your chest, the kind of sound that's only perfected after years of growing up together. It's the same kind of sound you used when Ingrid would take your dolls as a child or wear your clothes when you told her not to.

The stupid bugle recording repeats again and again as you destroy your little sister's guest bedroom. You know there's a speaker hidden here somewhere and you're determined to find it.

"Ingrid!" You yell again," So help me, Ingrid-"

"What is that awful sound?!" Your sister demands when she throws open the door.

"It's a bugle," You deadpan," Ingrid, I'm off duty right now. Tell your girlfriend to either tell me where she's hidden the speaker or tell her to cut it out. I don't need to be woken up like I'm on base!"

Ingrid winces. "You wake up to this everyday?"

"Well, I'd prefer not to wake up to it when I'm not at work."

"I'll talk to Mapi."

"And make sure to tell her to remove this goddamn speaker! It's too early!" You yell after her.

You don't know if Ingrid does as she's told or not but the bugle sound stops and you make quick work of cleaning up before crashing out on the bed again.

This was meant to be a relaxing week and a half off from work. You didn't have a lot of free days to spend as you like, let alone ones that were consecutive.

It seemed only right to use this time to visit your sister and finally see her play.

You just hadn't taken into account her annoying girlfriend who found it so funny to wake you up like you were on base.

You don't know when you wake up again but it's to blissful silence. No morning bugle and no knuckles rapping on your door from your sister.

You sit up in bed and stretch.

Spain is much warmer than you're used to so you pull on only a spare pair of shorts and a new sports bra, stepping out into the hallway and making your way to the kitchen.

You really weren't expecting anyone else to be there.

You assumed Ingrid and Mapi's training would last a lot longer.

But there's three extra people in the kitchen. Only one of them is someone you recognise.

Frido grins wolfishly when she spots you, hiding her giggles behind her hand. "Good afternoon, y/n."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. "It's afternoon already?"

"You must have had a good sleep."

"Oh, yeah," You say sarcastically," A great sleep being woken up like I'm still at work and not on holiday."

"Mapi says sorry," Ingrid finally says from where she's cooking up lunch.

"Funny. I haven't heard those words from her yet."

"She'll say them after she's finished her shower."

You roll your eyes. "She better."

Ingrid rolls her eyes too, at you rather than her girlfriend. "Y/n, this is Kika and Esmee. Kika, Esmee, this is my older sister, y/n. She's visiting for the week."

They're both staring at you, speechless, and it's only then that you realise you're still just standing there in your shorts and a bra.

Frido throws a shirt at you and you smoothly pull it on.

"It's nice to meet you both," You say over your shoulder as you drink Ingrid's milk straight from the cartoon.

Kika and Esmee still stare, like they're either still taking you in or attempting to find their voices.

Whatever it is, Kika's the first one that speaks. Actually, she blurts something out rather than speaks and then grows red when her brain finally catches up with her mouth.

"You have really good abs. What's your workout routine?"

Your eyes shoot up to your hairline as you look down at your shirt, like you're trying to visualise your stomach through the material.

"Try army training," Frido teases," And an army diet."

You roll your eyes, closing the fridge door. "The air force, Frido. Not the army. The air force."

"Same thing."

"It's not. I'd like to see those army guys do what I do. Get them in a plane, see what happens."

Frido laughs. "Right, of course, because you do things in a plane that people can only dream of. I'm still waiting for my plane ride, you know."

You pick up the mug of coffee that Ingrid left out for you. "Come on over to Norway, Frido, and I'll show you the time of your life."

She laughs and you roll your eyes fondly.

You've known Frido for years and even though she was Ingrid's friend first, you like to think that she's your friend now too.

"So...you're in the air force?" Esmee asks. She seems kind of meek and awkward, like she thinks asking will offend you or something.

You smile. "That's right. I joined up when I was eighteen."

"She's a colonel now," You sister butts in, serving up plates for everyone and an extra one for Mapi," And last Mama and Papa told me, she's being considered for promotion soon."

You smile awkwardly. "Don't get your hopes up. We'll see how it goes."

"Of course she's going to get it," Ingrid continues like she never even heard you," She's adored back home."

"She always does this," You cut her off, winking at Kika and Esmee," Just talks and talks and talks. She's been like that since she was a kid."

"Ingrid does like to talk," Frido agrees.

"You're meant to be on my side!" Ingrid says and you laugh.

"You know Frido's never on your side when I'm here.

Frido grins. "I always align myself with the highest ranking officer."

You mockingly salute her and you exchange twin smiles.

Ingrid roles her eyes, leaning closer to the two younger girls. "Ask her whatever you want," She says," But, please, don't get her on the topic of her favourite plane. None of us will get a word in for hours."

[tbyfandoms]

SHOULD'VE SAID IT | Clark Kent

Pairing: david corenswet!clark kent x f!reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Summary: after having a fight at work with your boyfriend, clark, you go to his apartment in hopes of making amends. what you don't expect is to find out he's been keeping a big secret from you, leaving you with a mix of emotions

Warnings: none

Masaterlist/Request Form | Ask Box

A/N: my first ever clark kent/superman fic!!! ahhh, how exciting! I saw superman in theaters a few weeks back and still have yet to move on from it (I don't think I ever will, truly). I don't know why but this specific fic idea has been cooking in my mind since, so here it is! I hope you all enjoy because I know I definitely enjoyed writing it! I for sure will be writing more for david's superman in the future :)

The sweet smell of warm hot chocolate wafts through the air and you swear in this moment you can feel the weight of the day fall off your shoulders because of it.

Life isn't easy being a journalist, especially not at The Daily Planet, and especially not when you get into an argument with your coworker who also just so happens to be the man you're falling deeply in love with.

Yeah, you definitely need this hot chocolate right now.

You'd like to say you don't even know how the argument started, but that would be a lie, and you're nothing if not honest. It was all because of...well, Superman. And looking back on it now you wish you never would've said anything at all, especially knowing how it ended up. With you and Clark on the verge of a screaming match and in front of your coworkers nonetheless. The memory of it makes you wince. You don't even know who those people were back in that bullpen, but you know for certain it wasn't you and Clark. Those people are unrecognizable and so unlike you both.

Everything got too out of hand. You shouldn't have started probing at the fact Clark always gets exclusives with the Man of Steel, and in reality he shouldn't have been so defensive about it. Is it wrong to just want to know why the two are so close? Is it wrong to just want one interview with the man who's saved so many innocent lives? You don't think so, and you thought Clark wouldn't either.

Either way, you're over it now and realize you both reacted poorly. Which is why you've found yourself standing in Clark's kitchen in his rather fancy high rise apartment in Metropolis. He gave you his spare key around a month ago and even though you're upset with each other, you hope when he finally walks through his front door that he won't be upset you used it. You've dropped in like this countless times before, but never after an instance like this. You pray that he won't immediately ask you to leave, but knowing Clark, you also doubt he would ever do that.

Grabbing ahold of your mug, you go to make your way towards Clark's living room. Not even a second after taking your first step, something catches your eye. No, it's not the metahuman battle that appears to still be raging on outside (you noticed that on the way over here), instead it's something entirely different.

Taking another step closer, you try to get a better look at the rather large figure making its way towards Clark's living room windows. It's dark in here and the neon glow coming from the battle outside isn't helping much, but once the figure is close enough, there's no mistaking what—no, who—it is.

It's...Superman? What in the world would Superman be doing here? There's no imminent danger, and if he was here for yet another exclusive he's out of luck because Clark isn't even—

Your eyes go wide and suddenly it feels very hard to breathe as the pieces of a puzzle you've been trying to solve for months begin to snap into place. You're grateful the hero hasn't seemed to notice you yet because it gives you a moment to take in his obvious comfortability in the space—a comfortability you'd only have if you lived here—further proving your suspicion. Superman's not here for an exclusive interview with Clark because he is Clark.

"Oh my God," you whisper. Your voice is so quiet you're not even sure you really spoke out loud, but you must've because in an instant Superman's—no, Clark's—eyes flick towards you, his attention fully on you now.

You watch as his own eyes go wide at the discovery of you in his apartment, something he undoubtedly was not expecting tonight. His piercing blue gaze is even more so in this low light, especially without his black framed glasses. The glasses you never could've thought would be hiding so much behind them.

Clark goes to make a move towards you, his mouth opening up to say something, when suddenly your cup of hot chocolate slips from your grip and shatters to the floor, your shaking hands no longer being stable enough to hold onto it.

The ceramic pieces fly in different directions across the kitchen floor and you waste no time in following the mug to the ground to try and pick up the fragments. You don't even care about the hot liquid clinging to your fingers as you grab the shards, you just need something to distract you from the absolute bombshell that's been dropped before you.

You don't have to look up to know Clark's come rushing towards you. You hear his red boots swiftly trek across the hardwood floor and in the corner of your eye you see a flash of the blue in his suit as he kneels beside you. His sudden proximity consumes you and your head feels like it's spinning as you try to ignore the fact you can smell the familiar scent of your boyfriend.

"Hey, don't worry about it. It's okay, I can clean it up. You're gonna cut yourself on the broken pieces."

It's the first time you've heard Clark's voice in hours and it sounds both unfamiliar and comforting all at the same time. He's this completely new person but also he's not. He's the dorky coworker you fell for at The Daily Planet, he's the man who's kind to everyone even when they may not deserve it, he's the boyfriend who refuses to let you get the door for yourself or carry your own groceries in. He's Clark. He's your Clark.

So then why do you feel so blindsided? So unnerved? Sure, you guys haven't been dating for that long, but it's been long enough where you've gotten to the point of sharing spare keys and becoming accustomed to sleeping next to each other than not. Neither of those things compare to having the knowledge your partner is a super hero, but you still thought it meant something. That it proved something. Showed that you two were more than casual, that you were in it for the long haul and were at a spot where you believed to know everything about each other.

Not everything, apparently.

There must be a mistake, you think. But then the raven-haired man reaches out and grabs your wrist, his touch so light and gentle, so unmistakably Clark that it has your mind reeling even further.

On instinct your eyes flit up and are instantly met with a pair of crystal blue ones you've come to practically memorize. It startles you how obvious it is that they're Clark's eyes. You can't believe you never noticed it before. You've talked to Superman a few times, enough to know he too has blue eyes, but it never connected in your brain. Even with all the doubts and suspicions you had, you never even considered the fact a clue.

You feel so silly thinking about it all now. How could you not have figured it out? Do your friends at work know? Does Jimmy? Does Lois? Is that why they always seem so unaffected when Clark goes MIA and then comes back like nothing happened? Are you the only one Clark didn't trust with this information?

A pit begins to form in your stomach and suddenly these eyes you're looking into no longer give you the same comfort you're constantly finding in them.

Tearing your gaze away, you get up from your spot on the floor, Clark's hand slipping from your wrist in the process. You try to ignore the way your body immediately misses the warmth of him in response.

Tears begin to well up in your eyes and you have to fight the urge to let them fall as you turn towards the sink to dump the broken pieces of the mug into it. In a dramatic way, it feels almost like you're dumping the pieces of your heart instead.

So, when you see Clark stand up from the floor, his tall frame hovering over you as a result, you don't give him the courtesy of a response. Not even as he calls out your name in a way that makes you want to stop in your tracks and run back to his arms. Not even after you close the door behind yourself and hear Clark knock his forehead into the door in defeat.

It's only once the elevator doors close and you're alone do you finally let the tears fall.

*****

It's been two days since you found out Clark Kent is Superman.

The fact still sounds weird as it bounces around inside your head, but it's a fact nonetheless, one you are still struggling to come to terms with.

Part of you recognizes that you've realistically known this for a while now, but another part thinks maybe you didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to believe your cute, clumsy coworker is actually a super-powered alien from another planet. Didn't want to believe the man you love is out there risking his life every day for people who don't even truly know him.

Even though you're hurt Clark kept this secret from you, you still find yourself aching to speak with him, but at the same time want some distance from him as well. Either way the choice has already been made for you because for the past two days Clark hasn't been at work. His desk across from you has sat empty and no one seems to know where he is when you ask, but also no one seems concerned.

This just seems like more proof to you that your inner circle is more in tune with Clark's double life than you are, but you didn't dare say anything incase maybe they actually don't know and just genuinely don't care where he is, too wrapped up in their articles and deadlines. You may be upset with Clark, but you would never betray him like that.

Stepping out of a local jewelry shop, you hit stop on your recorder. Ironically, the place was almost robbed last night before Superman apparently swooped in and caught the burglars before they even got a foot out the door. Perry put you on the article and even though the timing was a bit ironic, you accepted it wholeheartedly. Anything to get out in the field and get some good journalistic content. Even if it does hurt your heart a little to discuss the superhero with a stranger, as if you don't know who he is at all.

The streets are packed as you start to make your way back to The Daily Planet, as they usually are. You always find it a little difficult to navigate the streets, especially when you're constantly shoulder to shoulder with someone. Today is no exception.

Attempting to usher off to the edge of the sidewalk, a place where you can sort of have some breathing room, you open your bag to place your recorder safely back inside.

Your zipper gets caught on the seam of your bag, and before you even get the chance to begin yanking on it, someone rushes past you and knocks into your shoulder, causing your bag to slip off your arm and send your recorder flying.

Awh, crap!

You watch in horror as the handheld device soars through the air for a second before landing back on the ground and starts practically bouncing into the street. Thankfully you don't immediately notice any broken pieces flying off of it, but that's not to say it hasn't suffered any damage.

Quickly grabbing your bag off the sidewalk, you slip it back on your shoulder and look both ways before stepping out onto the road. Car horns beep around you but thankfully none beep at you. Traffic seems to be stopped and it gives you the perfect moment to step further out and reach for your recorder.

As you reach down and grab the device in your hand, your attention is immediately ripped away from it as you begin to hear screeching tires and not-so-distant police sirens. You barely life your head up before your eyes are met with the front bumper of a car that's going way above the speed limit.

There isn't even a second for your body to react to the situation. You feel a scream start to build in the back of your throat when you're suddenly hit with an impact, the sound dying much in a way you think you are going to.

You thought being hit by a car would be more painful, but surprisingly you feel nothing at all. If anything you feel weightless, almost like you're...flying?

Instantly, your eyes snap open and you come to realize you actually are flying. The impact you felt wasn't the car slamming into you. It was Superman.

Your body tightens in fear in response, never having been in a position like this before. You know Superman would never let any harm come to you—or anyone for that matter—but that still doesn't make what's happening any easier.

Attempting to turn your head to at least get a look at the man that currently has you wrapped in his arms, it becomes clear you can't do that, the wind whipping against your face and making it seem impossible to do anything but wrap yourself tighter around him. You decide to not fight it, finding you much prefer staying safe in Superman's embrace than trying to get a look at him and whatever's going on around you.

In practically no time at all, you feel your body begin to slip free from the hero's grip and find purchase on the ground below you, the wind no longer streaming through your hair and giving your face slight windburn, the fear finally vanishing from your body.

"Are you okay?" The low timber of your boyfriend's voice rumbles through you, the sound something you found yourself missing over the past 48 hours—even if you tried not to.

"Y-yeah, I'm okay. Thank you." Your voice is weak compared to his, and you can't quite seem to meet his eye just yet, your body recovering from the sudden impact and unprompted flying session.

It's takes a second for you to find your equilibrium again, but of course Superman is there to keep you steady as you do. The moment you are steady, though, his grip is gone from your arms and he takes a step back, almost like he doesn't want to cross a boundary or make you uncomfortable. You have to repress the frown that wants to break free on your lips at the thought that the two of you are at a point where he thinks that's necessary. As if you still don't crave his touch.

Finally feeling like you're able to, you take a look around at your surroundings. It seems like the Man of Steel has brought you up to a rooftop in the middle of Metropolis. You can see the city spread wide around you no matter what direction you look, but even better there's not a single soul around you both. There's no one up here but the two of you and in this moment of privacy—and with the sun fully out this time—you're able to get a good look at the man before you.

Of course you know what Superman looks like, what Clark looks like, but unlike that night in his apartment you can really see him now. You can see the difference in his confidence. The way he stands taller, unlike how he hunches at work as if he's trying to take up as little space as possible. His hair is different too, slicked back instead of a mess of curls. You appreciate this look, can tell why it's different, but at the same time you still see that nerdy farm boy under it all.

No matter what he wears or what he looks like, the man before you is still the sweet guy from Kansas you met at work. The way he's looking at you now makes it that much more obvious too. He may be Superman on the outside right now, but inside he's Clark, and all he wants is to be with you now and figure out this mess he's found himself in.

You can practically see the thoughts racing through his mind as he stands in front of you. Can see the way he wants to reach for you and explain everything. He may be a super hero, but he's still just as human as you are. He has feelings and you know your silence the other day probably sent him spiraling. The thought makes your heart squeeze in regret. You shouldn't have freaked out so bad, felt so betrayed. You know Clark cares for you just as much as you care for him, and you should've let him explain himself. He hurt you, but it never even crossed your mind that you might've hurt him in return.

"Clar—I mean, Superman," You shake your head, catching your mistake and correcting yourself, feeling like you're not sure where to begin or even how to begin.

"It's okay," Clark says, cutting you off. He can tell you're a little nervous, that you're trekking in uncharted waters and you're not sure how to approach him when he looks like this. That you're not sure how to approach him in a situation like this. He continues, wanting to ease your mind even just a little bit. "You can say my name. Just because I look like this right now doesn't mean I'm not still Clark. You don't have to change for me, I know this might be weird for you."

You nod your head, your eyes finally drifting up towards his. His gaze isn't hard like you're used to seeing when Superman's picture hits the papers, like he's on a mission to save the world. No, right now in this moment, they're soft, like the two of you have just gotten off a long day of work and are finally reunited over cartons of takeout and only inches remain between you on the couch.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm sorry—"

The two of you start speaking at the same time, both of you letting out a breathy laugh over it. It feels normal, right, after the past few days you've had. As if there's no apprehension between you both and that you're still his as much as he's still yours. Clark blushes over the interaction and you find it endearing that you can have this effect on him even as he's Superman. Who knew even the Man of Steel can't resist the way you make him feel.

"Go ahead, you go first," you say, your voice coming out soft, almost timid. You're anything but, though as you stand before your boyfriend and see nothing but love and concern on his face. If you're sure of anything, it's that the two of you will get through this. You have to, you need to.

"I'm sorry about what happened at work the other day. I just got freaked out when you started asking so many questions about my interviews. I was worried you were catching on and I didn't know how to handle that. I shouldn't have gotten so upset with you like that, you didn't deserve it. I understand now that it probably comes off as unfair that I do get those interviews and I mean, well, now you know it is technically unfair—"

"And unethical," you cut in, letting out a laugh as well so Clark knows you're only joking. Sort of.

"And unethical," he chuckles. "But even still, you had a right to know more or at least get a better explanation, and I didn't give that to you. As for the other night at my apartment...gosh, I don't even know where to begin. I-I'm sorry you had to find out like that. I've thought it over countless times in my head about how I would want you to find out and it was definitely not like how it actually happened. It must've been so weird for you to see me just fly in like that. To have this information be dropped on you out of nowhere. I can't even imagine how scared of me you must've been—"

Your eyes go wide at his last comment. You take note of how his head drops slightly, as if remembering a past negative experience. Clark looks almost as if he's afraid of seeing your reaction to him, of who he is. As if he's afraid you're going to run away at any moment and out of his life forever, the burden of this secret too much to bear.

"Clark, I could never be scared of you." You rush over to your boyfriend, breaking the distance he's placed between you. Your hands cup his face instantly, and you practically melt as his hands find your waist in response. "Finding out you're Superman doesn't scare me, and I hope you know that anyone who's scared of you just doesn't know how extraordinary you really are. What you do and what you are capable of is something to be proud of. You've saved so many lives in the time you've been here and you ask for nothing in return. There are not many people who would do that. So no, Clark, I'm not scared of you. I'm proud of you."

In an instant you find yourself wrapped in Clark's arms, his face buried in your neck. You accept the embrace wholeheartedly, missing the way he somehow holds you so tightly and softly all at the same time. You hope he can tell how much love you're pouring into this hug. He deserves to be loved, not in spite of who he is, but because of who he is. Super powers or not, Clark Kent is an incredible person and he deserves to know that.

Even though you find your heart feeling so full in this moment, there's still that nagging insecurity at the back of your mind wondering why Clark didn't feel like he could tell you his secret. Why did an accident have to happen for you to finally find out? How much more time would have passed before it eventually came to light?

Pulling back slightly, you catch the hero's eye and decide to speak your mind. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Did-Did you not trust me?"

You hate the way your voice cracks halfway through your question, showing your vulnerability. It hurts to know that Clark loves you so much and yet somehow still didn't trust you enough to tell you something so monumental.

"No, sweetheart, no!" It's your boyfriend's turn to cup you face this time, his thumbs coming up to wipe away stray tears you didn't even realize began to fall. "I trust you completely, that wasn't the problem. I just-I was just scared of what would happen if you did find out."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion at his admission. "Why? Did you think I would tell someone? I swear I would never do that to you, Clark! I will never—"

"I wasn't scared of what you would do. I was scared of what other people would do. I was worried that if you knew it would make you a target in a way. I'm not perfect, I make mistakes, and if the wrong person found out who I was, who knows what they would've done to get information out of the girl I love. I felt it was better to keep you in the dark and as safe as possible. I see now that that probably wasn't my best idea, I should've said it, should've told you sooner, but it's what I felt was right at the time."

Your breath gets caught in your throat and you can feel the emotion beginning to well in your eyes again, but this time not out of insecurity, but out of love. Clark didn't tell you because he wanted to protect you, not because he didn't trust you. An action you thought was done out of mistrust was actually one done out of all the trust and love in the world. You feel silly now for ever even doubting Clark.

"I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions about why you didn't tell me. I should've known you weren't telling me for a good reason. I just got so in my head about it all. I was worried I did something wrong to make you think you couldn't trust me. And all the stuff back at The Daily Planet? God, I shouldn't have brought any of the Superman stuff up! I let my journalist brain get in the way and I just kept pushing you. And back at your apartment? I should've let you explain instead of just running off. You were going to tell me everything and I didn't even give you the chance." You groan, laughing slightly as you drop your head onto Clark's chest, your forehead pressed against the "S" adorning it. "We really made a mess of things, huh, Kent?"

"We sure did, baby." Clark chuckles and you revel in the way you can feel his chest rumble beneath you because of it. "I'm glad we had this talk, though. I don't want there to be any uncertainty between us. I trust and love you fully, you know that, right?"

"Absolutely," you nod. "And I agree. No more secrets, from either of us."

"No more secrets," Clark agrees. "Moving forward, now that you know I'm Superman, we just need to be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you. It can be dangerous out there, and I know me being in your life is a lot to take on considering who I am, but I hope you'll still have me."

Clark's cheeks are a soft pink and you adore the fact he looks so bashful, as if he's asking you out for the first time again. Being in a relationship with a super hero is sure to come with it's challenges, but you'd take on anything for Clark Kent, no matter what.

"I'll have you forever and then some, Clark Kent." You smile and the man before you revels in it, smiling right back at you.

"Good," he says, leaning down slightly before continuing. "That means I can still do this."

Before you get a chance to question what he means by that, you find yourself with his lips on yours and in an instant the past few days fade away to nothing. You may know about Clark's alter ego now, but he's still the same man you've come to love. He's still your farm boy journalist and no super powers will change that. If anything, they just add to his charm and what makes him so endearing. It's funny because you didn't think that was even possible. Clark Kent even more perfect in your eyes? Who would've thought.

You begin to smile into the kiss and Clark pulls back, intrigued. "What is it? What are you thinking about?"

There's no hesitation when you answer him, eyes sparkling, smile somehow even bigger: "You."

Your boyfriend wastes no time reconnecting his lips with yours, wanting nothing more than to be close to you in any way possible right now. It's not even a second later when you feel him reach down and scoop you up off the ground, a giddy yelp leaving your lips as he does so. You can feel the two of you begin to float up in the air, but the fear of possibly falling is the furthest thing from your mind as you tangle your fingers in Clark's hair and relish in the way his kiss makes you feel.

The bliss lasts for only so long, though. Suddenly, sirens can be heard in the distance and it's not long before an explosion follows. The two of you break apart and by the look on Clark's face, you can tell duty calls.

"I'm sorry, I-I have to go," The raven-haired man looks disappointed, not because he has to go save the city once more, but because he has to leave you behind and run off like he's done so many times before, especially so soon after your reconciliation.

"Don't be sorry," you ease, cupping his jaw with your hand. "Never be sorry for being a hero. I'll see you later, and at least now I know where you're always running off to."

The both of you laugh and Clark tightens his grip on you before saying, "Hold on!"

One moment you're floating steadily in the air, the next you're soaring through it at what feels like the speed of light. This time you knew it was coming, but you still find yourself clinging to the Man of Steel like your life depends on it.

You're back on the ground in a flash and, just like before, Superman is there to steady you as you regain your balance. Of course your entrance has garnered some stares, onlookers averting their attention towards the two of you and their phones swiftly following suit. Clark—er, Superman, takes a step back once he's sure you're settled, not wanting his touch to linger any longer than necessary with so many eyes on you.

"So, you're sure you're okay, Miss?" The blue-eyed hero clears his throat and nods his head towards you.

Oh, I get it, you think, a smile adorning your lips.

"Yes, absolutely. Thank you for saving me, Superman." A knowing smirk pops up on your boyfriend's lips and you have to fight back the urge to kiss it off him.

"Anytime. Stay safe out there," he says before getting into a stance that you know means he's about to take off into the sky again.

"You too," you reply, blushing as you watch Superman wink at you before soaring up into the clouds, off to save the day once again.

Oohs and aahs echo around you as the people of Metropolis watch the city's hero fly through the sky. Resuming your trek back to The Daily Planet, you chuckle and shake your head at the sight of it, thinking about how crazy it is that the very man they're fawning over is your boyfriend. A lot has happened over these past few days, but you honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

Go be the hero they need, Clark, you think. I'll be right here on the ground when you come back down.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Head turn || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader (love island au)

Summary: For the first time since Rafe walked in, his head had truly, irreversibly, turned.

Warnings: none!!!

Word count: 936

A/n: finally wrote another love island fic!!!

MASTERLIST (love island au masterlist)

The villa was glowing under the late afternoon sun, bronzed bodies scattered across daybeds and loungers, everyone half-lazily sipping on watered-down cocktails. Kayla was curled into Rafe’s side on the beanbags, nails tracing absent circles on his arm while she tried to read his expression.

“So be honest with me,” she pressed, tilting her head so her blonde waves fell forward, eyes narrowing with a mix of playfulness and insecurity. “If someone was to walk in, would your head turn?” The question hung in the warm air. Everyone asked it eventually in this place—sometimes out of jealousy, sometimes out of fear of the next bombshell.

Rafe let out a low laugh, tipping his chin so his eyes locked on hers. Confident, sure of himself, he didn’t hesitate. “I’m not even looking at anyone else, Kay. You’re it for me, yeah? I’ve got eyes for you and only you.” Her lips curled into a satisfied smile, and she leaned into his shoulder.

To everyone watching from across the fire pit, they looked like the picture of stability—Rafe’s easy confidence, Kayla’s smug reassurance. But Love Island was never that simple. Later that evening, just as everyone was gathered around for a round of dares by the pool, the familiar ding-ding of a phone lit up the villa.

“Got a text!” Rafe called, reaching for his phone on the low table. His brows furrowed as he read, before his lips parted slowly. “Rafe, you’ve been chosen for a special date. Please get ready and head to the front of the villa. #NewBombshell #GetReadyForFireworks” Gasps. Shouts. Wolf whistles.

Kayla sat up straight, colour draining from her face. “Wait—what? A date?” Her voice pitched, thin and sharp. Rafe leaned in quickly, pressing a reassuring hand to her knee. “Hey, it’s nothing. I told you, I’m not gonna get swayed. You don’t need to worry.”

But as the villa whooped and hollered around them, Kayla’s smile looked more like a grimace.

~

The drive to the date spot was short but felt like hours. Rafe sat in the jeep with his elbow propped against the frame, jaw tight as he tried to psych himself up. Nothing’s gonna happen. It’s just another girl. Smile, get through it, go back to Kayla. Easy. Then he stepped onto the yacht.

The glow of the sunset stretched across the ocean, staining the waves orange and pink. The yacht’s white deck gleamed, champagne already chilled on a small table. And there you were. You stood near the railing, the breeze catching your hair, dress hugging your figure like it had been stitched just for you.

When you turned, smiling, the dying light caught in your eyes and Rafe swore his lungs forgot how to work for a second.“Hi,” you said, voice lilting and easy, but with that kind of confidence bombshells always carried when they knew the villa was about to tilt on its axis.

Rafe’s mouth went dry. “Uh—hey,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. He almost laughed at himself; he never got like this. He was always the confident one, always in control. But with you? You didn’t even have to try—you already had him. Fuck.

Drinks were poured, cushions were pulled close, and conversation flowed. It didn’t take long for laughter to spill between you two. You teased him for being guarded, he countered with how you were “dangerously charming.” The banter came easy, too easy.

At one point, you tilted your head and looked at him curiously. “So,” you asked, “where’s your head at? You’ve been in there with Kayla since day one, right?” Rafe let out a slow breath, running a thumb along the rim of his glass before he met your eyes again. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“And I’ll be real with you, I was one hundred percent sure I wasn’t gonna turn my head for anyone. I thought I was locked in. Solid.” Your brows lifted slightly, waiting. He gave a small, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “But then I walked onto this boat and saw you. And… I don’t know. It’s different. You’re different. And it’s messing with me, ‘cause I don’t usually get thrown like this.”

The sincerity in his voice landed heavy. You felt your cheeks warm, a flutter in your stomach you couldn’t fight. “That’s flattering,” you admitted softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The date stretched long into the evening. By the time the producers called wrap, Rafe felt like he’d known you far longer than a few hours. When you climbed off the yacht and started toward the villa together, his hand brushed yours. Tentative. Testing. And when your fingers curled around his, it was instinctual—like it was always supposed to fit that way.

-

Back at the villa, everyone was lounging near the fire pit when the gates opened. The chatter died instantly, heads swivelling. There you were, walking in beside Rafe hand in hand. He wasn’t sheepish, wasn’t sneaky. If anything, he walked with his chest out, as if daring anyone to question the decision that had already been made in his head.

Kayla’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath, her entire body stiffening. The boys whistled low, one of them muttering, “Ohhh, shit.” The girls exchanged wide-eyed looks, some biting back grins, others watching Kayla nervously.

But Rafe? He only glanced down at you with the faintest grin, thumb brushing your knuckles, as though he hadn’t just blown up his entire villa dynamic in one evening. For the first time since stepping into the villa, his head was fully—irreversibly—turned.

[kthologue]

don't look at me like that — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo can’t live without your affection.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, ooc, teenage gojo is an idiot, lovesick!gojo, in which he calls you clingy and immediately regrets it, slight crack

notes. can you tell seeing men pathetically grovel is one of my favorite things?... also, sorry to suguru stans out there.

“I don’t like that they’ve been sending you on so many missions,” you murmur, threading your fingers through your boyfriend’s silver locs. His hair has grown longer, a piece of evidence of just how little time he’s had to himself. To you. Yaga had been working him and Suguru like weapons instead of people, and it gnawed at you more each day.

Satoru flashes that signature smile of his, his shield of nonchalance. “Yeah, well. We’re the strongest, after all.”

His cerulean eyes meet yours, and you swear you see the whole endless sky inside them. And yet the softness there makes your chest ache. He looks at you like you’re gravity, the only thing tethering him to earth.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his nose. He crinkles it but doesn’t push you away. The faint blush that paints his cheeks makes you laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is simple.

“Alright, lovebirds.” Suguru’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet, pulling you back down. He’s leaning against the lounge doorway, arms folded. “If we want to make it to Sendai by nightfall, we should head out.”

Satoru groans like a petulant child.

You acknowledge Suguru with a hum, then steal one last kiss from Satoru’s lips. This one is slow enough to linger, but quick enough to hurt when you pull away. Sliding off his lap, you try to keep your smile from faltering.

You leave them to their strategy, shutting the door softly behind you.

It’s only when you’re halfway down the hall that you realize Satoru’s sunglasses are still tucked into your uniform pocket. You’d stolen them earlier, teasing him, and forgot to give them back. Smiling faintly at your own carelessness, you turn back toward the lounge.

But the moment your hand touches the doorknob, their voices stop you cold.

“I don’t know how you do it, Satoru.” Suguru’s tone is edged with something mocking. Or curious. Maybe even both.

“Do what?”

“Spend all your time with [Name]. Between missions and her, do you even breathe? I figured the great Gojo Satoru would want freedom. To… explore.”

Satoru laughs under his breath, a tired sound. “I do what I like.”

“Really?” Suguru chuckles. “Couldn’t be me. Dating around is easier. No ties or expectations. You’re not stuck orbiting the same person day after day. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

You wait for Satoru’s defense, for the warmth he always shows you to blaze through the door. For him to say you’re not a weight, but his anchor. For him to fight for you, even in words.

But it never comes.

“I guess she can be clingy,” he admits, voice quieter. “But… I like her that way.”

Clingy. The word slams into you, hollowing your chest. Suddenly you feel small and disposable-- like a burden tolerated. The word echoes, bouncing sharp inside your skull until it’s all you hear.

Your breath stutters. The sunglasses slip from your hand, forgotten.

The silence that follows is heavy. Maybe they know you’re standing there. Maybe they don’t.

It doesn’t matter much anymore.

You turn and run before the dam in your chest breaks.

Gojo notices that something was off the moment he steps back onto campus.

He’s exhausted, having not slept a wink from the mission, but the thought of seeing you is enough to put a spring in his step. Normally, you’d be waiting, practically bouncing on your toes with a smile so wide it knocked the wind out of him more than any curse could. You’d scold him for being reckless, pepper his face with kisses, and then tuck yourself against his chest like you belonged there, because you did.

But today was different.

You’re there waiting in the courtyard, but you don’t move toward him.

Instead, you stand with your hands clasped neatly in front of you, your eyes unreadable. When his gaze lights up at the sight of you, when his arms begin to open as if to gather you in, you don’t take a step.

“Welcome back, Gojo,” you say softly. It is tamed and polite as if you were greeting a colleague and not your boyfriend. Your Satoru.

Gojo. Not Satoru. Not ’Toru. Not even an affectionate idiot. Just Gojo.

And it hits him like a gut punch. His grin falters, confusion flashing across his features.

“...That’s it?” he asks, half-laughing. He tries to brush it off, and hide the sudden weight pressing against his ribs. “No ‘I missed you’? Not even a kiss to make Suguru gag? You’re slipping, sweetheart.”

You offer a small smile, but it looks too brittle to be true. “I’m glad you’re safe. You should get some rest.”

And before he can think of what to say, you turn and leave.

He watches every step you take in confusion. You don’t seem to walk in anger—just a painful silence that gnaws at him.

Yet somehow, that silence is so much worse.

He can’t shake it.

That night, Gojo lies awake, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head. He can hear Suguru snoring from their shared wall, but sleep refuses to come for him. His mind is stuck on you. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your eyes had slid right past him, flat and unreadable, as though he wasn’t the center of your world anymore.

It’s a look he’s never received from you before—not even when you were annoyed, not even when he’d teased you to the point of snapping. You’ve always burned bright, always given him your fire, whether it was laughter or anger or love. But now that spark was gone and the emptiness you left behind terrified him more than any curse ever had.

The idea of you becoming a stranger digs its claws into him. He pictures it vividly: you walking past him in the halls without stopping, without even brushing his hand. Your voice reduced to polite acknowledgments and your smile given freely to someone else instead of him. He’s never been good at imagining a future, but this seemed to be a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

He swallows hard, throat dry. He’d rather you spit venom at him. He’d rather you look at him with the same disdain you reserve for curses than give him this quiet, suffocating indifference. At least if you were angry, it would mean he still mattered enough to spark that fire in you. Heavens, he even thinks you look hot when you’re furious with him—jaw set, eyes blazing. He’d take that over this hollow nothingness any day.

Gojo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, teeth gritted, as if he could block out the memory of your cold tone. But of course, it only makes it louder.

And then he remembers. Exactly what he said.

“I suppose [Name] can be clingy, but I quite like her.”

The words replay in his head, mocking him. How casual, how dismissive he’d sounded as he reduced you to some habit he’d grown used to rather than the gravity tethering him to the ground. His stomach twists violently.

“God,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, his voice raw. “I’m such an idiot.”

The words echo in the silence of the room, but they aren’t enough. Not even close.

Because what terrifies him most is the possibility that his charm, his apologies, his desperate little tricks may not be enough to pull you back to him. That you’ll decide you don’t need Gojo Satoru at all. And if that were to happen–

He doesn’t even know who he is without you.

The next morning, he’s already camped outside your door. He’s got food in hand, sunglasses hanging uselessly from his shirt collar, and a grin stretched across his face that hides the fact he hasn’t slept.

The moment you open the door, still rubbing sleep from your eyes, he bursts out, “Good morning! Guess what? I brought breakfast. And—”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I already ate.”

The words cut sharper than a blade. You walk past him without another glance, and for once Gojo is speechless.

But not for long.

He springs after you, long legs easily keeping pace. “Okay, fine, but I also got you the dango you like. Handmade. By me. It took me all night, and I nearly burned down the kitchen. I might’ve cried a little, not gonna lie. Don’t make my suffering meaningless, babe.”

You don’t even look at him.

Gojo staggers back as if struck. Then, ever dramatic, he clutches his chest and staggers forward again. “Cold shoulder, huh? Okay. I deserve that. But please—don’t ignore me. Yell at me, throw something, tell me to shut up. Just… don’t go quiet. I can’t take it.”

You don’t respond and Gojo feels a part of his soul wither away.

The next few days, he turns groveling into an art form.

He leaves flowers on your desk. Little apology notes scrawled in his messy handwriting tucked into your uniform pockets:

“You’re not clingy. You’re everything I have ever dreamed of. I literally can’t function without you.”

“I’m the dumbest genius alive. Please don’t dump me.”

“If I say something stupid again, you have full permission to curse me into oblivion.”

He even tries ambushing you in the common lounge, sprawling dramatically across your lap. “Forgive me already,” he whines loud enough for everyone to hear. “If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to waste away right here. Imagine it—Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, killed not by a curse but by his girlfriend’s silence. Imagine the scandal it would cause”

You raise a brow and shift your legs. He yelps as he tumbles to the floor, but when you stand to leave, he just grins up at you from where he’s sprawled.

“Still worth it if I get to be close to you,” he says softly.

And despite yourself, your chest aches.

It finally comes to a head on the training field.

You’re finishing drills when his shadow falls across you. He looks different in the moonlight, you note. The cocky mask stripped away, desperation bleeding through every line of him.

“Please,” he blurts out before you can turn away. His voice cracks, raw and unguarded. “Don’t shut me out like this. I know I hurt you. I know I said something thoughtless and cruel, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But you need to know that you’re not a burden. You’re not clingy. You’re the reason I even want to come back from missions. You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not just… a weapon.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You made me feel small,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Like I was just tolerated.”

He flinches like the words physically strike him. “No. God, no. You’re not tolerated. You’re everything. You’re the only thing in this stupid world I don’t want to let go of. If I have to spend every day proving it to you, I will. Just… don’t give up on me. Please.”

And for once, there’s no grin, no bravado. It is not the cocky Gojo Satoru standing in front of you, but just Satoru. The boy who’s terrified of losing the only person who makes him feel human.

Silence hangs heavy. You study him and his clenched fists. You look at his trembling shoulders and the way his eyes are begging you to believe him.

Finally, you sigh. Slowly, you reach out and brush your fingers against his. “You’d better mean every word.”

He catches your hand instantly, like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. He presses frantic kisses to your knuckles, your wrist, your palm. His voice is hoarse when he speaks between them. “I mean it. I swear it. I’ll never take you for granted again. I can’t lose you.”

And when you finally let him pull you into a kiss. It is deep and desperate. You can feel his relief in the way he trembles, in how tightly he clings, as though you might vanish if he lets go.

This time, when you whisper his name, it isn’t Gojo. It’s Satoru.

And that’s enough to make him believe he still has a chance to be worthy of you.

[sowerpatch]

we can burn [chapter four]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd Summary: Paige Bueckers isn’t just a college basketball elite, she’s also the Casanova of her era. Azzi Fudd, UConn’s volleyball darling, tries to keep things platonic. But resisting Paige’s charms proves harder with every game Paige is playing on and off the court. Azzi tries to wrestle with her resolve as she gets the feeling she's bound to get burned. Author’s note: this is an AU where Azzi plays volleyball in UConn. someone requested for a player!paige fic. **MASTERLIST** Word Count: 4,170

Nika entered the classroom with the intention of catching Azzi before the lecture, but the plan faltered the moment her eyes found her.  

Azzi was seated close beside Andre, their chairs angled toward one another. Their shoulders nearly touched over an open textbook.  

The scene should have been nothing more than two classmates studying, yet it snagged at Nika in a way she couldn’t shake. 

She told herself it was harmless.  

She remembered Paige pacing their dorm. She was restless and short-tempered, muttering like something was eating at her. Watching Azzi lean in toward Andre now, Nika finally understood why. 

Crossing the room, she stopped at their desks and cleared her throat. 

Azzi looked up, her smile quick and easy. “Hey.” 

“Hi. Can I speak with you for a second?” Nika kept her tone even, though the question sat heavier than it sounded. 

Azzi glanced at Andre, who had already turned back to the book in front of them. 

“Outside,” Nika added. 

Azzi rose from her chair. She followed Nika into the hallway.    “What’s up?” Azzi asked once they were outside. 

Nika glanced back into the classroom, buying herself a moment. “I see you and Andre spending a lot of time together.” 

“Yeah.” Azzi looked puzzled. “We had a great time working on that last project.” 

“Exactly. The last project. We turned it in a week ago.” 

The line of confusion in Azzi’s expression shifted into recognition, and she studied Nika more closely. “Is there a point to this?” 

Nika exhaled. “I don’t know. Something about it feels off.” 

“You and I got close because of this class. We were paired together in previous projects. I don’t know what you’re trying to get at with these questions.” 

The response left Nika caught between pressing further and retreating. The urge to demand clarity tugged at her, yet another part of her recoiled from the answer she might hear. She forced herself to let it drop. 

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Practice was rough today.” 

Azzi pressed her teeth to her lip, hesitation flickering in her eyes. She almost asked about Paige. Almost broke the line between them but chose silence instead. With a small nod, she accepted Nika’s words, leaving the conversation suspended in the space between what was said and what they both avoided. 

- 

An afternoon nap after a punishing morning practice was exactly what Azzi’s body had asked for. She woke rested, muscles less tense, and head cleared.  

There were voices drifting down the hall, the sound of laughter mingling with the low volume of a game on television. 

She padded out of her room and stopped at the threshold of the living room.  

Caroline was curled on the couch, Amari beside her, and Amari’s boyfriend West stretched out with his feet propped on the table.  

All three were glued to a basketball game on screen. 

The UConn Women’s Basketball game to be exact. 

The camera panned quickly to a replay. Paige had collided with an opponent who sprawled to the floor. The video slowed as Paige stepped past her, gaze angled down with a smirk tugging at her mouth. 

“I swear Bueckers has been feisty these past couple of games,” West muttered, just before the camera zoomed in on that smirk.     Then the camera followed her closely as she walked back to the bench. Her expression was carved into focus. Sweat darkened her jersey along the collar and down her spine. 

West let out a laugh.  

“She must be eating good pussy lately to be playing like a demon.” He spoke with the careless tone of someone who thought his words were only background noise.  

He had no idea what kind of sting his words might leave behind. 

The game played on, but Amari's and Caroline’s eyes flicked toward Azzi at the same time.  

“Hey, Azzi.” Amari greeted.  

Her mouth curved into a polite smile. “I’m getting coffee. Do you guys want any?” 

Three heads shook, each of them quick to decline. 

“Alright.” She turned away before her restraint cracked, her steps firm as she moved down the hall. 

She could still make out the television as she walked away. The announcer’s voice cut through the living room chatter with Paige’s name and something about a three-point shot dropped clean through the net. 

- 

From the first whistle, the pace was relentless. Seton Hall’s defense crowded the net, hands sharp and fast, daring UConn to find space. 

Azzi timed her jump, swung through, and clipped the top of their hands. The ball ricocheted awkwardly into play. The exchange dragged on, a limbo where every swing lacked finality.  

She fell back into position, hands on her thighs, waiting for the next rotation. Her eyes drifted toward the stands before she caught herself.  

It was a sold-out game, but not the way she wanted.  

She found Andre with Levi and Sam who were loud as always and was throwing their arms up like they were the ones playing. Their voices cut through the crowd, booming each time UConn scored.  

A support system was still a support system, she reminded herself. A win was a win. 

Even so, an emptiness settled in her chest. She knew her game had another gear, a level she could reach if only someone else was here. Someone who had a way of pulling her higher without saying a word. 

Caroline tugged lightly at her jersey as they reset for serve. “You good?”  

Azzi forced a nod, eyes flashing back to the stands as if her answer might be hiding there. Caroline followed her gaze but said nothing, though the silence pressed louder than the crowd’s roar. 

Amari caught it too.  

“Eyes here, Az,” she said, crouched low and ready for the serve. “Focus. We need you.” 

- 

Azzi had no idea how it happened, only that somewhere between watching Grey’s Anatomy edits and a string of pimple-popping videos on TikTok, her body gave in with her phone still in her hand.     At some point during the night, she must have rolled onto it or dropped it against the sheets. Because when she stirred awake, a voice reached her. 

Paige. 

Her first thought was that she was dreaming. The sound carried that rough edge only exhaustion could make, the kind of detail her imagination had no right to conjure. Then another noise followed, the rhythm of someone's breathing through the speaker. 

She blinked and grabbed her phone.  

Call ongoing.  

Paige’s name spelled out in sharp white. 

Azzi had no idea who pressed call first, only that the line connected them. She almost ended it, thumb hovering above the screen, until that even breath came again and stopped her. Each breath through the speaker felt accidental, like stumbling onto something she was not supposed to hear. 

Her chest loosened, though not in a way that brought peace. But she gave in, closed her eyes, and let herself drift back under with Paige’s breathing still on the line. 

- 

Azzi woke to a dead phone, the black screen refusing her thumb. Forgetting the charger last night had been careless, though falling asleep with Paige’s voice still threading through her ear had made her sleep better.    She connected her phone to the wall and left it humming back to life while she moved through the start of her morning.    She dressed in leggings pulled from the chair where she dropped them the night before, added a clean sweatshirt, and laced her sneakers while balancing against the frame of her bed.  

In the bathroom she brushed her teeth and glanced in the mirror, catching a version of herself that looked a little more presentable. 

By the time she returned, the phone screen glowed weakly with charge. She unplugged it, slid it into her bag, and pulled the strap over her shoulder. 

When she opened the door, Andre was already standing in the hall holding a paper cup. 

“Hey! Good morning!” He brightened at once, lifting the cup toward her. “This is for you.” 

The caramel hit her nose first. Thick and sweet. The kind of coffee she would never order for herself. Still, she took it, the heat pressing through the paper sleeve into her hand. 

“Can I walk you to class today?” 

She studied him, gauging whether it mattered if she said yes or no.  

“Sure.” 

- 

The eyes on her were familiar. Azzi had learned long ago that being a star athlete came with a certain kind of attention. One she accepted as part of her role. Yet today the gaze of the campus felt altered. A shade heavier. A little more insistent. 

She may have an idea.  

After that kiss at the party a week ago, people assumed they were dating. Andre never mentioned it, and Azzi never kissed him again. 

Years of volleyball had trained her awareness into something reflexive. Reading the angles, anticipating the next move. That instinct worked off the court too.  

She caught the looks, heard the hushed voices, and sensed the judgment. She told herself it didn’t matter, though the press of it lingered against her skin like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. 

Something about today was different in a way she couldn’t explain. 

Andre’s voice broke through as they turned into the corridor. “We have another home game this Thursday. Are you free to watch us play?” 

Her steps slowed, then stopped. She studied him, noticing how quickly his confidence faltered under her stare. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked, nervous now. 

And there it was. A small shift in his expression, too subtle for most to notice, but Azzi saw it.  

In the brief shift of Andre’s eyes, Azzi’s awareness caught hold, offering the first outline of a picture still coming into focus. 

“Nothing is wrong,” she said, smoothing her tone. A smile curved onto her lips, practiced and polite. “I’d be happy to watch you guys play.” 

- 

The college bar near Baylor University throbbed with too much sound for a Wednesday. The bass rattled the floorboards and voices swelled over each other in a mess of bodies and spilled liquor. It smelled like sweat and sour beer. Like a room that had no business being this crowded with a basketball game less than twenty-four hours away. 

Nika shoved her way through the crush of students with KK and Aubrey in tow, her jaw set hard enough to cut glass. The sight in the booth stopped her short.  

Paige was draped against the torn vinyl, her limbs loose and uncooperative. Her blonde hair stuck damp to her temples. Her eyes had that glassy half-focus that belonged to someone long past the point of reason.  

A girl was perched over her lap. She was half on top of her, giggling into her ear as if Paige’s collapse were entertainment instead of a warning sign. Paige hiccupped, clumsy hand pawing at the drink in front of her. 

“Okay, Lil Paigey, time’s up. Let’s go,” Nika announced. 

Paige turned her head with effort, blinking at the blur of her teammates. She slurred through the words as if they weighed too much in her mouth.  

“Be back... hotel later.” Another hiccup cracked through her laugh. 

Nika snatched the glass before it reached Paige’s lips.  

“You’re done,” she snapped, her patience stripped raw. “We’re leaving now.” 

The girl slid off Paige’s lap, only to square herself against Nika with shoulders squared, chin high. She stood nearly eye to eye with the basketball player, fire sparking sharp across her expression.  

“I think she said she’ll go home later,” The girl shot back. 

Nika’s gaze fixed on hers. “I heard her fine. And I don’t care. Do not test me.” 

The stare-off stretched between them. Neither yielded until Nika brushed past her with sudden force. Her hand clamped around Paige’s arm and hauled her upright.  

Paige lurched forward. She was too pliant to resist as another breathless laugh slipping from her throat. 

“This is the last time I’m saving your ass,” Nika said. “Say good night to your bitch, Paige.” 

- 

The team had scraped past Baylor, but Paige’s headache refused to let up. It throbbed through every cheer, every high-five, and every forced smile in the locker room.  

She should have known better. She always kept herself in check for games, always made discipline feel like second nature. This fogged, hollow version of herself felt like a betrayal. And she needed to cut it out.  

But the truth was she had no idea how. 

She took a long breath at Nika’s door, knuckles rapping against the wood before she lost her nerve. 

The door opened, and Nika’s face came into view. 

“Hi,” Paige said, trying for light but hearing the strain in her own voice. “Can we talk?” 

Nika said nothing. She turned and walked back into the room, leaving the door open behind her. The invitation was there for Paige to take. 

“Is KK here?” Paige asked as she stepped inside. 

Nika sat on her bed and crossed her arms. “No. I told her to grab food with Aubs.” 

Paige nodded, shifting on her feet. “Cool. Cool.”    The headache still pressed behind her eyes, a dull reminder of how far she’d let herself slip. She stood in the middle of Nika and KK’s hotel room, shifting from one foot to the other. Her words caught in her throat before she finally forced them out. 

“Thank you for picking me up from the bar yesterday.” 

“You’re welcome." 

That easy dismissal stung more than it should have. Paige let out a sigh. “I know I’m an ass. I haven’t been myself. I’m sorry for being a wreck.” 

Nika watched her in silence. The irritation in her features thinned. 

“I don’t even know why I’m doing the things I’m doing,” Paige admitted. “But I want it to stop.” 

The words hung in the room, heavier than either of them expected.  

Nika shifted on her bed, then patted the space beside her. The gesture was simple, but to Paige it felt like a lifeline. 

She sat down tense at first but relaxed when Nika put an arm around her. 

“I think you’re starting to feel something for someone, P.” Nika said. 

Paige kept her eyes forward, catching their reflection in the dark glass of the television. Her throat locked. 

“I think you’re afraid of it,” Nika continued. “Because what if you get hurt? What if the person you like doesn’t feel the same way?” 

A single tear slid down Paige’s face before she could stop it. She brushed it away with the cuff of her sweatshirt, embarrassed by the evidence. 

“And I think you’re fighting yourself to keep up the version of you everyone expects,” Nika went on. “Because what if showing who you really are makes them turn away?” 

The ache in Paige’s chest was sharper than any headache. 

“Am I wrong?” Nika asked. 

Paige’s head moved side to side in the smallest shake. Her voice was a whisper. “No.” 

Nika drew her closer until Paige let her head rest on her shoulder. 

“If you want this to stop,” Nika said, gentler now, “you have to choose what you want to hold on to. And what you’re ready to let go.” 

Paige stayed silent. 

“And I think you already know the answer,” Nika said, her hand resting lightly on Paige’s head. “You’re just scared to act on it.” 

Paige shut her eyes, the truth of it too heavy to deny. 

“I think I messed up.” 

Nika tilted her head. “What did you do?” 

Paige sat up, dragging a hand down her face. “I ghosted her.” 

Nika hummed, offering only a noncommittal nod. She didn’t have to ask who.  

“It wasn’t smart,” Paige muttered. “But I was afraid if she knew that I know she hasn’t… you know…” 

Nika’s eyebrow arched, her mouth already curving teasingly. 

“Don’t make me say it,” Paige groaned. “Or my inner demon will spiral again.” 

Nika burst out laughing. “You’re such a fuckboy. But I can’t believe the word virgin makes you blush.” 

“Shut up.” Paige shoved her shoulder lightly, heat rising in her face. “All I’m saying is I don’t want her thinking I’m hanging around just because I want to sleep with her.” 

Nika rolled her eyes. “But you do want to sleep with her.” 

“That’s the thing. I don’t. The thought only entices me but I don’t want to do it.” 

Nika shifted, turning to face her fully, her expression caught between disbelief and curiosity. “That’s new. So, what do you want with her?” 

Paige’s gaze turned toward the carpeted hotel floor. “Buy her flowers. Have picnics. Watch all her games. Take her out to dinner.” 

“Do you even know how to do any of that?” Nika teased. 

Paige shot her a glare. 

“Okay, okay,” Nika surrendered with both hands up. “Fuckboy Paige has officially turned into Loverboy Paige.” 

“Whatever.” Paige scrunched her nose, the label making her squirm. 

“Well,” Nika said, more serious this time, “if that’s what you want, you need to stop ghosting her and actually talk to her.” 

“I tried,” Paige admitted. “I called her once. She picked up, but I think it was by accident. All I heard was her breathing, and then she started snoring softly.” 

Nika stared at her like she had grown a second head. “That’s borderline stalker behavior.” 

Paige shrugged. “I was just happy to hear her on the other line. And I guess my body liked it too, because I fell asleep listening to her.” 

Nika shook her head, half amused. “Weirdly romantic. But did you actually talk to her?” 

Paige’s expression turned sheepish. She gave a small shake of her head. “No. When I woke up, the call was gone. She might have woken up and hung up on me.” 

Nika reached out and patted her shoulder. “Next time, try calling her when she’s awake.” 

- 

Azzi walked out of her room with an annoyed expression, tugging at the edges of her costume. The tight red corset and short black skirt left little to the imagination. Her devil horns glinted under the light, and her heels clicked against the floor like a challenge she hadn’t wanted to issue. 

Amari let out a low whistle. “Damn.” 

Azzi flipped her off. “I look like shit.” 

“You look like the hottest devil this campus has ever seen,” Amari said, grinning. 

Caroline gave her an assessing look. “Your boyfriend won’t survive when he sees you.” 

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Azzi said flatly. 

“Whatever you say.” Amari laughed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re already late.” 

The fraternity house buzzed with music and shouts, costumed students pressed shoulder to shoulder as they poured through the doorway. Colored lights streaked across the living room, illuminating faces blurred by beer and smoke. 

Azzi found Andre a few feet from the beer pong table.  

“Hey!” 

He glanced up, swallowed wrong, and coughed into his drink. “Wow!” 

“Too much?” she asked. 

He shook his head with a grin. “Not at all. You look like sin walking.” 

Her laugh came easier than she expected, but it was cut off by the sound of KK and Nika yelling over the crowd. Their voices rose above the music, bold and unmistakable. 

“What’s happening?” Azzi asked. 

Andre rubbed his forehead. “The women’s basketball team has turned beer pong into a war. They’ve been destroying everyone. I swear they’re too good at hitting their shots.” 

Azzi’s body locked before she could stop it. Heat crept up her throat, her mind already supplying an image of Paige at the table, soaking in the attention. She hated how automatic the reaction felt. 

Wanting distance from the beer pong table and the women who had claimed it, she turned to Andre. “Where can a lady get a drink?” 

His mouth curved into a grin. “Outside. Come on.” 

He guided her toward the patio, and she followed, grateful for the escape. 

- 

Azzi slipped into the kitchen, tugging at her corset with irritation while searching the counters. A cold drink had sloshed down her front earlier, and now the fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin. She rifled through drawers and cabinets, muttering under her breath. 

“Hey, stranger.” 

Her head snapped up. Nika strolled in, tugging down the hood of her oversized Pikachu onesie. 

“Hey,” Azzi answered. 

It struck her how long it had been since they last spent real time together. Weeks, really. Somewhere along the way, things had changed. They barely talked now, and the easy closeness they once shared seemed to have slipped out of reach. 

“What are you doing?” Nika asked. 

Azzi gestured at the stain spreading across the corset. 

“Ooh, that’s rough.” Nika’s grin was almost sympathetic. “Any luck?” 

“No,” Azzi muttered. “This frat house has everything except paper towels.” 

Nika gave her a quick once-over, then reached for her arm. “Come on. My place isn’t that far.” 

Azzi barely had time to react before Nika was pulling her out of the kitchen, through the hall, and straight toward the door. She caught the tail end of Nika calling out goodbye to KK, who was grinning in a Squirtle onesie beside Aubrey dressed as a Charmander. 

The cool night air hit Azzi as they stepped outside, her mind still trying to catch up to how fast the evening had changed. 

- 

Azzi’s first thought was that she had no business being back in Nika and Paige’s dorm. Her second pressed harder. She wasn’t ready to see Paige. Maybe both thoughts merged into one restless unease.  

But she convinced herself Paige would still be at the party. That the room would be empty. That she would be spared the collision. 

That illusion ended the moment she stepped inside. She should have accounted for another possibility.  

Paige was stretched across the couch in loose sweats, glasses slipping down her nose, and headphones looped around her neck. A controller rested in her right hand, slack and restless. The game on screen left running without attention. 

Nika muttered something about towels before disappearing down the hall. Azzi remained caught in the doorway, unsure whether to move forward or retreat.  

Paige blinked at her, the pause long enough to unravel Azzi’s composure. Then the controller slid aside, abandoned. 

Her eyes swept over Azzi before she could stop herself.  

The costume revealed more than it concealed, and the way Azzi shifted under that attention gave her an edge of vulnerability. 

“Uh... Hi!” Paige said first. 

“Hi!” 

Paige swallowed, throat dry. “You look… you look—” 

“Like a walking sin?” Azzi lifted a brow, playing at humor. 

“Yes,” Paige admitted, a small huff of breath escaping, “but I was gonna say you look like you came in to end my life. But that works too.” 

A small curve tugged at Azzi’s mouth, and a soft laugh escaped before she could think to stop it. The ease of it startled her. 

Paige pushed herself up from the couch and closed the space between them. When she reached her, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Hi.” 

“Hello again.” Azzi’s gaze met hers. 

“I kinda wanna talk to you, but not when you’re in this.” 

“Why?” Azzi asked, glancing down at her costume. 

“Because you look uncomfortable.” 

The words pierced. Azzi felt exposed, seen in a way she had tried to avoid. Paige always had this unnerving ability to strip her down to the truth, to make her feel both acknowledged and protected.  

She gave a reluctant nod. “I am not liking this costume at all.” 

“I can get you something to change into,” Paige offered. 

Azzi shook her head. “No. The last time you did that, you ignored me the day after, like I didn’t exist in your world. Besides, Nika’s getting some towels for me. Don’t worry.” 

Paige winced at the words and exhaled, offering no defense.  

“Alright, I deserve that.” She stepped back and picked up her wallet and keys from the counter. 

Azzi frowned. “Do you have a booty call or something?” 

Paige chuckled, but embarrassment with the assumption of her going out to see someone was evident on her eyes. “I’m just going to take a walk.” 

Azzi watched her head for the door. Paige paused with her hand resting on the handle. 

“Azzi, I don’t know how I can get your trust back or make you forgive me,” Paige said, words uncharacteristically careful. “But I will try. I’m sorry for ignoring you and I’m sorry it took me this long to say anything.” 

Azzi’s chest ached, and against her will her heart softened. The blonde sounded raw in a way Azzi had never heard before. 

“I’ll talk to you soon, when you’re wearing something you don’t hate. But for what it’s worth, you look amazing in that costume.” A small smile curved across her mouth. “Good night, Azzi.” 

She slipped out just as Nika emerged from her bedroom with towels draped over one arm and a bundle of clothes in the other. 

“Did I miss anything?” Nika asked. 

Azzi could only stare at the closed door. 

[cameronsbabydoll]

EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE

CHAPTER THREE ᝰ.ᐟ STORY TIME

WARNINGS ᝰ.ᐟ condescension, passive-aggressive remarks, awkward family dynamics, slow-burn tension, power imbalance

SUMMARY ᝰ.ᐟ when rafe’s son begs him to come read to the class for story time, you don’t expect rafe cameron to actually show. but one morning he walks in, still in his pressed suit, expensive watch glinting under the classroom lights. he reads the book like it’s a board meeting agenda, no inflection, no warmth — and then looks straight at you, as if to say happy now?

the request comes on a tuesday.

his son tugs at your sleeve with sticky fingers, eyes wide the way only a five-year-old’s can be. “ms. y/l/n, can my dad come read to us? please? please? he said he’s too busy but if you tell him, maybe he’ll.”

you crouch down to his level, smiling softly. too busy. the words don’t surprise you. you’ve seen the way mr. cameron lingers by the door each morning, phone pressed to his ear, suit already buttoned, jaw tight like even standing here is a waste of his time.

“i think if you ask him nicely again, he might change his mind,” you tell his son gently. “sometimes dads need extra reminding.”

that afternoon at pickup, the boy tries again. you watch from the window as he tugs on his father’s sleeve, chattering with the kind of unfiltered hope only kids have. rafe doesn’t bend down. doesn’t soften. just glances down at him like the request is an inconvenience.

you can almost hear the clipped response through the glass: i don’t have time for that.

but on thursday morning, the classroom hums differently. the kids are restless, whispering about it:
“he’s really coming?”
“is he gonna wear a suit?”
“my dad makes silly voices when he reads. i bet yours does too.”

his son beams with pride, hugging the book to his chest like proof. curious george visits the zoo. the edges are chewed and bent, obviously from many reads at home — probably by his mother, you think.

and then the door opens.

rafe cameron fills the frame like he owns it, which, in a way, he does. pressed navy suit, watch gleaming, phone still in his hand. the children fall silent, staring at him like he’s some kind of alien in their tiny, paint-stained world.

“dad!” his son runs forward, tugging him inside. “you came!”

for a moment, something flickers across rafe’s face. not joy — something closer to discomfort. like being here in this too-bright, too-cheerful classroom is more humiliating than standing trial.

but he steps inside anyway, the book shoved into his hands.
you gesture toward the rocking chair at the front of the rug. “we’re so glad you could make it, mr. cameron.”

his gaze snaps to you. sharp. cool. “yeah,” he mutters, voice flat. “guess i didn’t have a choice.”

the rocking chair creaks under his weight, a piece of furniture built for a grandmother, not for a six-foot man in an expensive suit. rafe sits stiffly, one ankle balanced on his knee, holding curious george visits the zoo like it’s evidence in a courtroom.

“dad, you gotta sit on the rug with us,” his son insists, tugging at his sleeve.

“no,” rafe says simply, not looking down.

a ripple of giggles runs through the circle of children. you clap your hands once, restoring order, though you can’t stop the way your mouth twitches. of course he won’t.

he clears his throat, flips the book open, and begins to read.

monotone. flat. each word clipped and precise, as though he’s dictating a legal statement rather than telling the story of a mischievous monkey.

“george was curious. george was always curious. george wanted to see the zoo animals.”

the children glance at one another, brows furrowed. one whispers, “he’s not even doing the monkey voice.” another adds, “my mom makes elephant sounds when she reads it.”

you kneel at the edge of the rug, hands folded neatly in your lap, watching the performance with careful composure. it would be funny — the sheer absurdity of rafe cameron in his custom suit, struggling to lower himself to kindergarten level — if it weren’t so achingly sad.

his son, though, doesn’t notice. he stares up at his father with rapt attention, like this is the best day of his life.

rafe drones on, eyes flicking to his watch every couple of pages, like he’s timing how long this humiliation lasts.

by the time george is stealing peanuts from the elephant’s stand, one of the kids can’t take it anymore. “mr. cameron, can you make the monkey voice? like this?” she chirps, launching into an exaggerated ooh-ooh, ah-ah!

the class bursts into laughter.

rafe stares at her, then at the rest of the giggling rug-sitters, expression blank. and for one terrible, fleeting moment, you think he’s about to snap.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he lowers the book just enough to lock eyes with you.

not with the kids. not with his son. but with you.

that sharp, knowing look. a challenge. a sneer without moving his mouth. happy now? this what you wanted? drag me in here like some sideshow attraction?

your stomach twists, though you hold his gaze, refusing to flinch.

“keep going, mr. cameron,” you say gently, smoothing the tension before the kids can notice. “they’re really enjoying it.”

his jaw ticks. he flips the page harder than necessary.

“george wanted to feed the animals. george wanted to feed all the animals. george…” he pauses, narrowing his eyes at the text, as if even the mischievous monkey is mocking him. “…should have stayed out of trouble.”

the children lean closer, caught in the story again despite the stiffness. his son beams, bouncing on his knees, whispering the words along with him — clearly memorized from countless readings at home.

you notice the way rafe’s gaze flicks sideways, watching his boy mouthing the lines, pride fighting against the discomfort etched in his posture.

when he finally closes the book with a decisive thwap, the kids clap, though some are clearly clapping out of habit more than delight. his son launches forward, hugging his dad’s arm.

“you were so good, dad! see? you’re a good reader!”

rafe looks down at him, something flickering in his expression — guilt? annoyance? a tenderness he doesn’t know how to show?

and then he lifts his head, eyes cutting to you again.

that same silent message.
hope you’re satisfied.

you offer him a polite smile. a thank-you. your professional armor.

but inside, you can’t stop thinking: it’s not that he can’t be warm. it’s that he chooses not to be.

and you don’t know yet whether that’s worse.

[strangerexee]

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ᴀᴜ!ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ?

Summary: You do the current boyfriend TikTok prank on smoke simply to see how he reacts.

Pairings: Black!Fem!Reader x Elijah “Smoke” Moore

Warnings: Nothing really…

You prop your phone up against the dresser mirror, camera angled just right to catch both of you. Smoke’s leaning against the wall behind you, scrolling on his phone like he’s got all the time in the world, but you know he was ready to leave ten minutes ago.

“Okay,” you start with that little influencer voice, flashing a grin at the camera, “so I’m here with Smoke, my current boyfriend, and we’re about to do a quick fit check before we head out.”

He doesn’t look up at first. Just nods like, yeah, yeah, record your lil video. You hold back a laugh.

“So, let’s start with me.” You step back so the phone gets your full outfit. “Top? Skims. Thirty-eight dollars. Thank you, Kim K.” You wipe a fake tear before moving on. “Jeans? Fashion Nova—like thirty dollars, i think. And then the shoes?” You lift a foot so the camera can see them. “Dunks. Retail? A hundred and ten. But I ain’t pay retail, because I got a plug—”

He finally glances up, smirking at you. “Yeah, you got a plug all right,” he mutters, like don’t play with me, before going back to his phone.

You keep talking, dragging it out just to see if he really caught it.

“Anyway,” you say sweet as pie, “its my current boyfriend’s turn, and let’s see what he’s wearing tonight. Baby, show ‘em the fit.”

This time his head snaps up so fast you almost laugh. “What the fuck you just say?” His brows pinch together, that don’t-play-with-me face already forming.

You keep your voice light, stepping closer to point the camera at him. “Your fit! Let’s see it! Y’all, he’s wearing…” You circle him with the phone while talking like it’s a fashion show. “Plain white tee, probably from Target ‘cause he swear he bougie now—how much was that, baby? Ten ninety-nine?”

“Nah, nah, nah—back up,” he cuts in, standing up straight now, phone forgotten in his hand. His whole attitude shifts from chill to irritated curiosity. “What you mean current boyfriend?”

You pretend not to hear him. “Pants? Amiri—don’t ask me how much ‘cause I already cried when he told me. And the shoes?” You crouch to get his sneakers. “Them dunks, okay? We matching babe, but he had to pay retail—big ass feet.” You practically giggle into the camera, standing up.

“Yo.” He steps right in front of the phone now, blocking the view. His voice drops into that tone—the one that makes people shut up in rooms. “What the fuck you mean current? Like…the fuck is you saying?” His jaw flexes, and he’s giving you that stare, the one where you know he’s halfway between pissed and thinking too hard.

You look up at him all innocent, blinking. “Huh?”

“Huh?” He tilts his head slow, lips pressed together like he’s trying not to say something reckless. “You said current boyfriend. Like you gon have some other nigga next week. The fuck that mean?”

You shrug, still in character for the video. “I mean, you are my current boyfriend. Like…currently. Right now.”

His whole face twists, like you just spoke another language. “Currently? What you tryna say, you got a future nigga lined up or some shit? Somebody waiting in the wings? Lemme know, ‘cause—”

“Babe!” You’re laughing now, grabbing his arm. “It’s just a TikTok trend! Chill!”

He stares at you for a second longer, then looks at the camera, then back at you. “A TikTok trend?” He repeats it slow, like the words taste bitter. “Man, stop playin’ with me like that. You almost got left right here in front of your little mirror talkin’ to yourself. You would be upset if i said ‘oh im wit my bitch of the week.’”

Still, you’re cracking up, but he’s still standing there, muttering under his breath. “Current boyfriend…yea aight, keep fucking playing wit me. Ain’t nothing current about me.” He grabs your chin real gentle, forcing you to look at him. “You better fix how you talkin’ before you end up single real quick.”

And then, like he didn’t just threaten to end the whole relationship over a trend, he kisses you on the lips and grabs his keys, walking out the room. “And don’t post that shit, either.”

A/n: *huff* my gf who is not my gf is mad at me wtf???

[4mrplumi]

02. spiderwocky ── networking

platonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

two days, you hum, two days, you tap your foot impatiently on the floor, two days, the sp//dr bracelet on your wrist feels tight, two days till you go back to school. summer break has always been a buffer in between the year, taking you away from somewhere where you’re comfortable, to someplace that’s just plain awkward. a reminder that you can’t run, spiderman, can’t run.

the suit’s come along beautifully. you don’t have much opportunity or time to really test it out, since gotham’s crackly, ancient buildings would probably crumble under the weight of metal, but it looks nice. 

the suit, yeah. it’s taken up most of your time this break. you’ve not had much time to creep up to your brothers and turn away when they don’t hear you. gotham’s always lonely, but with sp//dr this time, you fit in your skin a bit better. even while it itches and shudders under the pressure of wanting to leap around again.

in preparation, you’ve quarrelled your way into getting permission to use gotham prep’s chemistry lab after school hours, lightly nagging bruce into signing a form for you, one he didn’t really even glance at. you’re trying to figure out how to make stronger web fluid, storing all of sp//dr’s feedback in the back of your head. the past few days, you’ve been leaving the manor at five, telling alfred you’ll be back by six, and sneaking back to the manor at nine, since he doesn’t check. storing the fluid is another thing, figuring out different capsules… ejection systems… it’s boring work.

the bell outside rings, notifying the end of school hours for people who stay back for extra classes. you’ve been meaning to get home earlier today, working up the courage to ask tim or barbara to “help with a school project” and get their notes on your totally hypothetical material that’s 2.62 (+1.00 since you’re experimenting)  times stronger than steel. you’re shoving books you borrowed from the library to disguise yourself as an overeager student while you leave the lab, so focused on what you’re going to say later, you don’t notice bumping into someone head-on.

the guy’s at least two times larger than you, but he stumbles harder than you, reminding you you’re supposed to stumble too. you feign a fall, getting up with a huff- you’re about to apologise when you see the guy’s face twist- angry. you stiffen. spiderman confronts conflict with fight, (name) only knows how to run.

“what the hell?-” he takes a step forward, eyebrows pinched so low his face looks disfigured, hazy-eyed too, “look where you’re fucking going!”. you cringe a little, “… i’m sorry?” he fumes even more.. this guy’s got some serious issues. his coarse hands come up to shove you, but you don’t fall back, before remembering that you probably should. forcefully, your head hits the side of the door, and you hiss in irritation.

“don’t tell me what to do- all you washed up freaks think you’re so bloody better than the rest of us-” what the hell is this guy talking about? is he drunk? doesn’t seem outta place for a teenager to be drunk in gotham. isn't this a bit much? you interrupt him, scuttling over your sentence- “i don’t go here.” the world slows down, and you see his fist come up, aimed at your face. sp//dr tuts; unappreciative.

you haul yourself aside, and he trips on his feet, falling with a frustrated yelp. it’s best you leave, (name)’s great at running away.

the corridor isn't very long, holding onto the straps of your bag, sp//dr hums on your wrist as you hurry down the stairs, babbling a "what the fuck, what theee fuck" to sp//der, your audience. “gotham is so unique,” she notes, “odd folk everywhere.” you squint, “doesn’t make gotham very unique if odd people are everywhere though, does it?”

if she could smile, maybe she would’ve, you hear it in her voice. “perhaps, i wouldn’t say we’re not too odd either.” the hurt on your head starts to ebb out, your healing factor’s been developing slowly.

...

two pairs of masked eyes narrow outside a small window, peering in at you in the stairwell, in a sync that could be described as unnatural. odd. you miss them when you duck your head, and they scatter by the time you’re up again.

“i don’t want to alarm you,” sp//dr says, through what would’ve been gritted teeth… if she wasn’t, you know, toothless, “but those two fellows over there, have been following us for a while.” you know they have, glancing shortly at them, and you think they know you know too.

the ride to the train station was quiet, you spent most of it looking outside, willing yourself to blink manually. alfred dropped you, since despite your low involvement with the wayne family, bruce was still paranoid of any potential harm. 

hey, you think a little brightly, at least he bothered. 

break’s over, thank goodness, and your suit’s been sent back to gotham entirely disassembled, disguising itself as a robotics project (at least, that’s what you told alfred when you went out to mail it back to queens). you’d set your head against the window, and your head vibrated, rapping against the glass. 

…

alfred drove off after a few pleasantries, a gentle “safe travels”, and a nod in your direction. you might miss him, might, and check the time and the car drives off. eleven forty-three, you have half an hour before the train comes by. 

sp//dr notices your silence, and hums against your wrist, made into a bracelet. “get something to eat, (name);” she’d said, “missed breakfast in your rush.” you’d made a noise of acknowledgement, rattling your suitcase so that the wheels get unstuck from the crevices in the pebbled-stone. 

a sandwich maybe? you’re not hungry actually, haven’t had much time to do anything that would really make you hungry. the place’s littered with people, people, and more people. it’s only a few minutes into looking around that your senses start to bubble, and a familiar instinct of anxiety buzzes. 

two men, one dressed like a cowboy, a large wildrag around his neck, patterned leatherbelt at his hip- and the other in flashy, shiny yellow cloth, fairly normal but… you look around, a little out of place, no? no one else seems to notice them there, and you’re a little unsettled, turning your back to them and sprinting to a small stall, paying quickly for a sandwich you don’t actually have time to eat. 

“hey kid,” a voice speaks out, a heavy accent in it, a hand on your shoulder. you whip around, “was hoping to catch a word.” you’ve gone stiff as a board, stammering nervously.

“um… do.. do i know you?” the man smiles, nearly eerily, but your sense doesn't go off…

“you wouldn’t, but you should,” you tilt your head. the man sticks out a hand “patrick o’hara, and this is…” he gestures at the other man, “my, err, colleague, cooper coen.”

you tap your foot against the floor, “right. okay?” the other guy; cooper, smiles, probably finding your bluntness funny. “we’ll cut to the chase, (name)”, he knows your name, they know your name, why do they know your name?? “we know you’re spiderman. queen's ol' kid-buggy”

your ears start to buzz, sp//dr feels tight on your wrist. the blood in your shoulders burn hot while you twist your fingers nervously.

patrick scratches his goatee, following up awkwardly, “well... this world’s spiderman he means.” he doesn't acknowledge your whispered curses, pardoning it with something close to a smile.

“multiple spidermans and multiple worlds…” you inhale slowly, taking a sip from the soda cooper bought for the three of you, “how does that work?”

the three of you sit on a rickety bench, twenty minutes before your train’s here. “can’t go into the specifics, kid” patrick grumbles, “all some technic gibberish that’d be better off from the horse's mouth.” you try not to find some humpur in that choice of words, wondering "his horse?" in your head.

he stares keenly at you, like he was trying to read your mind. it makes sp//dr pace nervously, her spindly form scuttling over your hand. “from the boss, yeah?" he says, clarifying a question you didn't ask "you’ll meet him when we get there.”

cooper looks at you pointedly, “and we will get there. this isn't optionable. there’ll be arrangements made for your school and…” he hesitates, making you squint, he squints in return, and patrick coughs, “your family? anyway, we’ve given you the basics- you got them, right? just don’t go around- you know, freaking out.” 

patrick hums, the sound like a low tractor engine, “yeah, we’ve got another nutcase to-be-fixed, work’s tough all around.- no time for nothing”

“i’m not a nutcase,” they hear you grumble under your breath, “i won’t freak out.” patrick claps a hand on your shoulder, his soda untouched, “never said so, kid.”

there’s a click of electricity, and the two of them look down at orange watches clasped on their wrists in sync. cooper said something about it being “communication tech” but you didn’t get to ask as many questions as you’d like. it’s difficult for you to infer the hologram that shoots up from it (and sp//dr’s too obviously intrigued), but they stand up with overlapping mutters.

“well,” cooper motions his head towards a slightly more secluded, hidden area, “you coming, kid?”

you hesitate. “how do i know this isn’t some kind of trick? i've not really got a reason to believe you. might be kind of...” you make a hand gesture "psypop?" patrick o’hara pulls a piece of red cloth over his face, two white parallelograms for eyes on it; looks a little like the visors on your suit. “don’t really have a reason to be tricking the newbie-spider do we, cooper?”

“we don’t,” the other drawls, turning away from the two of you, “it’ll be good for you too.” 

“good how?”

patrick looks away, awkwardly, cooper’s face is turned away. 

“don’t stress over it, you’ll see soon enough.”

sp//dr tuts, expanding over into a bracelet on your wrist. she wants to say something, and you want to hear. but these… two, are making it hard. she won’t speak in front of them. you really wish she would.

sp//dr's never been wrong. it's always just been so... helpful.

dear mr. davis,

as a new academic year for midtown school of science and technology approaches, we write to you in regards of a student in your junior year, (name) parker-wayne, who will unfortunately be unable to attend for the academic first term. 

due to their volunteering in our special research and development programme this summer, we request you excuse their absence until ##-##-####. we here at the society understand that the projects at our establishment will take time from (name)’s academics and their education at your school, and would like to assure you that we have kept such formal anomalies in line. 

attached are signed documents, confirming parker-wayne’s acceptance into our course, permissions from their legal guardians and our project leader, and a form for your establishment to confirm parker-wayne’s excused leave.

regards, margo kess,

department of physics and astrophysics, the o’hara society of science and technology.

...

“does (name) wayne have physics?”

“parker-wayne, mr. davis. and as far as i'm aware, they dropped it last semester.”

₊˚⊹ a/n : patrick o'hara is one of my faves EVER!! i've been pretty busy with school tuff because i'll be moving next month and i need to catch up with my new school's syllabus... will still be uploading tho!

taglist @shycreatorreview @facelessgetolover @mileskisser @1abi @kenyummy @selvyyr @systemix @momentomoribitch @redsakura101 @k-anaru @stupouid @glowinthedarkjellyfish @blankface333 @sassycupcakecomputer @miyseilish @xzmickeyzx @bat1212 @st4rg1rln @berriblissful @sleepyghoster @inayouboo @thebarisinhell99 @yumeravenclaw @sleeptimes

[gowjow]

I've Loved You For Almost As Long As I've Been Alive ──★ ˙

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: sunghoon x fem!reader … ﹒ childhood friends to lovers au, loser! sunghoon and loser!reader, he falls first and harder, fluff﹒ w/c: 10k~ summary: you and sunghoon are attached at the hip after you beat up a kid in primary school for him. he's just very sweet and in love with you. he has eyes for nobody but you.

꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: does contain smut at the end so NSFW (18+), fingering, praising, very nervous and gentle sunghoon, bear hug method iykyk

꒰ ‎﹒ note: i am always down for the loser! sunghoon agenda please enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

In primary school, Sunghoon is the only kid in class with extremely thick glasses. It doesn’t help that he’s shy, so the kids tend to pick on him a little. Their favorite thing to call him is Bug Eyes. He doesn’t say much to defend himself. He just remains quiet and plays on his own most of the time. Y/N, on the other hand, is talkative and friendly. She considers herself friends with everyone in her class, including Sunghoon, even though he isn’t much of a talker.

During recess, she notices how Sunghoon remains by himself, playing on the swings alone. She always invites him to play tag with the rest of the kids, but he shakes his head.

One day, instead of playing tag with everyone else, Y/N sits on the swing next to Sunghoon. They swing in silence for a few minutes until she turns to him.

“Do you want to see something cool?” She asks him.

He looks over at her skeptically, but once he sees her big smile, he reluctantly nods. She cheers before getting up from her swing and grabbing his hand, pulling him to a rocky patch at the edge of the park. Sunghoon watches curiously as she starts flipping over the rocks and moving rotting leaves with a stick.

“Aha!” she exclaims, moving the leaves with her hands. “Look!”

He peeks over her shoulder to see a metallic green beetle scuttling along the dirt. He cringes away immediately with a small shriek. She looks up at him and giggles.

“Isn’t it cute?” she asks, picking up the beetle with her fingers.

“D-don’t touch it,” he stammers.

“Why not? My dad said they’re harmless,” she says, holding out the beetle towards him.

Sunghoon takes multiple steps back. He’s scared of the bug, but he’s also wondering if she’s doing all of this as a way to make fun of him. He’s “Bug Eyes” after all. She notices his discomfort and puts the beetle back underneath the leaves.

“You don’t like bugs?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, walking over to him. “I love bugs.”

He stares at her as if she’s lost her mind.

“I think they’re cute,” she says, “You don’t like any bugs?”

He shakes his head.

“Not even butterflies?”

He shakes his head again.

“What do you like then?”

“I like fish…” he says softly.

“Fish are cool. Do you have a favorite?” she asks.

Sunghoon nods and starts to quietly tell her about his favorite fish. It’s the first time Y/N has ever gotten him to talk to her for more than three sentences, and she’s excited. She keeps asking him about different fish, if he likes fishing, if he has any pet fish, and so on. Sunghoon slowly opens up and happily answers her questions.

“What’s your favorite bug?” he asks shyly.

This triggers a long spiel from Y/N about different types of bugs she likes. By this point, they’re back on the swings, and Sunghoon is gently swinging his feet and listening to her quietly with a bashful smile on his lips.

One day during P.E., when they’re both age 7, groups needed to be formed to play a game of dodgeball. As students were being picked one by one, Sunghoon stood there awkwardly knowing the teams would fight to NOT get him on their team.

“Bug Eyes is so uncoordinated.”

“Yeah, he’ll make us lose.”

“Hey, stop that!” Y/N storms over to the two boys that were making fun of Sunghoon.

Sunghoon stands quietly with his head slightly downcast. She has her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

“What? It’s true,” one of the boys says.

“Say you’re sorry,” she huffs.

“Or what?” the other boy challenges.

Sunghoon watches with horror as she picks up a dodgeball and hurls it at the boy’s face. The sound the ball makes as it slaps the boy’s cheek echoes through the gymnasium, making everyone fall silent and look over in their direction. The boy that got hit starts crying while his friend looks back at Y/N with fire in his eyes.

“Bug Girl is defending Bug Eyes. How fitting,” he snarls.

He picks up a dodgeball, rolling it in his hand.

“It’s a perfect match,” he says just before he hurls the ball at her.

She tenses and closes her eyes, waiting for the ball to hit her. She hears another slap of the ball against skin, but she doesn’t feel anything hit her. When she opens her eyes, she finds Sunghoon on the floor in front of her with his glasses broken and scattered on the ground.

“Oh my god. Are you okay?” she crouches down to look at Sunghoon. His face is red from where the ball hit him. He nods ever so slightly, his hand trembling as he cradles his face.

Y/N’s head snaps up to glare at the other boy. Before anyone could stop her, she hurls herself at him, knocking him down to the floor with a thud. She starts yanking at his hair as he begins to scream.

The fight is over quickly, the teacher pulling Y/N off the boy and sending them all to the principal’s office. She gets suspended from school for a week, and when she comes back she’s shunned by most of the kids in her class.

She’s swinging alone during recess when a timid Sunghoon comes up to her. His glasses are taped back together and his hands are clasped together in front of him.

“Do you want to see something cool?” he asks softly.

She nods, her eyes flickering down to his hands. He unclasps them to reveal a spotted black and white beetle. Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Oh my god. An ironclad beetle!” she exclaims.

As she gets closer, she notices his hands slightly shaking. She immediately takes the beetle from his hands and watches as he brings his arms back to his sides and wipes his hands on his pants.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?” She asks as she watches the beetle crawl between her fingers.

“For making everyone hate you.”

“It’s okay. You’re cooler than all of them combined,” she smiles.

Sunghoon looks down at his shoes, a pink blush painting his cheeks.

From then on, they are practically inseparable.

His favorite thing to do with her is explore the pocket of woods behind his house. It’s the perfect place to play pretend. Some days they’re wizards making potions with dirt and leaves, other days they’re pirates looking for treasure. Sunghoon particularly likes digging in the creek to see what he can find. Y/N likes pretty rocks which leads to him compiling different rocks and bringing them to her to inspect.

One day, when they’re both age 8, he’s ankles deep in the creek while Y/N is climbing a nearby tree. He’s using a net to sift through the debris in the water when he finds a rock with many tiny ridges. When he looks closely at it, it looks like some sort of bug. His face immediately lights up.

“Y/N!” he exclaims, stumbling through the muddy creek bed to get ashore.

She’s halfway up the tree when she stops and looks down at him. He excitedly waits at the base of the tree trunk and holds up the rock for her to see.

“I think I found a fossil,” he says.

“No way!” She beams and climbs down as quickly as she can.

Sunghoon watches with a smile on his face as her eyes light up at the small fossil. Her finger traces over the ridges.

“It looks like a trilobite,” she says.

Sunghoon stares at her.

“Ancient pill bug,” she clarifies.

“Ohhh,” he nods. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she smiles. “You’re always finding all the cool stuff.”

“I can show you where I found it. Maybe we can find some more,” he says, grabbing her arm gently and pulling her towards the water.

They search for another hour, but they don’t find any more fossils. When Sunghoon is crouched down sifting through the rocks, Y/N comes up behind him and pushes him forward. Since the water isn’t too deep, only half of his body gets wet. He looks up at her in disbelief, and she’s laughing.

“Maybe if I bury you, you’ll turn into a fossil,” she says, grabbing a handful of mud and throwing it at his chest.

“Hey—” he’s cut off by another handful of mud hitting his shoulder. He stops talking and starts grabbing handfuls of mud and throwing them back at her, making her squeal and run away. They chase each other until they’re both covered in mud from head to toe, leaves and twigs stuck to their bodies from rolling around on the ground. They’re giggling messes.

There’s something about the way the leaves cling to her hair that make him stop in his tracks. The way her smile shines brighter with mud all over her face, and her little giggles as she bends down to grab more mud. Something stirs within him, but he doesn’t know what that feeling is exactly. He just can’t stop staring.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” Y/N asks teasingly.

“Um…mud.”

“Yes, I know, stupid,” she laughs.

He’s glad that the mud on his face covers his blushing cheeks.

Y/N doesn’t realize she has feelings for Sunghoon until she’s 11 and he starts wearing contact lenses. Suddenly girls are talking about how cute he is and that they didn’t know he was so good looking without his glasses on. It starts to irritate Y/N overhearing the girls in her classes whisper and talk about him.

“Why’d you stop wearing your glasses?” She asks him. “You look better with glasses.”

Sunghoon frowns. “Are you saying I’m ugly?”

“No!” She immediately interjects. “I just think you should go back to wearing your glasses.”

“Why?”

She groans and paces around for a moment. She’s frustrated she can’t put her thoughts into words. She can’t put her thoughts in order at all. Sunghoon watches her grow even more restless.

“If it bothers you that much, I’ll start wearing my glasses again,” he says quietly.

“No. It’s okay,” she sighs, defeated. “It’s not the glasses that’s bothering me.”

Sunghoon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What’s bothering you then?”

Suddenly, Y/N gets shy, which hardly ever happens. Sunghoon’s eyes widen as he catches the tips of her ears turning pink along with the apples of her cheeks. His heart flutters at the sight.

“It’s just,” she pauses, collecting her thoughts. “It’s making me mad how people are suddenly interested in you just because you got rid of your glasses.”

He stares at her with a stunned expression on his face, which makes her keep going.

“You’ve always been an amazing person, and I’ve been with you since the beginning. All these other people don’t deserve you,” she grumbles.

Sunghoon’s heart is about to leap out of his chest at her words. He looks away bashfully, trying to hide the small smile on his lips.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, “you’re the only person I want to be close with.”

Their eyes meet momentarily, both of their faces red with blush. She looks away, not being able to maintain eye contact with him. He smiles and looks down at his hands.

The next day he wears his glasses again.

One day, when they’re 13, Sunghoon’s family goes on their yearly weekend trip to a cabin, and he begs his parents to let Y/N come this time. During the trip, Sunghoon teaches Y/N how to fish.

“Ugh, I’m boredddd,” she groans.

They’re standing at the edge of the pier with their fishing lines cast out into the lake. They’ve been waiting for a total of 30 minutes so far.

“Fishing is all about patience,” he tells her.

“What if I went into the water and tried catching one with my hands?” She asks.

“You’ll scare the fish away,” Sunghoon clicks his tongue.

“But what if I stayed still and waited for the fish to jump and come to me. Like how the grizzlies do it.”

“They can only do that because the fish are swimming upstream. We’re at a lake,” Sunghoon points out.

She groans again. Her next complaint is cut short when something starts pulling at her fishing line. She practically screams.

“Sunghoon, what do I do?” She frantically grabs the fishing pole.

He chuckles and grabs her hand, placing it on the reel handle. He moves her hand clockwise, causing the fishing line to pull towards them.

A fish about the size of Y/N’s foot splashes up out of the water, dangling from the end of the hook. Sunghoon grabs the fish and holds it out for her to see. It wiggles in his grasp.

“Oh my god. It’s kind of cute,” she says. “Can I hold it?”

He places the fish in her hands, showing her how to hold it without dropping it. He grabs a bucket and fills it with some of the lake water.

“You can put it in there. We can eat it for dinner,” he says.

Y/N freezes. “Eat?”

Sunghoon looks up at her, slightly confused. What else were you supposed to do with a fish you just caught? He sees the tears welling up in her eyes and he immediately starts backtracking.

“Or you can release it back into the water,” he says.

She sniffles and nods. He watches as she bends down at the edge of the pier and lets the fish wiggle out of her grasp and slide back into the water.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay. We can eat something else,” he reassures her.

“I was talking to the fish,” she says.

Sunghoon chuckles softly and walks up to her crouched figure.

“Maybe fishing isn’t for you,” he starts, “did you want to go look for some cool bugs in the woods?”

She shakes her head. “You don’t like bugs.”

“That doesn’t mean I won't help you.”

“But I want to do something we both enjoy,” she murmurs.

He smiles and squats down next to her. She glances over at him with tearful eyes.

“There’s a waterfall not too far down the trail into the woods. Do you want to go see it together?” He asks softly.

She sniffles and nods again. “That sounds fun.”

“Okay. Let’s go,” he says, standing up straight and holding out his hand for her to take.

They often have sleepovers at each other’s houses on the weekends, but this particular sleepover when they’re 14 is different. They’re watching a movie in Sunghoon’s room like normal until Y/N turns to look at him. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone, Sunghoon?” she asks abruptly after seeing the two main characters in the movie share a kiss. 

Sunghoon practically chokes on the popcorn he’s eating. 

“W-why are you asking?” he coughs, trying to avoid eye contact.

Y/N sighs and leans back on the headboard of his bed.

“I keep hearing every girl in class talking about the boys they’ve been kissing. I’m just curious.”

He remains quiet for a second, not knowing where this is going.

“No. I haven’t,” he finally says.

“Thank god,” she sighs in relief. 

Sunghoon’s heart leaps in his chest, and suddenly all he’s thinking about is what it would be like to kiss her. His eyes flicker to her face for a brief moment, his face turning red. He quickly looks away. 

“W-what?” he stammers. 

She turns to look at him. She immediately notices how shy he’s gotten.

“I’m not the only loser that hasn’t kissed anyone yet,” she says. 

Sunghoon’s mouth falls open, and his head snaps over to look at her in disbelief. She smiles at him, making his face turn even redder. He frowns slightly, but his eyes flicker down to her curved lips. 

“Why does that make us losers?” he mumbles. 

“It doesn’t,” she says, “I just feel like I’m missing out.” 

Sunghoon furrows his eyebrows together. He didn’t understand the need to fit in with what most of the other kids at school were doing. He thought their idea of fun was boring. 

“So you want to kiss whoever just to say you’ve kissed someone?” he asks, his tone of voice growing slightly irritated. 

She shakes her head.

“No, I want to kiss someone I’m comfortable with.” 

Their eyes meet for a second, and Sunghoon’s throat dries up. He looks away again. 

“You’re the only person I’m comfortable enough with,” she starts, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can always wait for someone else to—“

“NO!” he practically screams. His cheeks turn pink when he startles her with his objection. “I-I mean…I can help you…i-if you want.” 

“Really?” She smiles. 

His eyes flicker to her mouth again, and he nods. 

“Are you sure?” She asks again. She scoots closer to him, making his heart race. 

He nods again. 

She leans forward slightly, her eyes glancing down at his lips. They’re slightly parted, his chest rising and falling in short breaths. He stays completely still, letting her get closer and closer until there's no space between them anymore. He freezes when he feels her lips press against his. He closes his eyes and stops breathing for a second. The kiss is over before he can fully register what happened. 

He blinks at her, his emotions tangling in knots inside him. He’s absolutely terrified. How does this change their relationship? Does she like him too?

“Um…” he starts.

She’s watching the TV again, rewinding the movie to the part where the main leads are kissing again. 

“Do you want to try that?” She asks. 

Sunghoon glances over at the screen, watching as the characters move their lips against each other’s. He swears he saw a tongue peek through. 

His face is flushed when she turns to look at him. She watches him, waiting for his reply. 

“I’m sorry. I’m making you uncomfortable,” she says after he’s taking a little too long to give her an answer. “That stuff should be reserved for someone you like.” 

Sunghoon’s heart sinks to his stomach. She’s getting the wrong idea from his stunned silence, but it’s already too late. She turns back to watch the movie, skipping the makeout scene. 

For the next few weeks, Sunghoon tries multiple times to bring up the topic of kissing again, but he gets too flustered. He’s losing sleep because of it. He keeps replaying what happened in his head and groans at how he handled it. 

Things between them hadn’t necessarily changed since they kissed or at least it didn’t seem like it from the outside. On the inside, both of them were dealing with some very conflicting and heavy emotions. 

Sunghoon was under the impression that Y/N didn’t like him in a romantic way because she mentioned kissing as something to mark off a bucket list, not something she wanted to do with him because she had feelings for him. Y/N, on the other hand, was under the impression that Sunghoon didn’t like her in a romantic way because he refused to keep kissing, and that he only agreed to kiss her in the first place to help her as his friend. 

So what do they do? They act like it never happened, but it doesn’t stop their feelings for each other from consuming every fiber of their being. 

Then they hit puberty. Their physical and emotional changes alter their dynamic significantly. 

Sunghoon grows taller and his voice grows deeper. He stops wearing his glasses again, causing girls at school to chase after him. Y/N also grows taller, but not by much. Her body is changing and Sunghoon is definitely noticing, especially after one summer at the pool where he almost drowned after seeing her wear a bikini for the first time. 

Sunghoon is very attractive…just extremely beautiful. It has Y/N fighting for her life. She has to endure all these girls at school confessing to him and fawning over him. When a particularly pretty and popular girl shows interest in Sunghoon, it has Y/N losing her mind. She’s scared that eventually Sunghoon will date and forget about their friendship. She’s jealous. She wants him all to herself. 

She’s jealous for no reason, though, because Sunghoon does not give any girl the time of day. He’s polite, but he always declines their confessions or attempts to ask him out. Most of the time, he sees right through these girls’ intentions. They find him attractive, but they don’t like him for who he is. They compliment his looks and make assumptions about what he’s like, and when they ask him about himself and they find out he likes fishing and playing chess, they look at him with a blank stare. 

Meanwhile, Y/N gets no play. It’s not because she isn’t pretty. She just gives no attention to any guys. She has a habit of scowling at any man that looks her way. They just don’t compare to Sunghoon. He’s all she ever needs in a man, even if it’s just as friends.

Sunghoon grows a little too comfortable in the fact that Y/N doesn’t have any secret admirers, so when she starts ranting to him about a supposed stalker in her economics class, he has to remain calm. She describes how this guy is always staring at her, smiling at her, trying to talk to her. He comes up to her desk and asks why she’s always so quiet and what her hobbies are. Somehow this guy finds out that she likes bugs and tries to start a conversation with her about it.

“He’s just so creepy, Sunghoon,” she groans. “Whenever I walk into class, he’s already staring at me.” 

Sunghoon is clenching his fists at the mere thought of this random guy clearly having a crush on her. He wishes he had the class with her so he could glare at him, but all he can say is, “Yeah, he seems weird. You should ignore him.”

He teases her a lot more too. Maybe it’s puberty or maybe his feelings are just harder to contain, but looking at her pretty face makes him get cuteness aggression. He loves getting a reaction out of her. 

He loves to randomly come up to her and play fight with her. He throws playful punches at her arms and dodges her failed attempts to hit him back. He sometimes lets her hit him, but it just ends up with him tackling her playfully onto the couch or bed. 

“What happened to my sweet Sunghoon?” Y/N whines. “Now I just have a bully.” 

He smiles at her fondly, “You’re just fun to mess with.” 

“It’s only fun for you. I’m out here getting assaulted,” she continues pouting. 

His smile grows wider, and he extends his arms out in playful surrender. “Okay. Hit me then.”

She glances over at him quizzically. When she sees he’s being serious, her expression changes into something mischievous. Before Sunghoon could backtrack, she pulls his sweatpants down leaving him in his boxers.  

“What the—“ 

As he’s bending down and picking up his pants, she jumps on his back and puts him in a chokehold. 

“Y/N—“

“This is what you get,” she says playfully. 

He starts laughing and takes a few steps back until the back of his knees hit the edge of his bed. He purposefully falls backwards, landing on top of her. Her arms slacken around his neck, allowing him to pull free and spin around to face her. He pins her arms down and smiles triumphantly. When he looks down at her, her cheeks are painted pink and her eyes are fixed somewhere to the side. That’s when he realizes the position they’re in and blushes. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, getting off of her and sitting down on the bed. 

“It’s okay,” she says, sitting up. “Sorry for pulling your pants down.”

“It’s okay. It was funny,” he replies. 

They sit in silence for a moment. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” He asks, getting up to turn on the TV.

Girls eventually leave Sunghoon alone when it’s clear he only ever has eyes for Y/N. No one knows how they are able to stay just friends with the amount of tension between them. All of their classmates can see it except for Sunghoon and Y/N. God forbid they ever have a class together because they will be giggling and whispering in the back of the room the whole time. They always disappear during lunch hour to sneak onto the track field and lay in the grass. They walk home together after school every day, always going to each other’s places to hang out. 

You would think they’d get bored of each other eventually, but they’re always finding things to do together. They also love to do their own separate things in the same vicinity. Y/N would be working on her latest crafting project on her desk while Sunghoon is on her bed playing with a deck of cards trying to learn magic tricks. When Sunghoon wants to go fishing, Y/N will sit on a floaty and read. They’re comfortable with silence as long as they’re together. 

“Would you rather fight ten, kid sized Y/Ns at the same time or one, 10 foot tall, buff, Y/N?” Y/N asks Sunghoon as they’re sitting in her bed with face masks on during a sleepover.

“Oh god. They both sound terrifying,” he says with horror.

She hits his shoulder playfully, making him giggle. 

“Mm…” he thinks about it a little too seriously. “You were very feisty as a kid, so having to fight ten of you at the same time…I think I’ll take my chances with the buff Y/N. I feel if someone is that tall and buff, they will be slow. I just have to dodge.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t that bad.” 

“You got suspended for fighting that kid remember? You definitely gave off ankle biter—OW!” 

Y/N starts to yank at his hair, stopping him mid-insult. He grabs onto her wrist to try and get her fingers out of his hair. 

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry.”

She releases his hair, and he glares at her. 

“Now I’m questioning my decision. I’m scared what a buff Y/N would do in comparison to that,” he says, rubbing his scalp. 

She grins at him. He stares at her for a second, a smile growing on his lips too. 

Sunghoon and Y/N make the decision to attend the same university because they can’t bear the thought of being apart for 4 years. They decide to move in together, so they don’t have to deal with the school’s prison-like dorms. Off-campus student housing isn’t the best, but they make it work. 

Sunghoon is still scared of bugs, so Y/N always has to catch all the spiders and moths that make their way into their apartment and release them outside or else he will be yelling and throwing things. 

One time, as Sunghoon is about to go to sleep, he sees a cricket crawling on his pillow and he absolutely freaks out. He has to wake Y/N up to come catch and release it. 

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” he asks her.

“It was a cricket, not a cockroach, Sunghoon,” she groans, half asleep.

“But it touched my sheets, and I don’t want to stay awake for two more hours to wash them,” he whines slightly.

She keeps mumbling in her sleepy state and doesn’t protest any further as he follows her into her room and climbs into bed with her.

Sunghoon gets strangely more clingy once they start living together. He’s always tagging along when she goes to run errands. She needs to return a library book? He’s trailing behind her with his backpack saying he’s going to the library to study anyway. She’s going out to get a sweet drink? He’s tagging along claiming he’s never been to that coffee shop before and that he’s been wanting to try it out. Y/N doesn’t mind, though. His presence always makes things more comforting. 

They’re busier due to the amount of workload some of their classes have, so he’s constantly wanting her attention. Sometimes a simple, “do you want to go eat?”  will do the trick, but sometimes he has to resort to more drastic measures for her attention. 

He starts off by sighing loudly. If that doesn’t work, he starts poking her repeatedly on the shoulder or sides. If all else fails, he will hug her waist and push her onto the couch. 

“Why do you hate me?” He grumbles. 

“Who said I hate you?” She laughs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. 

“You don’t want to go out to eat and you’re ignoring me. Just say you hate me,” he says. 

She playfully pulls at his ear. “Ok, babygirl, sorry for not giving you my undivided attention.” 

The tips of his ears turn red and he buries his face in her shoulder. She pats the back of his head. 

“Let’s go eat,” she says. 

“No. I don’t wanna eat anymore,” he mumbles. “I’m comfortable here.”

He definitely lets her get away with more things now too. She just has to bat her eyelashes and he will willingly be dragged around to do absolutely anything. He hates how she’s able to figure it out too. It’s like she knows the effect she has on him. 

“Sunghoonnnn,” she calls sweetly. 

Oh no. 

“Can you do my laundry? Pleaseeee,” she clings to his arm. 

“I don’t want to do your stinky laundry,” he groans, trying to pull away and not look at her face before he folds. 

“C’monnnn, don’t you love me? I wash your dishes when you leave them in the sink because I love you,” she says, placing her cheek against his arm. 

Oh, he’s a goner. His cheeks are bright red.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. 

One night, Sunghoon gets a call from Y/N at around one in the morning. 

“Sunghoon…” he hears her slurred mumbling from the other side of the phone, and he instantly knows she’s drunk. He can hear the loud music in the background.

“I thought you said you were going to a friendly get together?” he sighs into the phone. 

“I know…I lied,” she mumbles, “I’m sorryyyy. I didn’t want you to get worried.” 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Mhm,” she hums, “Can you pick me up?” 

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he tells her after getting her location. 

He finds her immediately. She’s outside the club, digging through the bushes. 

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Sunghoon asks, the worriedness he had dissipating at the sight of her. He chuckles slightly when her head pops up from the bushes, leaves stuck to her hair. 

“Sunghoonnn,” she whines, stumbling out of the bush towards him. 

He grabs her by the arms, making sure she doesn’t topple over. 

“I thought I heard a katydid. I can’t find it,” she frowns.

“You probably scared it away,” he says, picking the leaves from her hair. 

She pouts, ducking her head to let him run his fingers through her hair to flatten out the knots caused by the bush’s branches. “But I tried to be super stealthy.” 

“I know, Y/N. I know,” he says softly. 

He wraps his arm around her shoulder for stability as he starts to walk her back home. She leans her whole bodyweight against his side. She’s mumbling incoherently and dragging her feet sluggishly. By the time they make it through their front door, he’s practically carrying her inside. She clings to him like her life depends on it. 

“Sunghoonnn, you smell so nice,” she mumbles. Her eyes are closed as he drags her to her room and makes her sit down on the bed. 

“It’s the cologne you got me for my birthday last year,” he says as he bends down to take her shoes off. 

“Mmm,” she hums, “I have great taste.” 

She sways slightly even though her eyes are closed. Sunghoon goes into their shared bathroom and grabs her makeup removing wipes. She tries moving her head away from his touch as he begins to wipe her face with the towelette. 

“Nooo,” she whines, “I worked so hard on this makeup look.”

“I know, Y/N. It’s very pretty, but you can’t go to sleep with it on,” he says, gently grabbing her chin to hold her still as he continues to wipe it off. 

“Why not?”

“You’ll get your pillow dirty.” 

She groans but complies. She stops resisting and lets him finish. When he tries to get her to stand up and go wash her face in the bathroom, she whines again and flops backwards into her bed. Sunghoon sighs and gives up. He walks over to her dresser and pulls out a pair of pajamas, throwing them at her. 

“Change at least,” he says. 

Instead, she pulls up her covers and hides under them. 

“Y/N, stop being difficult,” he sighs, ripping the covers off her completely. 

“Why can’t you change me?” she whines.

“You know I can’t do that,” he says.

“Why not?”

“You need to change yourself.” 

“But what if I want you to change me?”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Then I’m sleeping in this,” she gestures to her dress, her eyes still closed.

“Y/N…”

“Sunghoon…”

He sighs, “How about this? I can unzip your dress and you do the rest yourself.”

She thinks about it for a second before nodding. She sits back up, opening her eyes slightly. He helps her back to her feet, and she turns around, holding her hair out of the way as he unzips the back of her dress. He turns around and gives her some privacy as she changes into the pajamas. 

“Sunghoon, you’re so nice to me,” she starts sniffling. 

He turns around to find her sitting back down on her bed with tears in her eyes. He sighs and sits next to her. She immediately leans her head on his shoulder. 

“I hope you never get a girlfriend,” she mumbles. 

He pats her head gently, letting her talk herself out until she falls asleep. 

“I think I’ll die if you get a girlfriend. Promise me you won’t get one?” 

She lifts her head up from his shoulder to look at him with tear stained cheeks. His eyes soften at the sight of her. 

“Y/N, you should get some rest,” he says, gently trying to lay her down. 

She starts sobbing at how he evades the question. 

“You probably already have a secret girlfriend. That’s why you didn’t promise me, right?” She cries. 

Sunghoon sighs and grabs some tissues from the nightstand. He gently wipes the tears from her face. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend, Y/N,” he says. 

“Then why won’t you promise me?” She looks up at him with the most adorable pout, making his eyes flicker down to her lips. 

“Because I want a girlfriend eventually,” he says softly. 

She starts crying again, pulling the covers over her head so he can’t keep wiping her face clean. 

“Y/N…” he sighs. 

He tries to pull the covers off, but her grip is strong. 

“Go away, you traitor,” she hiccups. 

“Y/N, you’re drunk. You should get some sleep.” 

But she continues rambling. 

“I thought we were going to stay together forever,” she cries, “You’re the only man that exists to me. Every other man is boring and ugly compared to you. Do other girls exist to you? Do you find them pretty? Is that why you want to get a girlfriend?” 

Sunghoon’s heart races, but he tries to stay calm. He crouches down so he’s eye level to her on the bed. 

“No, other girls don’t exist to me either,” he says gently. 

She sniffles and peeks her head out from under the covers to look at him. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” she says. 

“Yes, it does,” he says, pulling the blanket lower so he can see her face fully. 

“If other girls don’t exist to you, who will be your girlfriend?” She asks. 

“Think about it.” 

She remains quiet for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. 

“I don’t know…” she mumbles eventually, making him sigh. 

He notices the way her eyelids droop, fighting to stay awake. He pats her head gently. 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. You should sleep.”

She protests weakly, but he brings the covers up to her chin and tucks her in. Her eyes are closed again and her breathing even. He stares at her sleeping form for a moment before leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“Think about it,” he whispers before leaving her room. 

Sunghoon, in fact, does not tell her tomorrow. She completely forgets the conversation, and he gets cold feet. They fall back into their routine, but Sunghoon can’t stop thinking about what she told him. She wants to stay with him forever…

“Why are you blushing?” Y/N asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Oh…nothing,” he mumbles.

They’re at the library trying to study for midterms. It’s been three hours already, and it’s getting harder to focus. Sunghoon’s mind keeps drifting off. 

“So,” he starts, catching her attention. “After you graduate, what are you going to do?”

“Pick a city we want to live in, find jobs and move there. Preferably somewhere that has a lot of parks or outdoor recreation,” she says. It seems like she has it all planned out. 

“As in us together?” He asks. 

“Yeah. Obviously,” She looks at him, immediately noticing how flustered he’s getting. “Why? Do you not want to be together?” 

The wording she uses makes his heart want to leap out of his chest. 

“It’s not that. It’s just…” he pauses for a moment, debating whether or not he wants to ask this. “You don’t want to branch out on your own or anything? Live alone, be independent…get a boyfriend?” 

She makes a face. “Living alone as a girl is scary, I’m already independent, and I hate men. Except you of course.” 

Sunghoon remains silent. She makes him feel like he’s the center of her universe and it only makes him fall for her even more. 

“So we will be old and still living together?” He asks. 

She shrugs. “Why not? I can see us sitting on our porch, yelling at random kids to get off our lawn that we perfectly crafted to have a fish pond and flowers for pollinators.” 

She watches him as his face turns even redder. 

“You’d want to spend the rest of our lives together?” He asks softly. 

“Yeah. I mean I can’t see it without you.”

They stare at each other in silence. His eyes flicker down to her lips before looking away sheepishly. 

“As friends?” He asks.

It’s Y/N’s turn to blush, realizing how what she said may have come off. 

“If that’s what you want,” she says. “I’m okay with being just friends.”

His heart pounds in his chest, and he looks up at her. “Just?” 

She quickly realizes her slip up and hides her face behind her hands. 

“I meant…” her voice trembles slightly. 

“Y/N…” he smiles and gently pulls her arms to the side so he can see her clearly. “Quite frankly, if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, I don’t want to be just friends.” 

Her eyes flicker between his, her heart racing in a panic in her chest. 

“Y/N…” he says softly after seeing the panic in her eyes. “I’ve loved you for almost as long as I’ve been alive.” 

He gently cups her face with his hands. 

“And I will love you for the rest of it.”

Her breath comes out shaky as she continues to look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity in them. 

“I don’t want to be just friends,” she whispers finally. 

She watches as his eyes glance down at her lips then back up to her eyes. His thumbs trace her cheeks. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. 

She nods ever so slightly. His smile as he leans in makes her heart flutter. His lips are as soft and gentle as she remembers, and it makes her head spin. The kiss is short and sweet, and when he pulls away, he’s still running his thumbs across her cheeks. She blushes and tries to pull away from his touch. The smile on his lips only grows, and he leans in for another peck to her lips. 

“Sorry,” he laughs. “I’m just very happy right now.”

His hand runs through her hair and rests at the back of her neck. The cuteness of her flushed face makes him gently squeeze her cheeks with his other hand, swaying her head side to side every so slightly. 

“Is this what I’m gonna have to deal with for the rest of my life?” She chuckles.

“Unfortunately, yes. No take backs now,” he smiles, squeezing her cheeks again before placing another kiss on her pouty lips. 

The transition between friends to lovers is surprisingly difficult for Sunghoon and Y/N despite the years of tension. They fall into their routines and end up forgetting that they’re actually a couple now. 

They get shy when it comes to any form of intentional physical affection. They have always been somewhat affectionate towards each other but now there’s romantic intention behind it, and it makes them shy, especially Sunghoon.

Sunghoon has been dreaming about the day of them becoming a couple, but he’s scared of moving too fast and scaring her. This results in shy touches or Y/N having to initiate things. She teases him a lot about it.

They’re cuddling in bed, facing each other. His arm is loosely draped over her waist, and his eyes are closed as she traces his face with her fingers. There’s a small smile on his lips and a pink tint to his cheeks.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you this up close,” Y/N whispers. “You have a small mole under your eye.” 

He hums, and his eyelids flutter open to look at her. He remains silent as he watches her admire him, a warmth spreading through his chest. Her eyes lock with his for a brief moment. The look of pure adoration in his eyes makes her melt.

“It’s kind of surreal,” he whispers. “I’ve thought about this for years.” 

Y/N chuckles softly and brings her hand to cup the side of his head. Her thumb gently traces over his ear. 

“Oh, you want me bad,” she teases. 

Sunghoon bites his lip out of embarrassment and tries to look away. 

“I mean, yeah…” 

Y/N’s heart races in her chest, and a blush spreads to her cheeks and ears. 

Sunghoon loves to be babied, but in private or else it hurts his pride. 

After a long few days of final exams, he walks into their shared apartment. He drops his backpack on the floor by the door and shuffles to the couch where Y/N is sitting. He whines softly and lays on top of her. 

“Hold me,” he says. “Comfort me.”

She laughs as he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck. She rubs his back comfortingly, and he instantly melts into her. She plays and runs her fingers through his hair. He hums happily. 

“Finals were that bad?” she asks after a while of silence.

“Mhm,” he hums against her neck. “It didn’t help that I was sitting next to this guy who does not know what deodorant is.” 

He buries his face deeper into her neck, inhaling deeply. 

“You smell so nice,” he mumbles. 

The feeling of her hands running up and down his back is so comforting to Sunghoon. He wants to be even closer, wants to fuse with her if ever possible. He’s already face deep in her neck, getting lost in the smell of her body wash. His hands start roaming her sides, and he starts planting kisses to her neck.

Once she realizes what he’s doing, she clicks her tongue and gently tugs at his ear, pulling him out of her neck. He looks at her with the saddest eyes.   

“Can I please just kiss my girlfriend?” he asks.

“Last time I let you do that you left my neck purple,” she glares at him.

He looks up at her with the smuggest grin on his face.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” He tries to act innocent, but the smug expression is still there.

She yanks at his ear again, and his grin turns into a pout. He buries his face back in her neck.

“Fine,” he grumbles and calms down. 

Y/N has a habit of teasing Sunghoon into getting boners, especially when he’s still hesitant about initiating anything with her out of fear of making her uncomfortable. Poor Sunghoon would be fighting for his life.  

A hand up his shirt and gently rubbing his belly? Hard. A playful bite on his bicep? Hard. A little tug on his hair as he lays his head in her lap? Hard. 

At first he’s so embarrassed about it and apologizes, but once he finds out she’s doing it on purpose, he starts to get a little more comfortable. 

He’s cooking one evening, and she comes up behind him in the kitchen and gives him a back hug. She presses her body against his back and purposely wraps her arms a little too low on his waist than normal. It really doesn’t take too long before his sweatpants tent up. 

“Whatcha making?” She asks innocently, but he knows what game she’s playing now.

“Just ramen.”

“Mm.”

He plays along with it for a bit, grabbing her hands and pulling them up higher around his torso, but they always find their way back down around his hips. He turns around which makes her stop hugging him, and she looks at him as if she’s doing nothing wrong. He shakes his head and grabs her by the waist and sits her on the counter.

“Stay,” he points at her, and a smile breaks out on her lips.

He knows damn well she isn’t gonna stay.

“I’m not a dog,” she grunts playfully, swinging her leg out to poke the side of his thigh with her foot.

“I’m cooking,” he says, swatting her leg away.

She scoots closer to him, still sitting on the counter. He gives her a side eye which only makes her scoot even closer. He stirs around the ramen then turns off the stove top. He grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her back to the place on the counter she was supposed to stay at. She groans and swings her legs slightly in protest. 

He cups both of his hands on her cheeks, making her go still. He looks at her briefly before pulling her face toward him and kissing her. It turns into a makeout session real quick, and she tries to wrap her legs around his waist. His hands grab her by the thighs and push them, holding them back.

“I said stay,” he whispers against the kiss, making her go crazy.

Even then he's too scared to take things too far. He presses his body a little closer to her, but other than that, he keeps things PG-13. 

She gets super frustrated. She tries to give him hints by running her hands all over his body. His breathing becomes shakier, but they have never actually gone all the way before, and he’s kind of scared.

His hands are still gripping her thighs away from him, and she’s getting more desperate. She can tell he’s clearly hard and enjoying this. She grabs his waist and pulls him flush against her so he’s nuzzled between her legs, and he short circuits. 

He stops kissing her and buries his face in her neck, his breath shaking and his hands on her thighs trembling slightly.

“Why are you hesitating?” She whispers softly. She runs her fingers through his hair soothingly. 

He stays silent for a while, his face still in her neck as he tries to calm down. 

“I’m nervous,” he whispers back.

“About what?” 

“I don’t want to mess things up.” 

She pulls back slightly, making him stop hiding and look at her. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes scan across her face. She smiles, trying to ease him a little. 

“How would you mess things up?” 

He shrugs. “A lot of ways. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He looks away shyly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and ruin everything.” 

He was clearly talking about more than just what was unfolding at the moment. She brings him into a comforting hug, resting her chin on his shoulder. 

“I’m scared you’ll think this was a mistake. I’ve loved you for so long…” he trails off.

“Do you not think I feel the same way?” She asks softly, her nose burying into his neck. “Every time you hesitate it makes me think you’re regretting this.” 

His breath hitches, and he pulls back slightly from the hug to look at her. 

“I love you, Sunghoon,” she says. “And I want you. All of you.” 

His heart practically beats out his chest, his cheeks turning a bright red. He swallows nervously. 

“I love you too…” he whispers, his eyes trained onto her face. 

“So…” she says, running her hand down his chest

His eyes follow her hand as it stops at his stomach. They’re both blushing messes at this point, ramen long forgotten as he grabs her hand and helps her off the kitchen counter. 

Their first time is definitely clumsy but cute. They’re both shy about taking their clothes off for the first time. It really solidifies their relationship switch from being friends for so long to actually being in a romantic relationship, which is both scary and exhilarating at the same time. 

They start slow, just making out and their hands roaming and exploring over their clothes. When her hands make their way up underneath his shirt he practically buckles. His breath hitches, and she can feel his stomach tighten under her fingers. 

She smiles against his lips before trying to pull his shirt up and off. This part was easy enough. She’s seen him without a shirt plenty of times, so he isn’t too flustered. As they continue kissing, she can feel his finger tips hesitantly slipping under her shirt and resting at her hips. He clearly wants to take her shirt off too and her cheeks turn red. 

Her heart pounds in her chest as she pulls back from the kiss and looks at him. He’s like a deer in headlights, frozen, thinking he did something wrong to make her stop and pull away. He notes how flustered she looks, and it brings him a little more confidence. 

He pulls her shirt up slightly then stops to look at her to see if she’s having second thoughts, but she raises her arms over her head and lets him take it off. His hands caress her bare sides, feeling the warmth of her skin. He shakily fumbles with the clasp of her bra. It takes him a bit until he’s able to get it off, but once he does, he can’t stop staring. He blushes and looks away when he catches himself staring. There’s so many thoughts going through his head. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

She sees the slight panic in his eyes and pulls him into another kiss. His thoughts are temporarily silenced. She presses her body against his, and the feeling of her bare chest against his makes him groan. His arms snake around her and his hands splay across her back, pulling her even closer. 

He’s lost in the moment, his hands roaming across her bare back and feeling her soft skin under his fingertips. He trails kisses down her jaw and neck, feeling her pulse quicken under his lips. Her hands tug at his hair, eliciting soft grunts out of him as he trails his lips down her shoulder. He presses closer, gently laying her backwards onto the bed. His hands trace up her sides and stomach, still somehow hesitating despite being face deep into her neck. 

She lets out an exasperated noise and grabs one of his wrists, leading his hand to her chest. He makes a choking sound against her neck and stops kissing for a second, his heavy breathing making the hairs on her skin stand up. 

“It’s okay. Touch me,” she whispers, a slight shakiness to her voice. 

She can’t suppress the soft moans that leave her lips as he begins to slowly knead her chest. His nose trails across her shoulder as he places kisses along her collarbone, her sweetly fresh scent filling his nose. His thumb circles around her nipple, playing and slightly pulling on it.   

Her breathy moans make him groan with pleasure, his hips involuntarily bucking against hers. His sweatpants are practically strained around him. 

“S-sorry,” he mutters, pulling his hips back slightly. 

Her hands are already at his waistband. His arms brace on the bed at either side of her head, his breath shaky as he looks down at her fumbling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. She pushes his sweatpants down his thighs, leaving him in his boxers where his arousal was even more apparent. She looks up to meet his eyes and he immediately looks away, red in the face. 

She reaches up and traces his ear, the tip bright red to match his face. Her touch lingers on his earlobe before tracing down the side of his neck. She can see his adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously. 

“Take mine off,” she whispers, trying to distract him from the embarrassment.

“Okay,” he whispers back. 

His eyes flicker down to her bottoms which are just some pajama shorts. His fingers trace the waistband.

“Both? Or…” 

It was her turn to turn beet red. He looks up at her and blushes seeing her blush. 

“Unless you don’t want to—“ he immediately backtracks. 

“All of it,” she cuts him off and looks away shyly, not wanting to see his face as he takes everything off and looks at her fully. 

His hands are shaking as he pulls her shorts and underwear off, but once she’s lying there fully bare in front of him his breath is taken away. His hands trail up her legs, gently caressing her skin. Once they reach her thighs, he slowly kneads them and pushes them apart to look at her. She closes her eyes as if trying to hide. He notices immediately and his hands come up to grab her waist as he leans forward and places soft kisses to her face. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks softly.

She shakes her head slightly, her eyes are open now but still not looking at him. 

“I’m a little embarrassed…” she mumbles.

He looks at her, his gaze softening as he cups her cheek in his hand and makes her face him. He brushes strands of hair out of her face. His fingertips trace her features, running across her eyebrow bone and down her nose bridge, across her cheekbones and down her jaw until they land on her bottom lip. 

“You’re so beautiful. You don’t need to be embarrassed,” he says softly. “But we can stop if you’re not comfortable.”

She looks at him as he traces her face, his eyes soft and so full of affection she wants to cry. Her bottom lip trembles slightly and he leans forward to place a tender kiss on them. 

“You’re so precious to me,” he whispers against her lips. 

Her arms wrap around him and into a hug, overwhelmed with emotion as he buries his face in her neck. 

“I love you,” she says. Her hands run down his back, making him shiver. “I trust you.” 

He hums contently into her neck but doesn’t make any moves to continue where he’d left off earlier. Instead, his hands roam her sides, caressing her curves as he gently sucks on her neck. Her grip tightens on his back, and she moves her head aside to expose more of her neck, soft whimpers leaving her lips. 

The sounds she makes are making him slightly lose control. His hips press against hers, and he groans into her neck at the slight friction. He hears her breath hitch too, her hands on his back trailing down to his waist to pull at his boxers. 

He pulls back from her neck to let her take them off. His eyes are fixed on her face, his cheeks flushed as he watches her gaze run down his body completely. He swallows nervously as her hands trail down his sides, stopping at his hips. His length immediately twitches at her simple touch. 

“Let’s…” he swallows again. “Let’s focus on you.” He mutters.

Her eyebrows furrow as she looks up at him. Her mouth opens to say something but he quickly leans forward and kisses her. Her hands stay at his hips, slightly gripping his thighs. He feels her hands inching downward, making his head spin. He pulls back to look at her, his face flushed. His hands gently pull hers off of him, and she’s about to protest again, but he brings them up to his lips and kisses them gently. 

“Let me focus on you, please,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I…if you touch me, I will probably…finish,” he looks away shyly. 

This gives Y/N such a rush. Any insecurity she has about her body is completely gone seeing how worked up he is. Her hand trails down his arm and grabs his wrist. She gently guides his hand between her legs. 

He says he doesn’t know what he’s doing. She guides him at first, showing him where to touch her. He’s a quick learner, though. He’s an observer. He knows he’s doing a good job by the sounds she makes and how her body responds to his touch, getting closer and wanting more. If he’s unsure, he just keeps his hand still, and her hips will move against it how she needs to. 

The palm of his hand grinds on her clit as he pumps his fingers into her, making her see stars. His face is back in the crook of her neck, kissing and sucking on her skin. He can feel her tightening around his fingers, and he groans in her neck as if it’s his dick and not his fingers. 

She tugs the hair on the back of his head, pulling him out from her neck to have him look at her. His eyes are glazed over. He is absolutely gone. She has to kiss him to snap him out of it, but it only works for a little while until he’s groaning and devouring her mouth. 

“Sunghoon,” she pants against his lips when he even gives her time to breathe.

He responds with a sound between a hum and a grunt, but he doesn’t stop. She grabs his wrist that’s still lazily fingering her, and he immediately freezes. He pulls back and looks at her with a guilty expression. He's about to apologize, but she releases his wrist and instead wraps her hand around his length. 

The facial expression he makes is so perfect, she almost thinks he finishes. She rubs the length of him along herself, coating it. He almost collapses on top of her, his breathing shaky and a raspy moan leaving his lips. She guides his tip to her entrance and his head falls forward, his hair covering his face.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Are you sure?” He’s breathing heavily now, his eyes trained on her face. 

She bites her lip and nods. His eyes flicker down to her lips as she bites them. He leans forward to kiss her again, but gently this time. 

He pushes himself deeper little by little, stopping for a bit whenever he sees her face scrunch up with discomfort. He continues to kiss her until he finally bottoms out. He stays still, letting her adjust as he buries his face in her neck again. His breathing is raggedy as he tries not to cum right then and there. She runs her hands down his back soothingly as if reassuring him it’s okay. He slowly rolls his hips, thrusting shallowly, not fully trusting himself to last long.

“God, you're beautiful,” he mumbles against her jaw. 

His hands are roaming up and down her body and kissing her lips. His thrusts slowly become deeper yet still gentle. Her warmth is driving him crazy. His arms wrap around her in a hug as he tries to control himself. He can feel her tighten around him, making him groan against her neck. Her fingers yank at his hair as her strangled moans brush against his ear. 

“I love you. Fuck…” he pants, “you feel so good.” 

He's mumbling praises into her neck as his thrusts become lazy and his hips are shuddering. That’s her undoing. He’s just so hot as he gets desperate and out of control. Her walls grip around him as she feels her orgasm, making him choke and bury himself fully into her. He groans and slightly collapses on top of her as her grip makes him finish. 

He stays still for a second but then starts to thrust again. Very slowly and gently, prolonging both of their orgasms. 

They’re both shaking by the end of it, bodies sweaty and heaving. She pulls him down on top of her, knowing he’s tired. He obliges, letting her wrap her arms around him. She likes the feeling of his body weight on top of her. She runs her hands down his back soothingly as both of their breathing slowly goes back to normal. 

“I love you,” he whispers into her neck.

“I love you too,” she says, patting his head. “You did so good.” 

He hums, his cheeks flushed. He wraps his arms around her and rolls onto his back, pulling her along with him. He smiles up at her, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. They stay in each other’s embrace for a long while. Her cheek is pressed against his chest, and he’s tracing lines onto her shoulder when her stomach growls.

“Do you think the ramen is still good?” she asks softly.

“Probably not,” he laughs. “I can make you another one, though.”  

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

[colouredbyd]

wish, wish, and a wish

sirius black x reader ☆ 3.4k

summary: on a late night while planning with the order, you and sirius slip away to stargaze. between quiet confessions and long-held silences, he shares his three wishes, and finally says the one thing he’s kept hidden for years.

warnings: takes place during the first wizarding war, war violence, mentioned death, emotional trauma, some hints of angst, longing, unspoken and unrequited feelings, deep yearning, romantic tension, fear, despair, kissing, and a happy ending.

You always notice when Sirius disappears.

Not because he means to, necessarily, but because it has become a habit of the war. If he is not within your sight, your heart drops to the lowest place inside your chest, and the worst thoughts begin to circle like vultures. 

When he slips out of the meeting room—stepping past the heated debate, the overlapping voices, the unspoken accusations—he might as well be pulling you along by an invisible thread. One he does not even know exists.

But it exists, and lately, it has been tugging harder.

It has wound itself so tightly around you over the years that sometimes it feels like you might be losing circulation. 

Still, you could never ask for it to be cut. Not even when it burns. Not even when it drags you out of rooms you swore you would stay in until the meeting was over. Not even when it pulls you away from half-formed plans and into the uncertainty of his shadow.

Tonight, it pulls you again.

And you do not know what makes this time different. You do not know why something about the way he stood, or the particular curve of his shoulders as he left, feels more final than usual. 

So you follow.

Your feet move before you can weigh the consequences, stepping past Order members whose mouths are too full of strategy to notice. The halls grow darker, the walls quieter. Until finally, you see him.

He is lying on the grass just beyond the edge of the garden, staring up at the sky like it is the only thing left that will not betray him. His arms are folded behind his head. One leg is bent loosely at the knee. He looks untouchable, like someone kept apart from the rest of the world.

“Sirius.”

He startles just slightly, enough to prove he had not heard you come, and turns his head.

When he sees you, something in his chest visibly loosens. His shoulders drop and his mouth curves, just faintly.

“Hey,” he says, soft and sincere in a way you rarely hear indoors.

He pats the patch of grass beside him and says nothing else.

You lower yourself to the ground and lie beside him. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The stars are bright tonight. The kind of bright that feels borrowed, as if the sky is trying to offer something in return for everything it has taken.

You glance sideways at him. His jaw is tense. His eyes are fixed on the stars, but you are not sure he is really seeing them.

“Are you alright?” you ask, gently. “Is everything okay?”

You know the answer. Of course you do. Nothing has been “okay” in years. You have lived in a hundred different variations of not-okay. But you still ask, because the silence between you demands something be spoken into it.

He simply nods, casual, as if it does not occur to him that his heart is caught in his throat and his stomach has dropped, the same way yours has. You begin to wonder if everyone feels this way now.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just needed to get out of there. It was getting a bit crowded.”

Crowded. You think of the shouting. The red-faced arguments. The way Moody slammed his fist on the table. The way Dumbledore’s voice lowered into that awful, deliberate calm. You think of Marlene’s absence. You think of Gideon’s name being spoken in past tense.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I know what you mean.”

“Sirius,” you murmur, your voice barely louder than the wind, “you know…” You try again, you’ll keep trying for him (for everyone, but really, really for him)

He turns his head, just slightly. Not enough to look at you. Just enough to let you know he is listening.

“You’re not alone.”

He gives you a soft, closed-mouth smile. It is the same one you gave him earlier, when you found him lying out here in the dark as if he had been waiting for the night to take him. You do not know if it reached his heart then. You do not know if it does now.

“Yeah,” he says after a pause, “I know. I have the rest of—”

“You have me.”

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can trap them. They hang in the air, raw and sudden. You feel them leave you like a wound.

Sirius goes quiet.

His mouth stays half-open, suspended mid-sentence. His eyes search yours, and for a moment you are certain he is trying to solve something in you.

Eventually, he exhales through his nose and the corners of his lips twitch upward, trying to soften the moment with a joke that never quite arrives.

“Yeah,” he says, gently. “I have you.”

The two of you settle into silence once more, but it is not empty. This one is full, heavy with unspoken words and shared breaths. Crickets chirp in the hedges and the wind whispers through the dry grass, making it sway like it is alive. 

Behind you, the faint golden light of an oil lamp outside the safehouse trembles, casting a warm, flickering glow across the edge of Sirius’s cheek.

You glance over at him. He is still staring up at the sky, though you suspect he stopped seeing it minutes ago.

You do not know if you said the right thing. Maybe there is no right thing. Maybe there is only this: you and him, alive tonight, not needing to be anything but that.

You think that if you had let the thread between you stretch any thinner, it would have snapped. And you would not have known how to tie it back together again.

“I…”

The word leaves him like something he did not mean to say aloud.

Your eyes flick away from the oil lamp and settle back on him instantly. 

Sirius is... hesitant. For all his boldness, all his brazen remarks and dry humor, he falters at the doorstep of emotion. When he feels too much, he turns it into something sharp or silent. 

So when you look at him now, expecting him to turn away, and instead find that he is already looking at you, truly looking, you wonder if he can hear your breath catch.

And just as his lips part, just as he begins to shape the next words—

A star cuts across the sky.

Your breath catches.

“My mum used to say,” you begin, voice quiet, “that a shooting star means a good soul has just died. She said that’s why they’re so fast, because they don’t like to linger.”

Sirius turns toward you, and something in his expression changes. The edges of his face soften, as if the weight he carries has lifted just enough to let you in.

You do not say more. You do not need to. The implication is already there, laid gently between you like a flower you do not want to crush.

And for the first time in a very long time, you see his eyes without the usual veil of defense.

Sirius lets out a quiet, almost shy laugh, the sound blending with the night around you. “You know,” he says, his eyes catching the faint shimmer of the stars above, “when you see a shooting star, you’re supposed to make three wishes.”

You smile, faint and sad. “And what did you wish for?”

He hesitates.

“Do you want the real answer?” he asks, glancing back up.

You nod, though he cannot see it.

“I wished for a way out.”

There is a silence.

“Then I wished for peace.”

Another silence.

“And I…” he stutters, then pauses again, swallowing like the words are thick in his throat. “I kind of wish I didn’t have you.”

The quiet is immediate. 

His voice had dropped so low you’re not sure you would have heard it if the world around you were not so painfully still. 

You turn your head sharply toward him, already feeling the strain in your neck but ignoring it.

“What do you mean?” you ask, carefully and slowly. The words feel fragile, like they’ll break if you speak too fast.

Sirius is still watching the sky, but you can see his eyes shifting — not away from you, but toward something he is only just beginning to admit exists.

“If I didn’t have you…” he repeats as if he is testing out how the words sound, “then maybe you wouldn’t be in the Order.”

“Okay,” you say eventually, and the pain in your neck forces you to move. You shift toward him fully, curling your legs beneath you. 

Sirius doesn’t move; he watches you like he’s afraid you’re about to stand and leave, but you don’t. You sit beside him like gravity has decided this is where you’re supposed to stay.

“And if you weren’t in the Order,” he continues, his voice steady but quiet, “you wouldn’t have to face all of this—this war, this endless run of death, this constant fear that everything you care about could be ripped away.”

You clench your jaw.

You do not trust yourself to speak.

He either does not notice or pretends not to. Or maybe he does, and he just knows that stopping now would be worse.

“I think about it sometimes,” he murmurs, voice quiet but steady. “About what your life could’ve been if none of this had happened. Something ordinary. You meeting some normal guy at a bookstore, spending your days reading or wandering the city, going to classes or late-night cafés instead of Order meetings. Instead of running from death and missions, you’d be living without that constant fear, without all of this…” He gestures vaguely to the night around you, as if it could encompass everything.

He finally glances at you.

“And I think…I think I’d like knowing you had that. Even if it meant I never met you.”

You press your hand over his without thinking. His knuckles are firm beneath your palm, warm and alive. It is one of the few things in this entire world you can truly feel and trust.

He looks down at your hand, then up at you again.

And you don’t know why you’re smiling.

You shouldn’t be smiling. Not when everything is falling apart. Not when the world is collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

But you are, because this moment exists.

Because he said those words and meant them.

Because he would give you peace, even if it meant giving you up.

“You wouldn’t have met me, though,” you say, gently. Your eyes are still on your hand, your fingers folded lightly over his.

“Huh?”

“You wouldn’t know that I had a good life,” you reply, looking up at him. “Because you wouldn’t know me.”

Sirius huffs, low and theatrical.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, feigning annoyance that fools no one.

You begin to draw your hand back from his, fingers slipping just slightly, but he catches it. Not roughly—more like a reflex, like his body won’t let him let go. 

He laces his fingers with yours, and you pause to look down at the shape of your hand tucked in his. The sight of it does something to you. It grounds you, makes the rest of the war-worn world blur at the edges.

You smile.

You know that if you look up, you’ll find that familiar, telltale flush rising across his cheeks, dusting them rose-petal pink even in the dark.

So you look up.

And you’re right.

“Sirius—”

“I—”

You both stop, overlapping. Your voices tangle, and it’s enough to draw a small laugh out of him—an honest one this time. And when he laughs, so do you. Because for once, it doesn’t feel like either of you are laughing to keep from crying.

It feels like joy.

“If I knew you were out there,” you say softly, barely above the whisper of the breeze in the grass, “I don’t think I’d ever really live a peaceful life.”

Sirius doesn’t answer, but his thumb begins to trace circles across your hand. 

He doesn’t stop touching you.

“Why not?” he asks eventually. And you know that he knows the answer already. He just wants to hear it. He wants you to say it aloud, to him.

“I—because—” You stumble, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. But the way he’s looking at you, wide open and raw, is disarming. “Because I wouldn’t be here with you.”

His expression shifts. 

“Really?” he asks, and there is something foolishly boyish in his smile. The kind of smile he’d tease James with in the Gryffindor common room. The kind that belongs to softer days. 

But his eyes—they are so sincere it makes your chest ache. His eyes are practically begging you to confirm what he already hopes is true.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He breathes out. And then—like the words freed something in him—he tugs on your hand, pulling you forward. 

Your balance tips and your body follows, and suddenly your chest is pressed to his, and your legs are curled between his as he sits upright to meet you. 

His arms fold around you instinctively. His face finds the curve of your neck. He exhales against your collarbone like he’s been holding his breath for years.

He holds you like he’s afraid this will be the only time he gets to.

You don’t care about the ache in your legs or the way your knees dig into the earth. Because your hands are in his hair now, combing gently through the strands, and all you can think about is how he never lets anyone do this. 

How Sirius Black jerks away from every hand that tries to get too close, except yours. He leans into your touch like it’s sacred and like he’s starved for it.

You feel his breath against your skin.

You feel his hands at the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair, gently pulling your temple to rest against his shoulder. His grip is tight, but not suffocating.

When you finally pull away, it’s only enough to see him again. His face is inches from yours, eyes wide and searching, hands still fisted lightly in the sides of your uniform jacket like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You lift your hands to his face and cradle it gently, your palms brushing against the stubble lining his jaw. It’s rough and warm and impossibly real.

He blinks at you, stunned. As if he can’t quite believe this is happening. You know the feeling.

“I’m…” he begins, and your heart stutters at the way his jaw moves beneath your touch, the way his breath warms the space between your mouths, “Can I… can I kiss you?”

His eyes flicker to your lips, and your stomach twists. 

You nod, too breathless to speak.

Sirius exhales shakily, his hands lifting from your waist to mirror yours. He cups your face like it’s something precious. And then, carefully and slowly, he leans in.

And he kisses you.

At first, it’s unsure. Like neither of you know what to do with the feeling, but it doesn’t matter. His lips are soft and warm, and his breath tastes like hope, and every time the stubble on his face grazes your skin it sparks something in your stomach you’ve never known before. 

You don’t care if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

You don’t either.

All you know is that this—this—feels like the one thing you would never find, even in the peace he once wished for you.

And the way he holds your face...

God, the way he holds your face.

It feels like the answer to every question the war never let you ask.

It’s enough to make you never want to rise again.

Enough to let the war disappear from your periphery entirely, to forget the Order, the bloodshed, the shadows that haunt the walls of Grimmauld Place. 

Enough to forget your scars—his too—and simply stay here, curled into the space he’s made for you, as though the whole world has folded itself around this moment.

You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until Sirius is gently nudging his nose against yours, and you blink them open to find him watching you.

There’s starlight in his eyes. And for a moment, you think you could write whole volumes of poetry about the way he looks at you; like you’re a secret he intends to memorize.

He’s beautiful.

“I wish things were different,” he whispers. 

Your eyes flicker to his mouth. His lips are pinker now, a little swollen from the kiss, and something about that makes your breath catch. He swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, and your gaze returns to his.

“Me too,” you whisper back. “But I also wish things could stay like this forever.”

He watches you for a second, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in that way he gets when he’s not quite sure whether to smile or break.

“Like what?”

“Like…me and you. Right now.”

The grin that slowly spreads across his face feels like something sacred. You reach one hand—still resting on his cheek—up into his hair again, combing your fingers through the long strands.

“So long,” you murmur.

“You like it?” he teases.

“I like you.”

That grin of his stretches wider, and for the briefest second, he looks like the boy he used to be—young and untouchable and radiant. 

He lifts your hand from his hair and brings it to his lips, kissing it so gently you wonder if he’s afraid it might break apart in his grasp. 

You feel your hand tremble against his mouth. You wonder if he notices. You wonder if he feels your pulse racing beneath your wrist.

“Why does everything have to be so fucked up?” he mumbles against your skin, tugging you just slightly closer, like the very question might shatter him if you weren’t near.

The noise inside the house, the low chatter of the Order's latest strategies, has faded into a distant hum. You can’t bring yourself to move. Not yet.

“I… I don’t know,” you admit, voice thin but sure. “But…it won’t be forever.”

“It won’t?” His hand is back on your cheek, and yours is tangled in the collar of his robes, thumb brushing against the frayed hem like it’ll summon courage.

“No,” you say, and you try to believe it. “We’ll find that life of peace.”

It’s a fragile hope. A shimmering, breakable thing. You’ve both been caught in this war since you were too young to understand what losing really meant. 

“We?” he echoes, and you nod before he even finishes the word.

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

And then he thinks it.

He thinks he’d give up that peaceful life if it meant he could keep you in it. He thinks of how easy it would be to beg you to run. To leave it all behind. To disappear into some foreign countryside where no one knows your names and there are no more missions and no more deaths.

And he thinks how foolish he is for only saying this now, when everything feels like it’s on the verge of burning down.

“We,” you say again, quieter this time, as though it seals something.

“We could run,” Sirius says carefully, the words floating somewhere between truth and temptation. His eyes are sharp, reading you before you’ve even formed a reply.

“…You don’t want that,” you whisper. “And I don’t want that either.”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah. I wish I did, though. It’d be easier.”

You nod too. That’s all you can do.

“Me too.”

Then he’s kissing you again.

And again.

And again.

His hands are in your hair and on your jaw, and yours are still clinging to his robes like they’re the only fabric tethering you to this world. 

You don’t think you could ever tire of the way he kisses you—of the way his nose bumps yours or the way his eyelashes tickle your cheek when he leans in. 

You don’t think you could ever stop wanting to memorize the breathless look in his eyes each time he pulls away, only to return again.

You think, if the world ended now, you wouldn’t mourn the things you hadn’t done. 

You think, if this was it, if this was your final hour, you’d have enough peace in this kiss to last the rest of eternity.

You’ve found it in his eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes.

Sirius thinks this is that peaceful life. This touch, this impossible joy amid ruin, this flicker of hope burning like the oil lamp behind you. He sees it reflecting in your eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes.

When Remus’s voice calls out from inside—searching for you both—you pull away, reluctantly.

But Sirius doesn’t release your face. His hands remain where they are, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks, and you can’t stop smiling.

Neither can he.

That smile, that smile, that smile.

And maybe, just maybe, that smile is worth the war.

[formulafanfics13]

You know what we need? Lewis/Nico R. working out their issues with Wolff!daughter? Really rough, long marathon sex?

Don’t You Dare - LH44 & NR6 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: After yet another explosive argument between Lewis and Nico, Toto drags them into the kitchen where his 21-year-old daughter is sitting. Daring them to argue in front of you backfires when their rivalry spirals into lust. What starts as sharp words turns into nights of rough, competitive sex, both men using you as the battleground for their feud. Between jealousy, filthy challenges, and desperate aftercare, the line between hate and desire disappears.

Warnings: 18+, smut, age gap, threesome/poly (Lewis x Reader x Nico), rough sex, jealousy, competition, multiple rounds, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, degradation, praise, possessiveness, rivalry-based sex, overstimulation, aftercare

note: okay so i saw this and absolutely could not wait to write it! so have an extra fic for the day🫶🏼

The walls of Toto Wolff’s home office shook with the sharp snap of raised voices, two tones so familiar and so exhausted from years of fighting that they clashed like jagged glass.

“You never fucking listen, Nico!” Lewis’ voice tore through the air, sharp, hot, spitting with the weight of old wounds. “You think you’re the clever one, but all you ever do is push-”

“Oh, right, because you’re the saint, yeah?” Nico snapped back, blonde hair sticking slightly from the sweat of arguing. “You can’t stand anyone getting close to you without turning it into some melodrama. That’s why you-”

“Enough.” Toto’s voice cut through like a gunshot, low and dangerous. He was still behind his desk, but the tension in his body said he was done. His hands pressed flat against the wood, his tall frame unfolding as he stood, towering over both of them like a shadow.

“I have had it with this pissing contest. Every time, the same argument, the same shouting. You two want to kill each other? Fine. But not in my office. Not under my roof.”

Nico scoffed under his breath. Lewis opened his mouth to retaliate. Toto didn’t give either of them the chance. “Get up,” he ordered.

“What?” Lewis frowned, arms folded across his chest.

“You heard me.” Toto came around the desk, grabbed the back of Nico’s chair and yanked it half a step, forcing him up. He gestured for Lewis to follow. “Come on. If you want to act like children, I will treat you like children.”

Both men bristled but obeyed, more out of instinctive deference to Toto’s authority than anything else. He marched them down the hall, neither daring to speak as the echo of their footsteps carried.

They spilled into the kitchen, and there you were. Sitting at the island stool with a half-empty mug of tea, scrolling your phone lazily, a soft hum under your breath. You looked up at the sound, eyes brightening instantly when they landed on your father.

“Hi, Papa,” you said cautiously, before your gaze slid to Lewis, then Nico. The air changed the second your eyes touched them. Both men stiffened, shoulders pulling back, jaws clenching.

“You want to fight?” Toto’s tone was iron. “Do it in front of her.”

“Wait, what?” you blinked, tilting your head.

Lewis and Nico exchanged a look, both clearly unwilling to explode while you were in the room. They were used to biting their tongues around you, used to softening, pretending, because you were Toto’s daughter. Because they respected you in ways they couldn’t even articulate.

Toto leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to your head, and muttered, “I need to make a call to the shareholders. Try not to burn my fucking house down.” He shot the two men a final warning glance. “And don’t you dare drag her into this.”

With that, he left the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps fading until it was just you, Lewis, and Nico. Silence. You sipped your tea slowly, blinking at them. They shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, both refusing to speak first, like two boys caught misbehaving.

Finally, Nico broke. “You see what I mean?” he hissed at Lewis, throwing up his hands.

Lewis bristled instantly. “Oh, don’t start again, man. Not here.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting your mug down. “You two do realise you sound like divorced parents fighting over custody of a dog, right?”

That cracked something. Nico spluttered. Lewis’ lips twitched despite himself. But then Nico leaned forward on the counter, looking at Lewis with fire in his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong, Lewis. Tell me you don’t undermine me at every chance you get.”

Lewis moved closer too, leaning on the opposite side of the island, dark eyes flashing. “I don’t need to undermine you, man. You do that just fine by yourself.”

The tension stretched, their words sharp, but their restraint sharper, both of them gritting their teeth because you were watching.

And you were watching, chin propped on your palm, studying them with a kind of curious fascination. Two men, both too proud, both too angry, both so much bigger than the room they stood in.

It wasn’t lost on either of them how intently your gaze lingered. The kitchen was charged, every breath heavy with the kind of tension that had no right being there. You tilted your head as Lewis and Nico continued to posture across the island, both men too aware of your eyes on them, too unwilling to explode in the way they normally would.

It was almost funny. Normally, they’d scream themselves hoarse, curse each other out until Toto had to physically separate them. But now? With you here? They kept catching themselves, biting their tongues, snapping softer.

“Say it, Lewis,” Nico pressed, low and venomous. “Say it to her face, if you’re so sure you’re always right.”

Lewis glanced at you for the briefest moment before looking back at him. “I don’t need to drag her into our shit, man.”

“Too late,” you hummed, resting your chin in your hand, lips curving slightly. “Papa literally dragged you in here to do it in front of me.”

That earned you twin looks, both men glaring, but not at you, at Toto’s audacity. You giggled softly, the sound slicing through the heat like sugar, making both of them tense for entirely different reasons.

“You know…” you began, voice deceptively casual, “it’s kind of cute. You two trying so hard to behave, just because I’m in the room.”

Nico stiffened. “We’re not-”

“Yes, you are,” you cut in, eyes dancing as you leaned forward a little. “Normally, I can hear you from the other end of the house. But now? All I see is two men trying not to raise their voices, because God forbid I think you’re mean.”

Lewis’ jaw flexed. He tried not to look at you, tried not to let you see the way that went straight to his chest. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but his voice was quieter, rougher.

You smiled, wicked and soft all at once. “I didn’t say you were doing it for me,” you teased. “Maybe you’re just scared Papa will hear you both arguing in front of his little princess.”

That landed. Both men shifted, restless, neither able to stop their eyes from flicking to you. The way you sat there so comfortably, the way you spoke like you weren’t afraid of either of them. Nico swallowed. Lewis’ fingers drummed once on the counter.

The silence stretched too long, so you broke it. “You know,” you mused, sipping your tea like it was nothing, “if this is what an argument looks like when I’m around, maybe I should sit in on more of them. It’s much quieter.”

That made Lewis snort under his breath. Nico shook his head, lips twitching, like he was fighting the urge to laugh. But then Lewis leaned forward, elbows on the counter, his gaze fixed squarely on you now. “Careful, darling,” he said lowly. “Keep talking like that, and you might actually end up mediating.”

The word darling slid through the air like it didn’t belong to him, and yet it fit too well. Nico noticed. His mouth tightened, his eyes flashing. “She’s not your mediator, Lewis.”

“And she’s not yours either, Nico,” Lewis shot back, just as sharp.

You arched a brow, heartbeat quickening at the way their words shifted, no longer just about racing, no longer just about each other.

You bit your lip. “Funny. Papa thought you two needed to cool off. But if you ask me…” your eyes dragged over both of them, slow and deliberate, “…you’re just getting hotter.”

The mug clinked softly as you set it down. Neither man moved. The kitchen had never felt smaller, and you could feel both sets of eyes pinned to you.

Lewis was the first to move, leaning across the counter until his arms bracketed it, his stare dragging over you in a way that made your thighs clench involuntarily. “You think this is funny, don’t you?” His voice was low, too low. “Watching us hold back. Watching us fight each other with our teeth half-clenched because you’re sitting there looking like that.”

You blinked innocently, but your smirk betrayed you. “Maybe I do.”

Nico’s laugh was sharp, dangerous. “Of course she does. Look at her.” He gestured at you with a little shake of his head, but the heat in his eyes betrayed that he was no more immune. “She loves it. Making us sweat. Making us bite our tongues. She wants to see how far we’ll go before we break.” The word break was weighted, filthy in its delivery.

You tilted your head, playing coy. “And what happens if you do?”

Lewis’ tongue flicked across his lower lip, slow, deliberate. “Then you’ll find out exactly how much hotter it gets in here.”

Nico moved before you could respond. He came around the counter, his stride long, predatory, stopping just in front of where you sat on the stool. His hands bracketed your thighs, firm and warm, forcing your knees apart. “She’s been sitting here winding us up,” he muttered, eyes never leaving yours. “She knows what she’s doing.”

You let out a breath, chest rising faster now. “And what if I do?”

Lewis joined him, slipping behind you so close you could feel the heat of his body at your back. His hands slid over your shoulders, down your arms, and then wrapped around your waist, possessive, grounding. “Then maybe it’s time we stopped pretending,” he murmured against your ear.

The shiver that tore through you was uncontrollable. Nico’s grip tightened. His thumb dragged slow circles against the inside of your thigh, far too high. “See? She’s not scared. She wants this.”

You could barely breathe, but you still managed, “Maybe I want both of you to stop talking and shoe me.”

Lewis groaned under his breath, the sound ragged, like a man finally giving up restraint. His lips grazed your jaw, hot and fleeting. “Careful what you wish for, princess.”

The nickname hit your spine like fire. Nico’s hand slid higher until his knuckles brushed the heat beneath your skirt, making you jolt. He smirked, dark and satisfied. “She’s already soaked,” he murmured to Lewis, like you weren’t even there. “She’s been waiting for us to lose control.”

Lewis’ chuckle rumbled against your back. His fingers trailed down your stomach, anchoring you to the stool as Nico pressed closer. “Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

When Nico’s fingers slipped under the thin fabric between your legs, you gasped, the sound sharp and desperate. Lewis swallowed it, his mouth crashing against your ear, his teeth scraping your skin as his hand pinned you in place.

It was too much. Two men who’d been trying to tear each other apart now turning all that fury and need onto you.

Lewis’ breath was hot against your ear, his lips brushing it with every low groan, while Nico’s fingers teased relentlessly between your thighs. The air was thick, every sound amplified the small wet noise of Nico’s knuckle sliding just barely against your panties, the shudder in your breath, the hum of approval in Lewis’ throat.

Lewis laughed softly, low in his chest. “I knew it. Knew she’d be trouble the second Toto brought us in here.”

You should’ve protested, said something about your father being just down the hall, or the fact that this was absolutely the worst idea in the world. But then Nico pressed harder, his thumb stroking over the damp fabric, and your head tipped back against Lewis’ shoulder with a helpless moan.

Lewis caught it with his mouth. He kissed you hard, swallowing your gasp as his hand slipped under your shirt, fingers grazing up your ribs until they cupped your breast. He groaned into the kiss when your nipple pebbled against his palm through the thin bra.

“Fuck, you’re sensitive,” he muttered against your lips, voice half wrecked already.

Nico tugged your panties aside with one efficient movement and sank two fingers inside you without warning. The stretch was immediate, obscene, your body clenching down hard. You gasped, breaking the kiss, and Nico’s grin was sharp enough to cut glass.

“So tight,” he hissed, watching his fingers disappear knuckle-deep into you. “She’s taking me so well already.”

Lewis looked down over your shoulder, his mouth open, his breathing heavy as he watched Nico’s hand move between your legs. “Christ,” he muttered, his hips pressing subtly against your back. “She’s perfect.”

The rhythm built fast, Nico curling his fingers deep inside you, dragging them along that spot that made your thighs quake, while Lewis’ thumb rolled lazily over your nipple through your bra. It was dizzying, too much stimulation, too much heat, and you could feel yourself spiraling faster than you wanted.

“Please,” you whined, not even sure who you were begging.

Lewis smirked against your cheek. “Please what, princess? You’ve got to be clearer than that.”

Nico’s pace only grew rougher. “She wants to come,” he said, matter-of-fact, his fingers pumping deep, knuckles slamming against you with each thrust. “She’s about to fall apart, and she wants permission.”

Lewis groaned, his lips brushing your ear again. “Do it. Let him feel you squeeze around his fingers.”

The permission undid you. You shattered with a cry, your walls clamping down around Nico’s fingers so hard he cursed under his breath. Lewis held you firmly against him, one arm around your waist, grounding you while your body shook violently through the orgasm.

Nico pulled his fingers out with a wet sound and shoved them straight between your lips, forcing you to taste yourself. His smirk widened when you sucked them eagerly, tongue curling around his knuckles. “Good girl,” he muttered darkly.

Lewis’ groan was broken, half-choked, like the sight was undoing him completely. His grip on your waist tightened as he pressed his erection hard into your back. “Fuck, I need to be inside her,” he growled, nearly feral.

Nico chuckled, dragging his fingers from your mouth and wiping them on your cheek. “Then take her. I want to see her stuffed full of you before I get my turn.”

Lewis spun you around, barely giving you time to breathe, and lifted you straight off the stool. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as his mouth claimed yours again, wet and rough, his teeth catching your lip. He carried you toward the kitchen counter and dropped you onto it with a thud. He was already unzipping his jeans, shoving them down impatiently. Nico leaned back against the counter opposite, arms folded, watching with a dangerous smirk.

Lewis lined himself up and thrust into you in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Both of you cried out, you from the sudden stretch, him from the searing heat. “Fuck,” he groaned, head falling forward to your shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight, I can’t-”

Nico laughed, dark and low. “Already falling apart, mate?”

Lewis snapped his head up, glaring across at him as he started to move, each thrust deep and merciless. “Shut the fuck up. You’ll get your turn.” But his pace betrayed himm every thrust harder, faster, more desperate as he fucked you into the counter, your nails clawing down his back.

Lewis was still buried deep inside you, his pace punishing as he drove you against the counter. Every thrust had your body jolting, the edge of the marble digging into your back, but it didn’t matter, not with the way his cock split you open.

Nico hadn’t moved from his spot across the kitchen, arms folded, his smirk curling deeper with every sound that left your mouth. But his eyes, God, his eyes were molten, locked to where Lewis disappeared inside you over and over.

“Look at you,” Nico drawled, voice sharp and amused. “Wrecked already, and we’ve barely even started.”

Lewis snarled through gritted teeth, hips slamming harder just to prove a point. “She’s mine right now. You’ll wait your turn.”

Nico pushed off the counter slowly, unhurried, like a predator closing in on its prey. “You’re greedy, mate. Don’t forget the dare.” His gaze flicked to you, heavy, burning. “She’s not yours to keep to yourself tonight.”

Lewis groaned, forehead pressing to yours, his breath ragged. “Do you want him, princess?” he whispered, almost pained. “You want both of us?”

The question was almost rhetorical, your body answered for you, clenching around him so hard he cursed. “Yes,” you gasped, eyes flicking desperately between them. “Please. I need both of you.”

That was all it took. Lewis crushed his mouth to yours again, swallowing your moan, before Nico shoved him aside and claimed his own space between your legs.

Lewis stayed buried inside you, holding your hips open on the counter, while Nico tugged his belt open with one hand. He pulled himself free, hard and flushed, and smirked down at you.

“Open that pretty mouth.”

You obeyed instantly, tongue out, and he slid his cock over your lips, smearing precum across them before pressing in. The first push hit the back of your throat, your gag muffled by the growl Lewis let out against your neck as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck me,” Lewis groaned, watching your lips stretch around Nico. “She’s perfect.”

Nico buried himself deeper, one hand fisted in your hair, forcing you to take him while Lewis still fucked up into you from below. It was obscene, overwhelming, every hole filled, every nerve lit up with overstimulation.

You were pinned between them, used from both ends, spit dripping down your chin as Nico set a brutal rhythm into your throat. Lewis kept you grounded, one big hand pressed flat to your stomach where he could feel himself moving inside you. “She’s clenching like crazy,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “She’s gonna come, I can feel it.”

Nico laughed breathlessly, fucking deeper into your throat. “Good. Let her come on your cock while she chokes on mine.”

The filthy command broke you. Your orgasm ripped through you violently, your whole body spasming as your throat tightened around Nico and your cunt fluttered around Lewis. Both men cursed loud, Nico’s hips jerking as he spilled hot and thick down your throat, forcing you to swallow every drop. Lewis wasn’t far behind. The way your walls milked him through your orgasm had him snapping, his hips stuttering as he groaned brokenly into your shoulder, filling you to the brim with his release.

The three of you collapsed against each other, a tangle of limbs and sweat, the kitchen wrecked around you. Nico pulled out of your mouth slowly, wiping the corner of your lips with his thumb before smearing it across your cheek. He looked at Lewis, still buried inside you, and smirked. “She’s not done,” he said simply, tone already hungry again.

Lewis groaned, forehead pressed to yours, his body still trembling. “I know,” he muttered, kissing you softly even as his cock twitched inside you.

Nico leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “We’re going to ruin you together. This was only the start.”

The kitchen was still heavy with the smell of sex, sweat dripping down your spine, your legs trembling where Lewis still held you spread on the counter. You thought maybe, just maybe, that was it, your chest rising and falling fast as you tried to catch your breath. But the look in Nico’s eyes as he tucked himself back into his pants, only to immediately undo them again, told you otherwise.

Lewis pulled out of you with a wet sound, your body clenching desperately around nothing, his release already dripping down your thighs. He smirked at the sight. “Messy girl.”

“Not messy enough,” Nico shot back, stepping closer. He pressed two fingers into you without warning, scooping up Lewis’ cum and pushing it back in. You whimpered, body jerking, but Nico’s grin only widened. “See? She can take more.”

Lewis leaned back against the fridge, watching with dark, blown-out eyes. “You’re sick, man.”

“And you’re loving it.” Nico’s voice was sharp as he pulled his fingers free and licked them clean right in front of you.

Lewis cursed under his breath, his cock already twitching back to life, heavy against his thigh. “Fuck. She’s never gonna survive both of us.”

“Then we’ll make sure she doesn’t forget it,” Nico replied smoothly.

Lewis grabbed you before you could even form a word, hauling you off the counter and onto his lap as he sank into one of the kitchen chairs. His cock was already rock hard again, pressing against your entrance, and when he slammed up into you, you cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. “Ride me,” Lewis ordered, his voice raw.

Your thighs burned as you obeyed, bouncing on his cock, every thrust hitting deep. Lewis’ hands were bruising on your hips, guiding your pace, his head tipped back in bliss.

But then Nico was behind you, hands sliding up your stomach to your chest, fingers pinching your nipples through the thin fabric of your top. He bent to your ear, voice low and sinful. “Ever had two men at once, princess?”

You shook your head frantically, breathless.

“First time for everything,” Nico smirked, and his free hand slid down, pressing between your asscheeks, teasing at your other entrance.

Lewis’ eyes flew open, locking with Nico’s over your shoulder. “You wouldn’t.”

Nico’s grin was all teeth. “Oh, I would.”

The stretch when his finger pressed inside you was almost too much, Lewis was already splitting you open, and Nico’s slow push into your other hole had your body shaking violently between them.

“Breathe,” Lewis whispered, kissing your neck as he kept fucking up into you. “You’re so tight, baby. You can do this.”

Nico’s finger worked you open, then two, then his cock pressed against your rim. The burn was overwhelming, your body screaming at the intrusion, but their hands were everywhere.

When Nico finally slid in, filling you completely, you screamed, head falling back against his shoulder. You were stuffed to the brim, stretched beyond anything you’d ever imagined, both men groaning as they bottomed out inside you.

“Jesus Christ,” Lewis hissed, hips jerking up. “She’s-fuck, she’s squeezing the life out of me.”

Nico groaned into your ear, teeth scraping your skin. “She was made for this.”

They started to move, Lewis thrusting up into your pussy while Nico slammed into your ass from behind. You were nothing but their toy between them, used, fucked, overstimulated until tears streamed down your face. And they loved it.

Lewis rubbed your clit with one hand, desperate to push you over. “Come for us, princess. Be a good girl and come.”

You shattered instantly, your orgasm tearing through you so violently you nearly blacked out, screaming as both men fucked you through it. They came one after the other, Lewis first, spilling deep inside you, then Nico, his groan feral as he emptied into your ass, grinding you down against Lewis at the same time.

You collapsed forward, shaking, boneless, Lewis catching you against his chest. Both men breathed heavy, their hands stroking over your body, murmuring filth and praise. But Nico’s smirk was already back when he pulled out. “Round two done. Still got all night.” And from the way Lewis’ cock twitched once again inside you, you knew he wasn’t about to argue.

Your body was trembling, skin slick with sweat, every nerve ending raw. You thought maybe that was it, maybe you could finally collapse. Lewis lifted your limp form easily, laying you flat on the counter again. Your back arched against the cool wood, your thighs spread wide by his strong hands. “Look at her, Nico. She’s wrecked,” he whispered, kissing along your stomach.

Nico leaned against the counter, smirk sharp. “Not wrecked enough.”

You whimpered, trying to close your legs, but Lewis pushed them open again, sliding back into your already dripping pussy with one hard thrust. The stretch made you scream, your head falling back. He leaned over you, face close. “Shh, baby. You can take it. You’re my strong girl, yeah?”

Nico came closer, pressing two fingers against your lips until you opened your mouth. He pushed them in, watching your lips wrap around them. “She’s such a little slut. Look at her sucking me while you split her open.”

Lewis groaned, pace picking up, slamming into you. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“She loves it,” Nico shot back, pulling his fingers free to slap lightly at your cheek. “Don’t you?”

Your voice was broken, but you managed a choked “yes.”

Lewis cursed and fucked you harder, his thrusts deep and punishing. “Don’t agree with him when I’m the one inside you, baby.”

Nico laughed, moving around the table to your head. He tugged his cock free, hard again, pressing it to your lips. “Then agree with me like this.”

Lewis kept thrusting as Nico pushed into your mouth, both men using you at once. You gagged around Nico’s length, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes, your nails clawing helplessly at the wood beneath you.

“Good girl,” Lewis groaned, watching your throat work as Nico fucked your mouth. “Taking us both. Perfect little thing.”

Nico hissed, his hand in your hair, pulling your head to take him deeper. “God, you look so pretty choking on me while he ruins your cunt.”

They moved together, both thrusting into you until you were choking, shaking, coming apart again with a violent orgasm that made your whole body spasm.

Lewis pulled out suddenly, flipping you over so you were on your knees on the table, ass high in the air. He lined up behind you again, slamming into your pussy from behind while Nico slid into your ass once more. The stretch made you sob, your body collapsing forward, but their hands held you up, both men groaning at the feeling of you squeezing them.

“Fuck- she’s gonna break me,” Lewis gasped, hips snapping against your ass.

“Not before me,” Nico growled, pounding into your other hole.

You screamed, voice hoarse, body clenching violently as another orgasm ripped through you. Your vision went white, your body nothing but theirs.

They didn’t stop. They passed you back and forth, Lewis sitting back in the chair with you bouncing on his cock while Nico used your mouth, then switching, then taking you together again on the table until you were sobbing, shaking, dripping with cum.

Hours blurred. Over and over, they used you until you could barely keep your eyes open, your body raw and overstimulated. Finally, Lewis groaned deep in his chest, pulling you into his arms as he came one last time inside you. Nico followed seconds later, spilling into your ass with a guttural growl.

And then? SIlence. Your body collapsed against Lewis, trembling, soaked. He stroked your hair gently, kissing your forehead. “That’s it, baby. You did so good. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Nico tucked himself back in, smirking as he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. “Didn’t think you had it in you, princess. Maybe you’re tougher than I thought.”

“Shut up, and wipe the counters.” Lewis snapped softly, still cradling you close.

Nico chuckled, grabbing a glass of water and setting it on the table beside you. “Fine. But next time, we’re not stopping until she begs me to.”

Lewis glared, tightening his hold on you protectively. But his hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, and when you looked up through half-lidded eyes, he smiled down at you, soft and proud. “Rest now, love. You’re safe.”

Your last thought before sleep took you was that you had no idea how you’d ever walk again.

[musingsofheaven]

omg ur writing 4 dilf art is js 💋…may i please have some more mother im starved 🙏

$$$WIPE RIGHT

summary: His money is your money, and he proves it by letting you pretend it’s your card when you steal it from his wallet. He even lets you act like you’re the one paying while he doesn’t blink an eye, watching you go crazy spending. “I’ve got it,” you said with full confidence.

pairings: dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

warnings: 13.5k words. mature themes. unprotected p-in-v. power imbalance. degradation / praise kink. pussy slapping. (brief) clit stimulation. nipple play. overstimulation. size kink. (implied) internal ejaculation / breeding. d/s dynamics. read responsibly.

note: i did not proofread this one. i just wrote it in between when i managed to find time this week and finished it a while ago. this has been sitting on my asks for a long time, so i apologize, but I hope you guys enjoy reading this one.

Friday nights had become your thing. Not just a date, not just dinner - something steady. After years of living out of suitcases, eating in hotel rooms, and running on someone else’s clock, Art wanted something solid. Divorce only made him want it more. When he met you, it happened without either of you deciding. One night out turned into two, then three. Before long, it was tradition - every Friday, you went somewhere nice, sat across from each other, and shut the rest of the world out.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, you had already showered. It’s always like this since he’s giving you a lot of time to do your stuff. Clothes. Hair. Makeup. The stream rolled out of the crack in the door while you’re leaning up to the vanity mirror to get a clear view of your lips while you smooth the lipstick on your mouth. The red dress he bought last holiday is fitted enough for you, especially at the waist, but flows smoothly in the end. It’s swinging the skirt like the kind that shifts like an ocean. Thin traps that look dangerous and might fall off your shoulders, with a low neckline that just sits right in your body. Nails also painted red to match your dinner this weekend with him. Your eyes caught his wallet, which was set a foot away from you. It’s just left comfortably on the dresser.

The sound of running water made your lips twitch. That TikTok video you’d seen earlier flashed through your head - paying for everything with his card until he noticed. Which is the perfect timing to do it right now… He’s not here to notice it, so it doesn’t stop you from rising from your seat to walk a few steps towards it. It’s easy to slip the black card away from its slot with your two fingers. It feels light and cool in your palm, and it doesn’t take you long to set it back and get back to your seat. You get yourself comfortable again before putting the card inside your bag. And like what you predicted, he doesn’t even notice it’s gone when he gets out of the bathroom. You’re kinda thankful that he got out of it minutes after you pulled it out, because he might have caught you doing it if he had left early.

His towel is hanging low on his hips and is enough to show his V-line. Hair still damp and curling slightly at the end. His eyes catch you staring at him through the mirror when he walks towards your back. “You’re wearing the red one,” he said. His gaze dragged over the way the skirt flared when you shifted. You smoothed a hand over the fabric. “Yeah. Why?” Voice comes out a little jumpy but. “Looks good on you,” his voice was low when he said it and you can see the faint curl of his mouth before he bent down to press a kiss on the top of your head before stepping back.

You watch him walk towards the closet which makes you finally go back to what you are doing. Art is not hurrying to get dressed because he knows he will get finished on time. You can hear the door of the closet when it opens because it’s something you hear more than a hundred times already. He stands there for seconds like he’s taking his time to choose what to wear. Maybe if he’s in the mood, he’ll pick a more decent shirt. You always pick his clothes when you want to match with him, but you also let him style himself. It’s like… give and take. But he’s slowly adapting and improving at dressing himself.

His hand moves over the hangers, skimming past colors until he takes a black polo from its place. The fabric is soft but structured, the kind that holds its shape. He slips it over his head, shoulders pushing into the cotton until it settles smoothly against him. The short sleeves cut just high enough to frame the shape of his arms when he reaches for his trousers. Beige, tailored, with a clean crease down the front. He steps into them and the fabric falling straight once he pulls them up. The belt he picked for us was just a simple dark leather that fit neatly with the color palette of his whole outfit. He quietly wears it in his trousers and fastens it quietly. Hands ran down softly to his polo, where it was tucked, to smooth it. Palm skimmed over this body as if he were sealing his look in place. Eyes go back to you when he finishes. It’s not for approval, but he just wants to see if you notice him and to check if you’re done. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” you say, slipping your blush back into the drawer and leaning back in the chair. “Been ready.” The chair pushes back away from you and scrapes lightly on the floor when you stand up. Eyes still in the mirror, like you are taking a final look while your hands are smoothing the hem of your dress. He takes three strides towards you before you can walk away from the vanity. His warm palms are placed on your waist, and his thumb brushes the curve of your hips before it travels lower. Fingers settling over the swell of your ass like he’s just squeezing it to see your reaction. His breath ghosts your ear. “What if we just stay in tonight?” The tone is too casual to be innocent. “You look too good to waste on a table in some restaurant.” A small, quick laugh slips out, though it’s more from the heat curling in your stomach than amusement. “We’re not canceling dinner because you’re horny.”

“Not just horny. I’m looking at you in this dress, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to push it up and… bend you over the vanity,” he murmurs as he tilts his head, mouth brushing your cheek. “No. We’re going.” The words hit like a spark under your skin, but you shake your head. “You sure?” His hands squeeze again but this time it’s slower. It feels soft enough that you feel the press of each fingertip. “Yes,” you say before your eyes roll at him. Unfortunately, the heat in your voice betrays you. His smirk says he hears it. The front door clicks shut behind you, and the night air curls around bare skin where the dress dips low. Streetlights spill gold over the hood of his car as you walk toward it. The steady sound of his footsteps close behind.

You can hear the faint sound of keys jingling from his hands before the faint sound of the click reaches your ears when he unlocks it. You can see the familiar two blinks the car made like it’s greeting the both of you. When he opened the passenger door, there was a soft creaking sound from it. You smell the faint and clear scent from inside as you slide inside to sit. The cool air reaches you when the air conditioner starts in the car, along with the low sound of the engine filling the quiet space. He glances over his shoulder while backing out of the driveway. “You bring a jacket?” You shake your head. “Didn’t want to hide the dress.” His mouth curves. “Fair enough.” The city is just like a runner passing by the two of you in a blur with the view of the establishments disappearing fast enough from your eyes.

The warm lights from the restaurants and cafes are making the sidewalks alive and you can guess that the busy city is filled with the sound of passing cars. His left hand rests comfortably on the steering wheel like he’s so used to it. His knuckles caught bits of streetlight. Thankfully, the house is not far away from the restaurant, so the ride doesn’t take long. Short enough to make the ride comfortable enough not to talk and feel easy just to stare at him drive while his hand is caressing your thigh. The restaurant comes into view ahead. The front is lined with tall windows and soft white lights strung across the entrance. He pulls out into the small parking lot in front of it before he opens the lock of the car for you to step out of the passenger seat. Hands automatically touch the fabric of your dress to smooth it out.

You can hear the collective sound of silent chatters the moment you open the door, but it’s not the disturbing kind of noise. The cool air is touching your skin and the smell of the food is reaching your nose. The environment looks aesthetically pleasing, and the lighting fills the tables of the restaurant. The clink of cutlery blends with the quiet conversation between the customers inside. A host in a dark blazer greets you with a polite smile. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?” Art gives a small nod. “Yes. Donaldson. Table for two.” The host scans the list on their stand, fingers brushing over the pages. “Right this way.” You follow the host first while Art walks behind you. You pass over the rows of the tables and couples smiling, sharing food, and leaning close to each other. The table is set against the wall, two glasses already waiting beside folded napkins.

The host steps aside. “Here you go. Your server will be right with you.” Art pulls out your chair before sitting across from you, resting his forearms on the table. “So,” he says with that lazy smile, “what are you ordering tonight?” Your eyes scan over the menu while the light fills it so you can see the text clearly. The sound of the restaurant fills around the two of you, and the continuous clinking of the silverware is still alive as a sign that many people have their own story to tell here. There’s the occasional laugh from nearby tables that sounds even softer. While you skim over the list, you can’t help but look up at him every now and then, as if you are waiting for him to speak first about what he wants. “I’m getting the steak,” he says, tapping the page with the back of his fork. “Medium rare. Always medium rare.”

That made your eyes roll before you chuckled. “You’re predictable,” you tease before you continue to scan he seafood section. Art just smiles at you as he leans back. “Predictable keeps things steady. Besides, you’d hate it if I changed.” You just hum at him before your order and give the menus that both of you are holding toward the waiter. Both of you just had a little and comfortable conversation before the food arrived, not long after. It’s one of the reasons why you and Art keep coming back to this restaurant for many times now. Food. Ambience. Time. The steam curls from the plates. Your fork slides through the fish to cut it cleanly. The skin is crisp enough, and there’s a hint of butter to it. Across from you is Art, who is slicing the meat before taking a slow bite. He’s chewing like he’s in no hurry to leave. His eyes keep flicking from his plate to you while he occasionally says something when his mouth is empty. Gaze lingering in a way that makes it feel like he’s not just looking.

When you finish eating, he shifts his glass toward you. “Taste this.” The wine is warm on your tongue, bold enough to bite before it softens. He watches like he’s been waiting for you to take the last bite just to try it. It tastes good as always, he was the one who picked the wine, so there’s no doubt that it will be good. When the plates are cleared and the last drops of wine are gone, the server returns with a bill inside a black booklet. Art reaches for his wallet without even thinking, the leather already in his hand before you speak. “I’ve got it,” you say quickly, fingers brushing the booklet as you pull it closer. He glances up, brows lifting. “Since when?” his words sound like he’s offended. “Since tonight.” The card is already between your fingers under the table, hidden from view. “Baby, come on. I always-”

“I know. Just let me.” You said before you stand up, so there won’t be a protest. The card is tucked in your palm while you walk to the counter. You know you can just hand the booklet with the card inside… but not tonight. Not when you are sneakily using his card to pretend it’s yours to use. From the corner of your eye, you see him watching. There’s the light frown still on his face that didn’t stop from the moment you mentioned to him you’ll pay. He even looks offended. But he stays in his chair with one arm slung over the backrest while he lets you take the lead. The swipe of the card is quick. Your hand is low enough that the black strip never catches the light. When the card and receipt are handed back to you, you quickly put them back in your bag. You thank the server and you return back to your table like you just didn’t use his money. When you sit he studies you for a beat, then shakes his head. “You’re acting suspicious.”

“I’m acting generous,” you correct, brushing a crumb from the table. He doesn’t press, but the faint curl at the corner of his mouth says he’s storing it away for later. The chairs scrape lightly against the floor as you both stand. His hand settles at the small of your back while you step away from the table, the weight of it steady even in the easy crowd. The hum of the restaurant fades as you near the door, replaced by the cooler air of the mall’s wide hallways. “What now?” he asks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You want dessert? There’s that gelato place around the corner.”

The idea makes you smile, but another thought slips in first. “Actually… I want to buy something.” His brow lifts. “What kind of something?” The answer hangs in your throat for a second before you tip your head toward the familiar pink glow a few storefronts down. “Something from there.” His gaze follows yours. “Victoria’s Secret?” You nod, keeping your tone light. “Yeah.” A quiet laugh leaves him. “Didn’t I just get you a new set two weeks ago?” His eyebrow raised since he really just bought you a new set, and you didn’t even use it yet. Well, he hasn’t seen you use it yet. “That was for a special occasion,” you say, already walking toward the display windows. “This is just because.”

He nods before he steps beside you with the smirk in his mouth that never leaves. It’s actually enough for you to glance away and feel a little guilty, but it quickly disappears when the two of you step inside the store. The air smells so good, maybe it’s from their perfume, but you can’t really tell. Each rack is organized and looks beautiful. Each fabric is glowing underneath the soft spotlights that focus it. Your fingers touch over the hangers as you scan each one of them, but your hand stops its movement when your eye catches the black nightgown. “You’re getting that?” He asks and a voice comes behind you. It’s low, but it’s enough to hear it and to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

“Thinking about it,” you answer, glancing over your shoulder. “I should try it on.” The fitting rooms are tucked in the back, the hallway lined with mirrors and framed photos of models in matching sets. You take the tag from the hanger and push the curtain aside, stepping inside the small room. “I’m coming in,” he said before it could fall shut, his hand catches the edge. “It’s just a nightgown,” you say, though the corner of your mouth gives you away. His eyes hold yours for a beat. “Exactly.” The curtain closes behind him, muting the sounds from the store. The room is just big enough for the two of you, the air suddenly heavier as he leans back against the wall. “Go on,” he says, nodding toward the hanger in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

The curtain sways shut, cutting off the soft music from the sales floor. The space feels even smaller with him inside, his frame filling the corner while you hang the nightgown on the hook. Light from the overhead bulb spills down the smooth red fabric clinging to your body, the skirt still swaying faintly from when you stepped in. His gaze moves slowly, from the thin straps over your shoulders to the way the bodice hugs your waist. One hand lifts, brushing over the rose-shaped detail at your chest before sliding along the strap. “You’re going to have to take this off first,” he says, voice low. “I can do it,” you answer, though you don’t move.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean I’m letting you.” Fingers slip under the strap, warm against your skin. He eases it down over your arm, the fabric dragging just enough to make you shift. The other strap follows, sliding down until both hang at your elbows. The dress loosens, the bodice falling slightly from your chest. His knuckles skim the top of your shoulder as he helps ease it lower. “Lift your arms.” You quickly follow his instructions and you watch the dress glide down from your body before it pools around your feet. His eyes stare a little longer at you like he’s memorizing something he's always seen before he bends down to take your dress. He put down the dress over the small chair in the corner.

“Now,” he says before nodding toward the hanger. “Put that on.” You almost glare at him at the way he tell you things but you just follow it because he might have more rights to get annoyed once he knows what you are doing since dinner. The nightgown feels nothing in your hands. The softness of the satin slips between your fingers before you turn to step into it. Art’s hand is faster though to stop you from completely turning and his fingers press on your hip and hold you. “Facing me,” he murmurs. “I want to see.” You nod before you face him and put the nightgown in front of him like some ad showing the item. The straps settled comfortably on your shoulders and the satin fell straight and smoothly on your body. “Well?” you ask while watching him drag his eyes into you in silence. His head tilting slightly like he’s judging you. Or maybe just that's just what you feel because you want him to like it especially since he has this unreadable look. Then his hands find your waist, fingers spreading along your sides like he’s claiming the space for himself. The squeeze is firm enough to make you shift closer without even thinking.

“I think,” he finally says with a low and warm voice. “You look fucking perfect.” You can feel how quickly the heat spikes up in your cheeks and chest at the way he said the compliment to you. It’s like he’s already certain about it. Before you have the chance to take him, his head already leaned down and dipped. He catches your lips in a kiss with his warm lips. The kiss was steady at first but he started to press harder or both of you did. It actually feels like he wants you to melt into him. His thumbs stroke over your waist as the kiss deepens with his breath brushing hot against your cheek. Thirty seconds pass like nothing. His tongue slides against yours, pulling you closer, making your body lean into his.

You’re the one who pulls back first, breathing harder than you meant to. “Art…” The smile he gives you is all trouble, his grip on your waist not loosening. “Couldn’t help it.” The dressing room feels smaller now and the air thicker between you. Satin still clings to your body, but the warmth of his hands is what you feel most. Art’s thumbs ease away from your waist while his eyes still linger while you hold the nightgown against your chest. “C’mere,” he says softly before reaching for the hem. The fabric slides up over your hips with slow care. When the last of it clears your shoulders- you’re standing there in your bra and panties. The cool air prickles your skin.

He reaches for your red dress from the hook. “Arms.” You lift them, and he slips the dress down over your head. The soft, pleated fabric falls easily into place without a zipper to fuss over. His fingers smooth it against your hips before letting go, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Better?” he asks. You nod, still clutching the nightgown in one hand. “Way better. But I’m still taking this.” A few more items catch your eye on the way out-lace matching sets folded neatly on the shelf. They’re delicate enough that the sales assistant doesn’t even suggest trying them on, so you stack them on top of the nightgown without hesitation. Art steps out of the dressing room ahead of you, resting against the wall near the front of the store. “I’ll wait here,” he calls over his shoulder, clearly trusting you to handle the rest.

That trust makes it too easy. The card is already in your bag. It’s exactly where you slipped it earlier. You keep your hand low as you pass it to the cashier. It’s like you’re making sure the gleam of the card doesn’t catch his attention from where he stands. The receipt slides into the bag along with the card disappears back inside. You walk toward him like nothing happened. The moment you step out of the store, the mall’s cool air greets your skin. The paper handles bite lightly against your fingers until he reaches over and takes the bags from you without a word. They’re heavier than they look - satin and lace don’t weigh much, but five, six glossy bags swinging from his hand say otherwise.

He looks perfectly fine carrying them. There’s not a trace of embarrassment. Not even a glance to see if anyone’s watching. Instead, that faint smile stays on his mouth. It’s the kind that makes it hard to tell what’s going through his head. The walk slows when another storefront catches your eye. A wall of handbags glitters under the light. The leather in every shade from cream to deep red. Heat rushes through you at the thought of sliding his card across the counter again. That it will just swipe through it without him saying a word. He notices you staring. “Go on,” he says. “If you want one, get it.”

The tone is too easy. No hesitation. No questioning why. How can he be this oblivious? By now, half the limit’s probably gone. Is he going to get mad later? Maybe he’s saving it for when the statement hits. Maybe he just doesn’t care. The thought should make your chest tighten, but instead, there’s a curl of heat in your stomach. You kind of like the game - seeing how far you can go before he calls you out. Inside, the store smells like leather. Your fingers drift over a black shoulder bag with gold color for the handles and rings to connect them. It feels smooth as butter when you trace the edge. A salesgirl appears, chirping a greeting before slipping into her pitch. You let her talk. The price tag is heavy enough to make your heart skip, but the weight of the card in your bag makes it easy to hand over.

The cashier takes it without looking at first, but when the screen beeps for a signature, their gaze flickers from the name printed in bold letters to your face. There’s a beat too long, a silent “wait” hanging in the air. A small smile curls at your mouth. “It’s his,” you say before they can even open theirs. “He’s right over there.” The cashier glances at Art - leaning against the counter a few feet away, hands still full of pink and black bags, looking like he belongs there. They nod quickly and swipe again. On the way out, he shifts the weight of the bags to one hand so his other can rest on your back. “That's the one you wanted?”

“Mhm.” You don’t look at him when you answer. “Looks good,” he says, giving the faintest tug at the strap once it’s on your shoulder. “We’ll see if it lasts longer than the last one.” The teasing tone almost makes you trip. Does that mean he’s been keeping track? A few stores later, you end up in another fitting room - not lingerie this time, but a deep green dress that caught your eye on the mannequin. He slips inside with you without asking, settling in the corner as you shimmy it over your hips. “Turn,” he says, voice low but not sharp. You do. The fabric sways lightly with the motion, hugging your waist before flaring at the hem. His eyes track every inch, slow enough that your pulse starts to thrum.

“Again.” The second spin makes the skirt lift a little higher, and it brushes the top of your thighs. He’s leaning forward when you face him, forearms on his knees. Gaze fixed on the way the dress sits against your chest. “Mm,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours. “It’s good. But I think the red one’s still my favorite.” The faint vibration of a phone breaks the moment. He pulls it from his pocket, thumb brushing the screen. His brows lift slightly - just for a second - before the phone disappears again. Your stomach twists. Bank notification? He doesn’t say a thing.

Instead, he stands, takes the dress from you, and hangs it back on the hook. “Let’s check out,” he says simply, then hands you your own bag so he can take the rest. He’s still holding all of them by the time you leave the store, arm hooked easily under the weight, like the evening’s nothing more than another Friday night. The bags cut into his fingers, but it isn’t enough to bother him. What catches his attention isn’t the weight - it’s how light you look walking ahead, swinging that new bag on your shoulder like it’s been yours for years.

Something’s off tonight and he knows it. It started back at the restaurant when you snatched the bill before he could reach for it. That never happens. He can count on one hand the times you’ve paid for dinner, and even then, it was only because he’d forgotten his wallet at home or you’d lost a bet. Tonight, you’re pulling your card out like it’s nothing. Except it isn’t your card. When the waiter took it from you, he caught a flash of the black surface. He knows his own card. Knows the exact scratch near the corner where it rubbed against his money clip. He just didn’t say anything.

The same thing happened in Victoria’s Secret. You didn’t even give him the chance to reach for his wallet. Straight to the counter, hand low, hiding the strip from view. It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t already watching. Another store. Another swipe. Another little performance. He should call you out, but he doesn’t. Not yet. The phone buzzed in his pocket earlier confirming it. Bank notification. Amount tall enough to make most people stop in their tracks. He didn’t. Just slid the phone away, because it’s almost more fun seeing how far you’ll take it. “Want to hit another one?” he asks as you slow in front of a shoe store. Your head tilts. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, shifting the bags to his other hand. “I’ll wait while you look.” You disappear into the aisles of heels and boots. From his spot near the mirrors, he watches you pick through sizes, slip a pair on, twist in front of the glass. The sight makes his chest pull tight. You’re not just shopping. You’re playing. When the boxes start stacking on the counter, he follows, standing close enough to catch the cashier’s eyes flick to the name on the card. They pause. Then their gaze jumps to him. His mouth curves just enough to answer whatever question they’re holding back. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”

The bags are in his hands again a moment later. He doesn’t even pretend to let you carry them. By the time you stop at the last clothing store, it’s like he’s waiting for it - the fitting room door clicking shut behind the both of you, the way you step out in another dress, spinning under the light. “Again,” he says, leaning against the wall. The skirt lifts higher this time. He takes his time looking before giving a small nod. “Yeah. That one’s good. We’re getting it.” You smile like it’s your idea, like you’re the one in control tonight. He doesn’t correct you. Not until you’re home.

The mall sliding door opens automatically when the sensor senses you in front of it and you step out of the mall. You can feel the cold air immediately rush against your skin and it feels cold despite its cooler temperature inside the mall. The weight of the last shopping bag tugs at your wrist, but Art’s already sliding it from your hand before you can even adjust your grip. His palm brushes the side of your hip in the process, casual enough to pass as nothing… except you’ve seen that look flicker in his eyes since earlier. The one he got the second you stepped out of your room in that red dress. “Keys,” he says, not even glancing as you hand them over. He leads the way to the car as the bags swing easily at his side while you follow and phone tucked in your palm.

His shoulder shifts as he walks behind you. Broad and steady as always like he’s already thinking about home. He drops the shopping bags he can’t even count now in the back of the car once both of you reach it. You’re the one who went inside first and is sitting pretty in the passenger seat while he’s arranging the bags before he slides behind the wheel. The soft thump of the doors closing traps the faint scent of his cologne. It smells the same and is still not going away from his body after a long time of being outside. His hand automatically settles lazily on the gear shift before the other is on the steering wheel. “Had fun?” He asks with his voice low and he throws a glance in your direction. It lingers longer than it needs to be without him saying anything. You hum while watching the glow of passing streetlights paint his jawline in amber. “Mm. Yeah. Did you?” A small smirk curves his mouth. “I’m enjoying the view.”

“We literally spent the whole night walking around.” Words coming out of your mouth sound sassy but there is no bite with it. Still, you gave him a roll from your eyes, but his comment made it impossible not to smile. “Mmhm,” he murmurs before turning onto his street. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.” It doesn’t take long to get home but it makes your heart beat faster than normal when the familiar shape of his house welcomes the both of you. He kills the engine, steps out, and circles to your side before you can reach for anything. Every bag is out of your hands before you even get your seatbelt off. Inside, the quiet swallows you both. The click of the door locking behind him echoes in the dimly lit living room.

Art drops the pile of shopping bags on the couch. The glossy handles tangling together in a bright contrast against the dark cushions. “You bought a lot,” he says. He's soft but with his eyes still dragging over you like he’s counting every piece you’re wearing. “You were there.” The weight of your shoes feels heavy after hours on your feet. So you decided to slip them off and nudge them aside. “Mm.” He steps in it’s close enough to smell the scent of him that you always love. His hand brushes your waist as he reaches past to set one smaller bag upright on the couch. Knuckles grazing your hip on the way back.

“You okay?” Tilting your head, you search his face for something in the quiet. Another hum rumbles low in his chest. “Perfect. Just thinking… should’ve told you to skip the mall.” His gaze drops first to your mouth, then the neckline of your dress, then back to your eyes. “Why?” Your brow shifted when you asked that. “Would’ve had you to myself hours ago.” His hand stays at your waist now, thumb stroking over the dip there, pulling the space tighter until your fronts nearly brush. Heat prickles down your spine, but your voice stays soft. “You had me there too.” His mouth curves just a little. “Not how I wanted.” The words are low but thick with meaning. For a moment, it feels like the only thing happening between the two of you is the sound coming from the air conditioner here downstairs that was forgotten to turn it off when both of you left for dinner.

His thumb keeps brushing your waist like he doesn’t want to let go. “See? This is why I said we should’ve just stayed in,” he murmurs before his eyes dip to the way the dress clings to your hips. “Could’ve had you wearing this all night..” A small laugh slips out, but the heat in your cheeks gives you away. “I’m taking a shower first.” That has his head tipping down, a low, dissatisfied sound leaving his chest. “You smell fine.” His hand drags slowly over your side. You know he’s doing this to convince you not to shower and change your mind as if he doesn’t already know that when you set your mind about something, the convincing will be harder than this. “C’mon, let me go with you. I’ll be quick.”

“No,” you say while trying to keep your voice firm even though the pull in his tone makes your stomach twist. “Not tonight.” His fingers leave your waist, but the sulk is obvious in the way he looks at you-mouth pressed into a faint pout, eyes still heavy on your skin. “Fine. Go ahead.” You head upstairs, carrying the small Victoria’s Secret bag with you. The new nightgown is inside, silky and soft, something you hadn’t even planned to wear this soon. It ends up laid out on your bed while you disappear into the bathroom.

Hot water runs over your shoulders, washing away the stale air from the mall and the heat from his touch, but his clinginess sticks to you like steam. By the time you’re done, your hair is damp against your back and the towel’s tucked around your chest. He’s waiting at the top of the stairs when you step out. His eyes drop instantly. “That towel’s barely covering anything,” he says, voice low and edged with something heavier than before. “You sure you don’t want me to-”

“Just go to the shower,” you cut in, moving past him so he can enter inside. Another low sound leaves him, almost a growl this time, before his footsteps retreat into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and the water starts running again. While he’s inside, you unwrap the towel and pull the nightgown over your skin. The silk settles lightly against you and slides over the dampness in your body that is still clinging to your shoulders. It’s shorter than you remembered in the store. Your eyes settled on your reflection in the mirror. The thin traps, lace, and the outline of your breast are evident and bring out the best of your features.

After you take your time looking at yourself, you sit on the edge of your bed. You can’t help the thought that creeps in. He’s been here all night. Close enough to see every little thing, yet he still hasn’t gone looking for that damn card. And it’s not like he’s forgotten. He’s just… waiting. For what? You don’t know. The sound of the water coming from the shower is loud enough to be heard by you and for some reason it made the room heavier. Maybe it’s the tension. However, the shower barely runs long enough for the steam to fully build. You know it’s not his usual shower time because how long does he shower tonight? Too short. Maybe five minutes. Eight at most. It’s too quick for him to be doing anything but rinsing off. It leaves the smug part of you certain that he’s rushing just to get back in front of you.

So you relax there with your back leaning against the pillows with your phone in hand. The phone in your hand keeps you busy by making your thumb scroll fast enough to skim it and keep you from thinking about that little thing you did today. There’s a quiet creak from it when the bathroom door opens. His footsteps are quiet but steady across the room. You don’t have to look in his direction to feel his presence as he’s already walking towards you. His bare chest still damp, hair dripping at the ends, and towel slung low around his hips. The mattress dips a little at your side when he stops on your side. A warm shadow falls over your shoulder as he leans down. His breath found the skin just above the lace edge of your nightgown and he moved closer to press a slow and open-mouthed kiss into your collarbone.

“Not even gonna look at me?” His voice is low. It’s teasing and vibrating against your skin as his mouth moves to the curve of your neck. “I’m busy.” You keep your eyes on your phone. “With what? Instagram?” His voice sounds sarcastic while his mouth is still working on it. “I just got out of the shower. You’re gonna ignore me?” The corner of your phone tilts as his hand slides over your thigh, fingers brushing the silk. “You showered, really? How long? Five minutes?” you murmur while you’re trying to sound unaffected even though your pulse has started tapping against your ribs. “That’s suspicious.” He chuckles, low and close to your ear. “Or maybe I just didn’t see the point in wasting time when you’re here dressed like this.” Another kiss lands, this one longer, lips dragging over your skin. “Now put the phone down.”

You finally set the phone down on the nightstand, screen going dark as you shift your attention to him. He’s still standing at the side of the bed with his body bent low enough that his chest almost brushes yours. The body temperature from being freshly out of the shower mixes with the coldness of the room that is clinging to his skin. His hand stays fixed on your thigh and palm warm through the silk. There are droplets from his damp hair sliding down and landing on your collarbone. You can feel it rolling under the edge of your nightgown. “Do you notice if something’s missing?” You ask because the guilt can’t take it anymore, but you tried your best to make your voice sound innocent and even. Gaze stuck in his face and watched each reaction closely. He tilts his head like he doesn’t know that shit you pulled today while his mouth curves slightly but disappears quickly as if he’s trying not to grin. “Missing?” The word comes out slowly as if he’s giving himself time to think. “From where?”

“You tell me.” Instead of answering, his lips brush the spot where one of the water drops landed. He’s pressing a kiss there before moving lazily toward your shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean,” he just gave back the same answer. The faux innocence he is showing is really believable at this point. That little manipulator. What a secret talent of his that you don’t know. “You really don’t?” Confusion is evident with your words like you are having a question mark moment in your head about how he can’t be this stupid and oblivious about his personal things. Your fingers twitch under his touch, more from irritation than nerves. When he hums, it sounds like he is even considering dropping the act but he doesn't. Instead, he lets out a quiet and amused breath. “If I was missing something, I’d know.” His mouth trails over the neckline of your nightgown. The heat of each kiss seeped through the thin fabric. “You’re acting like you have no idea,” you say before shifting just enough to catch his eyes.

“I don’t.” He smirks, leaning in until his lips are at your jaw. “But I’m enjoying you accusing me while wearing this.” His hand automatically squeezes in your flesh like he’s trying to prove a point by making the silk material stretch under his palm. Another drop of water falls from his hair. It’s sliding down the center of your chest, and his gaze follows it before his mouth does. The smirk stays as his hand drags lower. Fingers bunching the hem of your nightgown. The silk slides over your skin when he pushes it up and down again. It’s slow enough to make you squirm. His knuckles brush your stomach before the fabric gets tugged down past your breast. It leaves it bare while the rest hangs loose underneath.

“Art-” Your voice sharpens, but he cuts you off by leaning down. His mouth catches the curve of your breast, lips warm, breath slow like he has all night. “What?” he mumbles against your skin, his tongue teasing over the spot just above your nipple. “I’m just here. Not sure why you’re looking at me like that.” There’s a frustrated breath escaping from your mouth before you even try to hold it in. “Because you know what I’m talking about.” His head tilted enough to catch your eyes like he’s trying to say something that you can’t just figure out. It’s looking maddeningly calm. “Do I?” He asks like he doesn’t really know what you’re doing and clearly, he’s enjoying it. “You’re… ngh-” His mouth is on you again, sucking this time until the sound you meant to make comes out broken. “You’re impossible.” You can’t even think of better words to jokingly insult him like you always do. “I’m what?” His teeth graze lightly, then he kisses the mark he just made. “Say it again.”

“Seriously.” Your tone flattens as your patience runs thin, but your hand still finds his shoulder, fingers curling into damp fabric. “I took your card.” His lips take a pause and the corner of his mouth lifts so fast that it indicates that he already knew about it. “Oh?” The word is low, amused. “Guess that explains the bags downstairs.” The nonchalance in his voice makes heat rise in your chest for all the wrong reasons. “You’re seriously not mad?” He doesn’t answer with words but it’s with his actions. His mouth closes around your nipple to suck it until your back arches more and your body presses more into him. A low sound slips from your throat before you can stop it. Your hand is tightening in his damp hair. “Art-” He pops off slowly, the wet sound making your skin prickle. “Why would I be?” His eyes stay on yours while his hand slides down your side, fingertips brushing your hip before settling on your thigh. “Maybe my money is your money.”

“That’s not-” The words break when his thumb presses just above your knee and drags higher, pushing the hem of your nightgown with it. “Or maybe,” he goes on with his voice that sounds almost casual. “I like the idea of you using me.” The pad of his thumb traces the crease where your thigh meets the heat between your legs. It’s slow enough to make your stomach tighten. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter while trying to keep your voice steady, but the fabric between you and his hand is already damp. “Mm. And you’re wet,” he says, pressing his palm over your clothed pussy like he’s confirming it for himself. His mouth lowers again, teeth grazing the nipple he left flushed, and the smirk against your skin tells you he’s nowhere near done.

Your mind is still on the card, on the money, on the fact that he hasn’t even asked how much you spent, and yet his hand stays pressed over your pussy like that’s all that matters. “Art-” The sharpness in your voice falters when his palm shifts, cupping you just enough to make your thighs twitch. “I’m talking about what I did with your-” He cuts you off with a slow rub of his thumb through the fabric, eyes locked on your face. “Mm. I’m talking about how fucking wet you are.” He said it with a low and deep voice like he’s showing you that he doesn’t give an ounce of a fuck about what you are trying to say to him. The heat immediately sneaks to your neck before you try to shove his wrist away but he’s stronger than you so it doesn’t move. “That’s not- God, that’s not the point.”

“It is to me.” His mouth ghosts over the curve of your breast again, lips brushing sensitive skin while his fingers flex between your legs. The damp spot is spreading, and he knows it. “You can keep talking about money if you want. I’ll keep thinking about this.” Frustration bubbles up, but it tangles with the shiver running down your spine. “You’re impossible.” Cheeks are heating up but legs keep opening for him. “And you’re not taking this off,” he says suddenly, pinching the hem of your nightgown between his fingers before letting it fall back against your hip. “Leave it on.” The faint smirk on his lips makes your stomach clench. “Why?” Your voice sounds smaller than you expect.

“Because I want to fuck you in it.” He leans in, his breath warm against your chest as his thumb rubs slow, soft circles over your clothed clit. “That’s why.” The mattress dips under his weight when Art finally climbs up. He settles between your open legs. His towel hangs low on his hips and the ends brush against your thighs as he kneels. One large hand stays pressed over your panties before his palm starts grinding against you in slow steady circles. The movement keeps stealing the air from your lungs. Looking up at him from the pillows, your legs hook loosely around his hips. Toes trace along the knot of his towel until it loosens under the teasing push of your foot.

His smirk deepens, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s already won something. “Hmm?” His thumb drags over the damp patch in the center of your panties. “You want this off me that bad?” Your voice comes out softer than intended. “I just… thought maybe you’d want to.” But if you are honest, you are the one who wants it off. “I do,” he says, leaning down so his chest nearly brushes your knees, “but I like you like this more.” His palm presses harder, making your hips lift into the touch. “You still didn’t ask,” you breathe, trying to keep your focus. “About the card. About-” Words cut immediately by him and not letting you finish the same though occurring in your mind. “Oh, I noticed.” His tone shifts, low and amused, while he rubs slowly and softly over your clit through the fabric.

“Watched you buy every single thing like it was your money. Like you didn’t know I was the one paying for it.” Heat spreads across your chest. One part of it is embarrassment and the other part is something else you don’t want to name. “I wasn’t-” You tried to fight it but realized you won’t win since he already has you locked between his body. “Mm, you were.” His fingers curl in the waistband of your panties, not pulling yet, just keeping you on edge. “Almost made me do something in one of those dressing rooms. Just so I could say it while you were trying to keep quiet.” His words basically made your heart… and pussy beat. “Say what?” Your eyes locked with his and your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “That I know,” he murmurs, finally tugging the fabric down over your hips with unhurried movements. “That I’m letting you.” The panties slide down your thighs, the slow drag of the cotton making you shiver. “And that I like it.”

The towel is gone now, pushed down by your restless feet, but his eyes stay locked on your face as he tosses your panties aside. The smugness in his expression hasn’t faded, but his hand returns between your legs immediately, fingers slipping through your folds like they belong there. “See?” he says, pushing two fingers against your slit without entering yet. “All that money, and this is still the best thing I get from you.” His fingers spread your folds to find your clit. He’s pressing slow and deep circles that make your stomach twist. The rough heat of his palm drags over sensitive skin with each pass, and your thighs tighten instinctively around his hips.

His attention is fixed on the way your body reacts to him. When the fabric falls open, he lets it slide down and off the bed, leaving him bare and heavy between your legs. “You’re so wet,” he mutters, rubbing tighter against your clit until you gasp. “All that shopping… was it for you, or was it for me?” Your breath catches. “You liked it. Picking out shit while I stood there, watching you spend my money.” Your hips twitch up into his hand to chase the friction. His thumb presses harder to roll over your clit in tight circles while his other hand slides to your thigh to hold you still. Heat rushes to your face as the words push out in a shaky exhale. “Yes- I l-liked it.”

“Mm. You looked so sweet pretending it was all yours. Had me half-hard watching you walk out of the store like that.” His grin widens with his teeth flashing briefly before his gaze drifts down to where his hand is working between your legs. “Nghh-” Your voice stumbles over the sound as your knees pull tighter around his hips. “Keep making that face,” he says, moving faster against your clit now, his tone almost conversational like he’s enjoying every second of making you admit it. “Almost had to bend you over one of those racks. Just to show you how much I liked it too.” He just repeats what he told you a moment ago, but he can’t help the times he ‘almost’ does something in public many times today.

His hand shifts, two fingers sliding down and pressing at your entrance before pushing in slowly, stretching you around the thickness. Your breath shivers out as your hips tilt up so the heel of his palm still grinds against your clit. He leans down without warning and his mouth catches the swell of your breast. His teeth grazing before his lips close around your nipple. The pull of his mouth sends a sharp ache through your chest. Your hands fly to his shoulders to clutch as his fingers curl inside you. “Mmhh- f-fuck-” The sound breaks out of you when he suckles harder, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. “God, you feel good,” he says against your skin, his voice muffled but still rough.

His fingers pump deeper, knuckles nudging your cunt while his palm never stops rubbing the needy spot above. “You can spend every damn cent if it means I get to fuck this tight pussy after.” The words make your core clench around him, and you push down into his hand, chasing it. His free arm brackets your side as his chest presses closer, mouth switching to your other nipple and pulling a louder cry from you. “Yeah,” he mutters when he feels you tighten again, “just like that. Ride my fingers.” Your hips rock in a messy rhythm as you grind up against him. He exhales sharply when the head of his cock drags along your thigh. The feeling of him is heavy and insistent. It leaves slick streaks on your skin as he grinds against it.

“Shit-” His jaw tenses, eyes dropping to watch himself move against your leg while still fucking you with his fingers. “No other man could afford you. No one else could keep up with what you need.” Your legs tremble where they hang on his hips, every thrust of his hand pushing you closer. “Nnnhh- hhaaah-” Lips so close to bleeding since you can’t stop biting them to suppress your sounds even though no one can hear it beside him. “Look at you,” he says, lifting his head to see your face, “getting off while I tell you that. You like hearing it, don’t you?” His fingers slide out slowly, wet and warm from being buried inside you, and the loss makes your walls twitch around nothing. Before you can whine for more, his cockhead drags along your folds, catching on your entrance just enough to push the tip in.

The stretch is barely there-just enough to tease-before he pulls back and does it again, rubbing that thick crown over your slit until your clit throbs from the friction. “Mmnnnhh-hahhh-” Your hips roll without you meaning to, trying to take more, but he keeps his hand firm on your hip. “Not yet,” he says low, the heat of his breath hitting your cheek as his cock nudges you again, only the tip slipping inside before he pulls back. “Gonna make you feel every inch when I give it to you… But right now? Just this.” The head pushes in deeper this time, stretching you just past the edge of relief, then slides out slowly so your slick clings to him. A sharp whimper escapes before you can stop it. Your thighs are trembling against his.

“You like that? You’re squeezing me and I’m not even inside yet.” His voice is smug, dragging the tip through your folds again, coating himself in your wetness. “Y-yes- nnghh, fuck-” Your answer comes out broken. “Yeah,” he mutters, watching the way his cock glistens. “Knew you would.” While his hips keep that maddening rhythm, his free hand reaches up to curl into the neckline of your nightgown. The thin fabric stretches before sliding down over your shoulders and it catches under your breasts until it bunches at your stomach. Both tits spill free, flushed from his mouth’s earlier work. His eyes drop instantly, and he lets out a low grunt. “There she is. Fuck, look at you.”

The tip presses into you again, holding there just long enough to make your breath stutter, before he pulls back to drag it over your clit. “Haaah- n-no, please-” Your hands clutch at his arms, your back arching when the broad head pushes in half an inch again, your pussy sucking at him greedily. “Begging already,” he says, smiling against your cheek. “Haven’t even given you half.” The teasing continues and the tip slides in then out before rubbing slow circles against your clit until your legs shake. His cock twitches against you. The leaked slick warmth that mixes with your own. It’s making every glide wetter and filthier. The broad crown of his cock glides through your folds again. Coated with pre cum and feel heavy. It catches at your entrance only to pull away before you can take him in. Each pass makes you wetter and makes your clit throbbing from the constant drag. His palm stays firm on your hip to keep you right where he wants you while his other hand squeezes the soft swell of your breast. He’s thumbing over your nipple until it hardens under his touch.

“Mmmnhh- h-hahhh-” The sound slips out before you can bite it back, and your thighs press closer around him. “Yeah, I know,” he murmurs, cock rubbing through your mess until the head catches again and sinks just an inch inside. The stretch makes you gasp, but he pulls out before your walls can close around him. “You want more? Work for it.” Confusion flickers across your face, but then you see the curve of his mouth. “Card’s busted from today,” he says, voice low and amused. “So if you’re gonna spend my money like that… you’re gonna earn every inch of this cock.” Heat rushes to your cheeks, but your pussy clenches at his words. “You can spend it all if it means I get to fuck this tight pussy after.” His hips roll forward, the tip pushing in deeper than before, dragging a raw whimper from you. He grunts at the squeeze, his jaw clenching.

“Shit… you’re already choking me and I’m barely in.” The teasing becomes a slow rhythm-press in, pull back, drag over your clit until your legs shake. Your hands clutch his shoulders for balance, but he only smirks and keeps you hovering on the edge. “Feels so good,” you breathe out, trying to grind down for more, but his grip stops you short. “Yeah, it does,” he mutters, looking down at the glistening head of his cock as it slides against you. “We can both finish like this. Don’t even need to fuck you all the way to ruin you.” Your clit catches on the ridge of his crown again and your back arches. “Nnnnnghh- no n-no-” His smirk deepens, the weight of his body pressing heavier between your thighs as if he’s already decided how long he’s going to drag this out.

“That nightgown’s a problem,” he says, voice dropping, eyes flicking over the rumpled fabric bunched under your tits. His hand slides up your stomach with his slow and warm hand until his thumb brushes just under the curve of your breast. “Looks like it was made for me to push it up and fuck you in it.” Before you can answer, his hips surge forward, burying his cock in you all at once. The thick stretch rips the air from your lungs and your nails sink into his shoulders. “Ahhhhn- f-fuck-” spills from your lips, high and broken. The heat of him is overwhelming, every inch sliding in until his hips meet yours. “God, there you go,” he grunts, still holding your hip steady as your walls clamp around him. “Knew you’d take it like that.” His cock throbs deep inside you and it’s stretching you wide. The ridge drags against that tender spot until your toes curl.

Your head tips back into the pillow with breath catching as the fullness settles into a needy feeling. “Feels- haaahh- so good-” He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear. “Better than your little shopping spree?” His tone drips with mock sweetness, but the curl of his mouth says he knows exactly what you did with his card. “Y-yeah-nghh, f-feels better-” He pulls back just enough to thrust in again, harder this time, making the bed frame jolt. “That’s right.” His lips ghost down your jaw. His teeth grazing your skin as his hips start in a slow and soft grind. Each push drives him deep and then keeps him there before forcing you to feel the way his cock fills you to the hilt. “Feel much better, huh?” A whimper escapes when he rocks in deep again. His hand slides up your side until it catches your breast in his palm. He squeezes with his thumb circling the nipple as his thrusts get tighter. It’s more controlled like he’s savoring how your body reacts.

“Art-” Your thighs tremble against his hips, and he chuckles low in his chest. “You’re not leaving this bed,” he murmurs, rolling his hips just enough for the thick head to drag across your sweet spot again. “I’m fucking you until you can’t walk to the damn closet, let alone a store.” The words burn hot in your stomach, and when his hand drags down to cup the curve of your ass, pulling you flush to meet his next thrust, your moan breaks open and fills the room. The slow grind starts first, his cock dragging thick through you until your walls flutter around him. Your toes curl against the sheets when he pulls back halfway, only to sink right back in with a low grunt. The stretch feels even bigger after each tease, the head brushing your sweet spot until your breath catches.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” he growls. His fingers flex against your hip as he sets a steady pace. Each thrust is deep but unhurried like he’s testing how many times he can make your breath hitch before you break. A soft sound slips from your lips. “Nghh-” His gaze flicks to your mouth, then down to where your bodies meet, and his jaw tightens. “Keep making those sounds for me.” He pushes deeper, hips rolling so his pelvis grinds against your clit before he eases out again. “Feels so good-” Your back arches without meaning to, the pleasure curling hot and low. “Yeah?” His voice rumbles low, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Then take it.”

He adjusts his angle, bracing one arm around your head as the other grips under your thigh. The shift opens you wider, and when he thrusts this time, the stroke hits harder, his cock pressing deep against that tender spot until your nails dig into his shoulders. “Ahhh- nnghh-” You gasp, legs trembling around him. “Right there,” he mutters, watching your reaction closely. “You like that, don’t you?” You nod quickly, breathless. “Y-yes-hahhh-” He grunts in approval and keeps the same angle. He’s driving into you with a slow, firm rhythm that leaves you clenching helplessly. His free hand slides up your body before squeezing your breast and his thumb circles your nipple, the rough pad brushing until it hardens under his touch.

“God, you feel good,” he says with a low and thick voice. “Like you’re trying to keep me in there. You are, aren’t you?” Your walls tighten again at his words, and he chuckles against your throat before dragging his tongue over your skin. “M-maybe-” A shaky breath escapes you. “Not maybe,” he corrects, thrusting in deep enough to make your voice stutter. “You are.” The steady drag of his cock sends heat rushing through you, each grind against your clit making your legs tremble harder. His breathing grows heavier, warm against your neck, but his pace stays maddeningly controlled-enough to make you feel every inch without letting you tip over the edge.

“Gonna keep you like this for a while,” he says, pulling back slow before pushing in to the hilt again. “Stuffed full and squirming.” heating faster than you can manage. Every drag of his cock makes you shiver, the pressure on your sweet spot building until it’s all you can focus on. Your fingers twitch against his shoulders, the need for something more coiling in your chest. “Art…” The way his name slips out is softer than you mean it to be, almost pleading. He glances down, catching the way your mouth parts around a shaky breath. “What is it?” He says lowly, but there’s a smirk tugged in his mouth.

You wet your lips, swallowing a small whimper. “Kiss…” His brows lift slightly, but the next thrust is slower, heavier. “Want a kiss?” His hand slides up the side of your neck and his thumb brushes your jaw until his mouth finds yours. The kiss is deep from the start. His tongue slips into meet yours while his hips keep moving. Each push timed to the pull of his mouth. The sound you make against him is half-moan, and half-breath. Your chest presses against his as you kiss him back harder. He breaks away just long enough to murmur, “Could keep you like this all night,” before his lips claim yours again. When his hand drifts down you can feel the tips of his fingers skim your belly before finding your clit. The first touch makes your whole body jolt and a gasp catches in your throat.

“Ffffhh-” Your legs tighten around his hips, your walls fluttering around him as his thumb begins slow, teasing circles over your clit. “Yeah… there you go.” He watches your face while he works on you. He keeps his strokes firm but unhurried. He’s making sure each one matches the push of his cock. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Your hips rock without thinking, chasing the friction from both sides. “Uhhnn-yes-yes-” His pace picks up slightly, hips snapping forward just enough to jolt you while his thumb presses harder against your clit. “Thought so.” The mix of feelings made your breathing ragged and your body shake. Fingers wrapped around his hair like you don’t want him to go and it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your head tips back when his mouth trails along your throat. The warm feeling of his breath makes your skin shiver.“Art-hahhh-”

“Keep saying my name like that,” he murmurs. He’s dragging the head of his cock over that tender spot inside until your moan breaks open. His thumb never leaves your clit. You feel him rubbing tighter and faster circles that make your thighs tremble against him. He groans when your pussy clenches down around him again. “God… you’re gripping me so fucking hard.” His hips press in deep and hold there, letting his thumb work your clit until your voice comes out in soft, desperate sounds that fill the room. His pace slows until it’s almost lazy, each deep push making your walls flutter around him before he eases out. The last thrust drags long enough to make your clit throb then he pulls free completely. The sudden emptiness makes your hips twitch, but before you can catch your breath.

His hands grip under your thighs. “C’mere,” he mutters. His voice sounds low and steady. The mattress dips as he drops back. He’s stretching out on his side before rolling onto his back. His grip stays firm as he guides you over him to pull you until your spine rests against his chest. Heat radiates off his skin and the faint dampness from earlier still clinging to him. One arm wraps around your middle to hold you close, while his other hand steers your hips down. The thick weight of his cock slides between your folds before the tip catches at your entrance before sinks in with a slow, heavy push. Your breath spills out shaky as your body stretches around him again, the angle forcing him deeper from the start. “Hhhnghh-” slips from your throat, legs instinctively tightening over his.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your ear, lips brushing the shell as his cock bottoms out in one unhurried stroke. “That’s it.” The arm locked around you tightens, pressing your back flush to his chest. His hips roll under you, the movement pushing him deeper while his hand on your thigh urges your legs wider. The drag inside you is thick and unrelenting, every stroke pulling a small sound from your throat. “Feels different like this, doesn’t it?” His voice is warm against the side of your neck. Each word humming into your skin. Head resting on his shoulder and your eyes are having a hard time keeping them open with the way his cock is rubbing on the spot making your thighs shake. “Y-yeah-”

There’s a low grunt rumble from him before his hips pick up again and start in a slow rhythm. He’s pulling almost all the way out before pushing back to the hilt. The movement rocks you in his hold as your hands grip his forearm for balance. His lips find your jaw to press a kiss there before dragging down to your neck. “God, you feel tight as fuck,” he says. A rough edge slips into his voice as his thrusts get a little harder. “Like you’re trying to keep me in.” Your legs press against his, your toes curling when his arm squeezes you closer. The angle makes it impossible to move much on your own-every shift comes from him, from the steady grind of his hips under you, from the way he lifts you just enough to drop you back down on his cock.

“Hhhahhh-” You can’t stop the sounds spilling out, your head turning slightly when his mouth trails over the curve of your shoulder. “That’s it. Keep making those sounds.” His hands settle on your breast as your nipples settle between his fingers and he starts rolling them there. Cock drives into you in deep, dragging strokes. The pressure against your clit builds with every grind of his pelvis. The heat is curling tighter low in your belly. Your hips jolt when he thrusts harder and the wetness slides louder now. Slick clinging to the base of his cock. His breath gets heavier against your ear, and each low grunt sends another shiver down your spine. “Not stopping ‘til you’re shaking,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your nipple again before his hand returns to your thigh, holding you wide open for him. “So you better get used to this.”

His arm stays locked around your waist to keep you tight to his chest while the other hand slides up to your breast. Fingers spread over the soft curve before catching your nipple between them. He’s rolling until it hardens under his touch. Each slow thrust from beneath makes your tits bounce in his grip, and his breath heats the side of your neck. “God, I love these in my hands,” he murmurs, giving a rough squeeze before dragging his thumb across the sensitive tip. A shiver rolls through you, and your hips jolt when his cock pushes in deeper. The angle leaves you stuffed full, each stroke rubbing thick against your walls.

“Mmfhh-hahhh-” slips past your lips, the sound making his chest rumble with a quiet grunt. “That’s it,” he says low, mouth brushing your ear. “Keep making those little noises.” His fingers keep teasing your nipple, pinching lightly before rolling again. The other arm stays braced tight across your middle, holding you down each time his hips lift to meet yours. Heat builds fast between your legs, the pressure against your clit pulsing with every grind of his pelvis. Then his mouth curves against your skin. “Touch yourself.” You turn your head slightly and catch the glint in his eyes over your shoulder. “Wh-what-?” His hand on your breast squeezes harder.

“Rub your clit for me.” The order sends a flush down your neck, and your hand slides lower. When your fingertips find the swollen nub, the first slow circle drags a soft gasp from you. “Yeah… just like that.” His voice dips rougher as his hips thrust up again, the motion pressing your fingers tighter against yourself. “Want to feel you get even wetter.” The wet sound between your legs grows louder with every pass of your fingers. It mixes with the deep glide of his cock. His teeth catch your earlobe before his tongue flicks over it. The sensation makes your thighs twitch. “Fffhh-ohh-” Your hand keeps moving, thumb now stroking while your middle finger presses down in quick circles.

“Look at you,” he grunts, his thrusts growing heavier beneath you. “Rubbing that sweet little clit while I’m buried inside you.” Your head tips back against his shoulder, mouth falling open as the pleasure sharpens. The tight hold around your waist doesn’t loosen-if anything, he squeezes you closer, grinding his cock in deeper while you work yourself faster. “Fuck-feels so good like this,” you breathe. The words shaky as your fingers keep the rhythm. His chest vibrates with another low grunt. “Don’t stop. I wanna feel you squeeze me when you come.”

The more your fingers work over your clit, the shakier your legs get. Thighs tense, toes curl, and the muscles in your calves start trembling against his. Heat builds faster now, every deep grind of his cock pushing you closer until you can barely breathe through the pressure. “Please-” Your hand falters, hips shifting forward like you’re trying to get away from the intensity. The arm around your waist tightens instantly. “No,” he murmurs against your ear, low and warm, “stay right here.” Another hard thrust has you gasping, and your body instinctively tries to inch forward again. His grip doesn’t budge. “Art-too-”

“Too what?” he asks, still holding you in place. You whimper instead of answering, hips jerking when his cockhead drags slowly against your sweet spot. Then his hand leaves your breast, sliding down over your stomach until his palm covers your mound. “Trying to run from me?” The question is more of a tease, but before you can deny it, his fingers cup you for a second, then pull back. A sharp slap lands over your pussy, the sound wet and loud between your legs. “Hhhhnnn-!” The sting makes your walls flutter around him. “Stay. Still.” His voice is steady. It’s almost gentle, but his palm lands again. Firmer this time. The slap sends a quick jolt through your clit and making you suck in a sharp breath.

“I-mmfffhh-” The words break into another moan when he thrusts up at the same time. His palm rubs over the spot he just hit, soothing for a second before delivering another smack that has you gasping into his neck. “That’s it baby… keep that ass on me.” Your thighs shake harder, the angle forcing every inch of him deep while your clit throbs from the mix of your own touch and his slaps. “That’s better.” His lips press to your temple, and his cock grinds up again. “Now- rub it. Slowly.” Your fingers slip between your folds again, finding the swollen nub and stroking in small circles. The combination of his thick cock filling you and the extra friction makes you cry out, your head tipping back against his shoulder.

“There we go,” he grunts, kissing along your jaw while keeping your hips pinned. “You feel that? You’re not going anywhere ‘til I’m done with you.” Your thighs tremble harder, the rhythm on your clit slipping as the pleasure crests. Every thrust from beneath feels heavier, dragging over the exact spot that pushes you over the edge. “Ahhh- please-” Your voice breaks, back arches against his chest. The orgasm crashes through you in waves, hips twitching while your cunt tightens around him in quick, pulsing squeezes. “Fuck- there it is,” he growls, arm locking across your middle to keep you pinned.

Your hand falters, trying to slow down, but he catches your wrist and pulls it away from your clit. “No more,” he murmurs, tossing your hand aside. “Let me.” His hips start moving again before you’ve even caught your breath. “Hhhhnnn- nghh, too-!” The first deep thrust knocks a startled moan out of you, your body jolting from the sudden push. “Too good,” he corrects, his voice firm but dripping with satisfaction. “I’m fucking you through it.” Each stroke is slow at first. It’s dragging every inch of his cock through your still-spasming walls.

The oversensitivity makes you gasp and squirm, but the arm around your waist stays locked tight. He’s pulling you down onto him every time he thrusts up. “A-ahh- A-art-” The sounds spill out without control, your hands gripping at his forearm for balance. “That’s it, squeeze me… just like that,” he grunts, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You feel how wet you are now?” Another hard thrust has your toes curling, the thick slide of him spreading the slick deeper. His free hand comes back to your breast, kneading while his hips pick up pace. “Mmmhhfhh-c-can’t-”

“You can.” His voice dips low again, breath warm against your cheek. “You’re taking it so well.” The next push hits deep enough that your legs give another sharp shake. He hums in approval, keeping you flush against him so you can’t pull away from the pace. The rhythm turns into steady, heavy strokes-enough to make your breath stutter and your body melt back into him while he rides out every last ripple of your orgasm. His breathing gets heavier, each thrust driving deeper until his hips are hitting flush against your ass. The arm banded across your waist pulls you down harder, making every stroke sink his cock all the way inside.

“Ffffuck-” His groan rumbles against your back, hot air ghosting over your ear. “You’re squeezing the fuck out of me.” The wet slide between your thighs gets messier with every push. The stretch feels fuller now, his cock throbbing in a way that tells you he’s close. “Ahhh- hahhh- mmhh-” Your voice catches with each deep grind with your hands clutching his arm to stay steady. His palm smooths up your stomach and over your chest until he’s cupping your breast again. His thumb is dragging over your nipple while his hips keep their pace. “Hold still for me,” he mutters with his tone low and rough. “I’m not pulling out.” A shiver runs down your spine as your pussy tightens instinctively around him. That reaction draws a sharp grunt from his chest, his cock jerking inside you.

“Shit- just like that- don’t let go,” he urges, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. The movement turns into a series of hard, deep pushes, his thighs flexing under you. The next drive in makes his breath hitch. He stays buried to the hilt, cock twitching as thick heat spills deep inside your cunt. “Fuck-” His forehead presses to your shoulder, the sound of his breathing uneven against your skin. “Take all of it… every drop.” Your walls pulse around him, milking out the last few spurts until his hips slow to lazy rolls, making sure he’s seated as far as he can go. His hand stays on your tit, giving a slow squeeze while the other arm holds you locked in place on his lap. He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he lets his cock rest inside. It’s still twitching faintly as his lips brush the side of your neck. “God, you feel good like this,” he murmurs and his voice low but warm.

Your body feels heavy against him, still catching your breath, the steady throb of his cock inside you keeping you stretched and full. Every small shift makes more of the sticky mess slip down your folds, warmth seeping out even with him still buried to the hilt. “Mmmnhhh-” The sound escapes before you can stop it when his hips roll just enough to stir it all around. “Feel that?” His voice is low in your ear, the words dripping with satisfaction. “All of it still inside you.” His hand leaves your waist to travel up to cup your breast again. Fingers sink in deep before pinching your nipple. He’s rolling it slowly until it hardens under his touch. The other hand slips lower to slide over the soft skin of your thigh before palming the mound between your legs. The move pushes his cock deeper and the pressure makes you squirm.

“Hnghh-” Your hips try to shift, but the arm under your tits pulls you back tight against his chest. “You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your nipple again while his palm rubs lazily over your clit, smearing slick and cum together. “Gonna keep you like this a little longer.” The slow circles on your clit make your breath catch, overstimulation prickling through your nerves. His cock twitches inside you, and you feel another faint spill of heat leak out. “Shit- look at that,” he says, his tone almost like he’s talking to himself. “Still leaking.” Your thighs tighten around his, the mess dripping down to the sheets, but his fingers keep teasing your clit.

The touch is light, more about making you react than pushing you anywhere fast. “God, you make me fucking crazy,” he breathes, kissing the side of your neck before giving your nipple another pinch. “Can’t keep my hands off you.” A shudder runs through you when his cock shifts again. The angle forces a slow grind that makes the mess squish between you. He hums low in approval, dragging his palm over your pussy once more. “Gonna let me keep you like this all night?” he asks against your skin, his voice softer now. “Because I will.”

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⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

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[tsukiusagi180]

Jax x reader

summery: a normal couple's argument, but the couple argues with a gun?

Orders are open!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

"I probably move on"

OuchIt's hurt so much.Especially when it comes from your boyfriend. Jax looked like a real mess right now, his eyes were wide, maybe even too wide, and his gaze was blank.

"Will you forget me? I'm your girlfriend!"

your blood was hot and you were extremely upset, first Jax was your boyfriend, then you were a team for every game and oh did I forget to mention he was your boyfriend?

"Do you think you're special (Y/n) that you're better than Pomni Ragatha or Gangle?"

this time he came closer to you by lowering himself at your height, he approached dangerously, making you step back while his finger tapped your chest.

"You're just a pawn like the others."

"So you're going to forget me like him?"

Fixed Jax is frozen at your comment How dare you talk about him like that? No need for a name to know who you were talking about, we understood perfectly well.

"You act like he never existed, it took you months to acknowledge his existence and tell me about it. Are you going to do the same for me?"

"(Y/n)"

His tone was a warning, you knew you were going too far. You were worse than Jax at that precise moment. But you didn't stop, maybe because everything was getting blurry around you or your heart was breaking?

Who knows?

"Was he your boyfriend like me or just a toy?

Boum.

You looked at him, the gun in his hand. He had won. Very well. You appeared in the losers' room, along with the others. Then finally the ceremony began. You went to sit alone, not far from Ragatha and Pomni. But alone, you watched Jax. You were focused until Caine called your name for a price, you had to look away and when your eyes landed on him again.

Gone

Your blood boiled before you got up and started running around looking for him in the building.

"JAX !"

"shit where was he?"

You were still angry with him, but he was more important than that anger. You were afraid he would ignore it. You finally looked for the toilet and then you saw him.He was standing on the sink, breathing heavily and everything seemed blurry to him, his pupils were blurred. You didn't know what to do so you slowly moved closer, hugging him.You knew it wasn't a miracle solution, you weren't going to calm him down by magic, but if at least you could try

"Jax i'm so sorry..."

"Tch you're pathetic dollface

"He was back, your Jax.

"About earlier Jax, I'm sorry I didn't mean to push you too hard!"

you felt your eyes getting wet,you couldn't afford to be pathetic in front of him no... and yet he was your boyfriend

"Hey"

he hugged you hesitantly at first, then more forcefully

"I love you, I think... I'm scared.."

You were surprised by his confession, it was obvious he was scared. You had understood it for a long time but hearing him say he was scared was something else entirely.

"Jax, it's okay, you have the right, it's... human."

"pff yeah human"

You smiled at him in response before leaning your head towards his for a kiss. It was the best one you could have, and certainly the last.