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erwinsvow · 3 months ago

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𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.

“yeah. okay. thanks.”

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.”

“you too, mister cody.”

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.

��mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.”

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”

“when did you get up?”

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.

“yeah. i had one.”

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh.

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

#why am i so nervous about this #pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #babysitter reader

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viaxslz · 2 months ago

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▦ ﹒ ☆ CALLING THEM BY THIER REAL NAME ⸒ 별 ꜝ ﹫

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: pet names, fluff, nothing much not proofread :P

CHAN

Pet name norm: Normally you call him everything but "Christopher" baby, babe, Channie, cuddlekoala™. he’s used to being absolutely babied. So the first time you go, “Christopher, can you pass me the remote?” His entire system reboots. He blinks at you like you just called him “Mr. Bang” in a courtroom. “Christopher…?” he repeats, slowly, suspiciously. “Are you mad at me? Did I forget an anniversary? Did I leave the fridge open again? Be honest.” 100% thinks he’s in trouble. Starts checking his calendar for any missed events, already texting Jisung like “DID I MESS UP BRO.” You’re just chilling, eating chips. “No? I just felt like it.” He softens like a microwaved marshmallow. “Oh. Okay. Just checking. But also… never do that again.” Gets dramatic: “Calling me Christopher feels like you’re about to divorce me and take the kids I don’t have.” Then pouts for 30 minutes until you call him “baby” again. Suddenly his tail is wagging. “THERE we go.” Lowkey likes it, though. Won’t admit it, but the next time you call him “Christopher” by accident, he gets a little blushy. Bonus: will use it against you if he’s being sulky. “Fine. I guess Christopher isn’t worthy of cuddles tonight.” You: “…what is wrong with you.”

MINHO

Normally, you call him things like: “babe,” “honey,” “min-min,” “grumpy cat,” or something chaotic like “my little menace.” So when you suddenly go, “Minho, can you help me with this?” He freezes. Turns to you slowly, squints. “Who’s Minho. Never met him.” Immediately acts like you just signed his death certificate. “Are we breaking up? Just tell me. I can take it.” (He cannot take it.) “Minho?” he repeats, mock-offended. “What’s next, you calling me Mr. Lee?” You: “I just… felt like using your real name?” Minho: “Well I just felt like dying a little inside.” Tries to act cool and unaffected, but he’s so dramatic behind the scenes. Lays facedown on the couch like a Victorian wife who just heard her husband say “We’re out of tea.” “You’ve been watching dramas again, haven’t you? That’s what this is. You're turning on me. Betrayal. Treachery. This is my villain origin arc.” The next day, calls you by your full government name just to “restore balance.” “Sure, [Full Name], I’ll take out the trash.” Eventually admits (grudgingly, while cuddling you under a blanket burrito) that hearing his real name from you is kinda… cute. “Just don’t make it a habit. I’m used to you being annoying and clingy.” Five minutes later, you whisper “Minho” again. Him, whispering back: “That’s it. We’re fighting. Pillow war. No survivors.”

CHANGBIN

Usually you call him stuff like “binnie,” “baby,” “cutie buff guy,” or something feral like “my gym rat prince.” So when you casually go, “Seo Changbin, can you hand me the charger?” He physically flinches. “What did you just say?” He’s staring at you like you just called him a disappointment in front of his mom. Instantly thinks he’s in trouble. “Wait wait wait, did I do something? Did I breathe wrong? Are you about to lecture me?” You: “No? I just said your name?” Changbin: “My government name?? In this house??” Dramatically clutches his chest. “You only call me Seo Changbin when you’re mad, confessing to a murder, or turning into a villain.” Starts spiraling for no reason. “Is this about the snacks I hid behind the rice cooker? Because I can explain.” Then gets all sulky. “You don’t love me anymore. It’s fine. I’ll move on. Tell the boys I died bravely.” You: “Binnie—” He perks up instantly. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Binnie. Your favorite. Your small strong man.” Pretends he’s joking, but lowkey sensitive about it. Will side-eye you for the rest of the day like a kicked puppy. “You used to call me sunshine… now I’m just Changbin…” Later that night, burrows into your neck like a koala and mumbles, “Don’t say my real name unless we’re getting married or I’m winning an award. It’s scary.” Next morning you wake up to a sticky note on the fridge: “Pet names only 😤 — Binnie ❤️💪🐻”

HYUNJIN

You're normally hitting him with the extra stuff like “angel,” “pretty prince,” “Hyunie,” “dramatic swan,” or “Michelangelo reincarnated.” So when you suddenly go, “Hyunjin, can you pass me the remote?” He goes dead silent. Eyes narrow. Jaw clenches. Paintbrush stops mid-stroke. “Excuse me?” he says like you just slapped him with a Shakespearean glove. “What happened to ‘baby’? ‘Love of my life’? ‘Muse of my soul’? Am I not your walking masterpiece anymore?” You: “I just wanted to say your name.” Hyunjin: “YOU SAY MY NAME WHEN YOU’RE CRYING INTO MY ARMS DURING A MOVIE, NOT TO ASK FOR THE REMOTE.” Paces dramatically like he’s in a K-drama about to turn evil. “I should’ve known this day would come. You’ve grown tired of me.” Actually gets quiet after that. Not sad just way too in his head. “...Do I need a new nickname? Have I lost my sparkle? Is my forehead too big today?” Ten minutes later, comes back with a list. “So I brainstormed some new pet names in case ‘Hyunjin’ is your new thing. Options include: ‘my gorgeous chaos,’ ‘hot disaster,’ or just ‘🌹.’ Thoughts?” You: “Hyunie, please chill.” He immediately melts. “THERE IT IS. I forgive you. Come cuddle me.” Bonus: if you call him “Hwang Hyunjin” he’ll drop to the floor like he’s been shot. “DON’T USE MY FULL NAME UNLESS I’M GRADUATING OR GETTING ARRESTED.”

HAN

Usually, you call him things like “baby,” “sungie,” “gremlin boy,” “my tiny chaos,” or whatever weird affectionate name pops into your head at 3 a.m. So when you go, “Jisung, can you help me with this?” He turns his head so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t sprain something. He squints at you like you just betrayed him in a Mafia game. “Who? Who’s that? Never heard of him. Sounds like a loser.” You: “It’s literally your name.” Han: “Yeah but why would you use it? Did a demon possess you?” Immediately starts being weird about it. “Jisung? What’s next? You gonna call me ‘sir’? Should I put on a suit?” Then it hits him. He gasps. “Wait. Are we roleplaying? Is this serious? Do I need a fake backstory? I’m ready. I’m a barista who secretly writes music and you’re my mysterious customer with a tragic past.” You: “I just wanted the scissors.” Han: “Oh. Right.” Pretends he’s fine but keeps dramatically sighing and dropping hints. “Remember when you used to call me your little peanut butter cup? Good times.” Later you call him “babe” like normal and he immediately clings to you like a koala. “Thank god. I thought we were over. I was already writing a breakup mixtape in my head.” But now that you know it messes with his head, you start using “Jisung” just to be chaotic. He falls for it every time. One serious "Jisung" and he’s spiraling again. “What did I do now? I swear I didn’t eat your leftovers. That was Seungmin. Probably. Maybe.” Bonus: If you ever hit him with “Han Jisung,” he will crawl under the blanket and refuse to come out. “I’m not coming out until you say ‘gremlin baby boy of my heart’ again.” “You’re weird.”

FELIX

Normally, you call him sweet things like “Lixie,” “baby,” “sunshine,” “my little brownie,” or “deep-voiced angel from heaven.” So when you go, “Yongbok, can you grab my water bottle?” He freezes mid-step like someone just paused his simulation. Turns around slowly with those wide sparkly eyes “Did you just... call me Yongbok?” You: “Yeah?” Felix: “Did I do something wrong? Are you about to fight me? Should I sit down?” Genuinely concerned because no one uses his birth name unless it’s a government form, a relative, or someone trying to guilt trip him with childhood stories. Dramatically puts a hand on his chest “Are you mad at me? Was the hug I gave you earlier not good enough? Do you want a new hug? A deluxe hug?” You: “Felix, I’m literally just dehydrated.” Felix: “Then why are you dehydrating our relationship with this sudden formality?” He walks away muttering “Yongbok… unbelievable…” like you just told him Santa isn't real. Later shows up with your water bottle, two cookies, and a sticker he found “In case you’re mad at me. Even though I don’t know why. But I forgive you.” You: “I’m not mad, I swear.” Felix: “You called me Yongbok. I’ve been emotionally compromised.” The moment you go back to calling him “Lixie,” he lights up like a Christmas tree “There she is. My favorite person. I missed you. Please never disappear again.” Bonus: you try it again the next day just to mess with him. He clutches your arm dramatically “If you say Yongbok one more time, I’m changing your contact name to Tax Collector.”

SEUNGMIN

Usually you call him “minnie,” “puppy,” “smartass,” “grumpy cutie,” or “my favorite hater” depending on the mood. So when you hit him with a straight-faced “Kim Seungmin, can you pass me the charger?” He doesn’t even look up. Just goes, “Who died?” You: “What?” Seungmin: “You’re using my full name like we’re in court and I’m about to be sentenced. What happened. Be honest.” You: “Nothing happened, I just used your name?” Seungmin: “Okay. Well I’m scared now. And slightly offended.” Side-eyes you for a full ten minutes like you insulted his entire bloodline. “First of all, only my mom and my enemies call me Kim Seungmin. Which one are you trying to be right now.” Acts cool but he’s definitely being petty about it. “Sure. Here’s your charger, [Full Name]. Would you like anything else, ma’am?” Pretends he’s fine but starts purposely avoiding your pet names just to throw you off. “Okay, y/n. Cool shirt, y/n. Want some water, y/n?” You: “Are you okay?” Seungmin: “I was until I got government named in my own home.” Eventually you break and call him “puppy” again. He smiles, victorious, smug as hell “That’s what I thought. Now come cuddle me or I’ll start calling you by your email username.” Bonus: next time you say “Kim Seungmin,” he responds with “Present,” like he’s taking attendance “Kim Seungmin?” “Here. Emotionally wounded, but physically present.”

JEONGIN

Normally you call him stuff like “innie,” “baby,” “cutie,” or something unhinged like “my little menace in a hoodie” So when you go, “Yang Jeongin, can you help me with this?” He blinks at you like you just threatened him. “Excuse me. I know you didn’t just first-middle-last name me with your eyes like that.” You: “That’s literally just your name” Jeongin: “That’s a form of violence and I’m calling the authorities” Immediately grabs his phone “Hello, yes, I’d like to report emotional damage. Cause? My partner called me by my birth certificate name with no warning.” Stares at you in disbelief. “What happened to ‘baby’? What happened to ‘my sweet Innie who I adore more than anything’?” Starts dramatically narrating his downfall. “It all started on a rainy Tuesday when she called me Yang Jeongin. My world was never the same.” You: “You’re so dramatic.”Jeongin: “You’re so heartless.” Tries to pretend he’s joking but secretly keeps checking if you’re mad at him for real. “You’re not breaking up with me, right? Because if you are I need at least a week’s notice so I can emotionally prepare and eat ten tubs of ice cream.” You laugh and call him “innie” again. He instantly grins like a puppy and tackles you into a hug. “Okay good. I forgive you. But don’t ever scare me like that again. My heart is fragile.” Bonus: if you call him “Yang Jeongin” again just to mess with him, he’ll start responding with “Yes, [ Full Name], do you need assistance?” and bow like a waiter at a fancy restaurant

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght @straystar-8 @myhwnghynjin

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mehtallee · 4 months ago

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Pumping Dumb

Troy wasn’t exactly the sharpest guy when we first met, but back then, at least he could form full sentences. He was my college roommate—a six-foot-four, gym-obsessed wall of muscle who somehow balanced his protein-shake-fueled lifestyle with being a student. Well, tried to, anyway. It didn’t take long before he started asking me for “help.”

“Bro, I need to get bigger,” he had groaned one night, staring at himself in our dorm mirror, flexing his arms. “But, like, I dunno, bro… I feel like I ain’t doing enough, y’know?”

I adjusted my glasses and leaned back in my chair, hiding my smirk. Oh, I know. I had been waiting for this moment.

“You need a system, Troy,” I said. “Someone to guide you. Someone… smart.”

His eyes lit up. “Like you, bro?”

I nodded. “Exactly like me.”

And just like that, I had him.

The plan was subtle at first. I started with supplements—my own special mix, designed to boost his energy, accelerate his gains, and, well… gently suppress his higher thinking. The changes crept in slowly, so Troy never noticed. But I did.

He stopped questioning things. If I told him to do something, he’d do it—no hesitation.

“Drink this.”

“Okay, bro.”

“Do one more set.”

“Hell yeah, bro.”

“Skip that lecture. You don’t need it.”

“Yeah, bro, waste of time.”

Each day, he lifted heavier weights while his thoughts got lighter. His sentences got shorter. His vocabulary shrank. But he felt great, and that’s all that mattered to him.

----------------------------------------------

At first, I had to be careful. There were still traces of thought left in that thick skull of his. I learned that the hard way when I got too bold too soon.

One day, while he was sitting on his bed scrolling through his phone, I took the opportunity to get a little… hands-on.

“Damn, Troy,” I murmured, moving closer. “You’ve really packed on some size.”

He smirked, flexing his arm. “Hell yeah, bro. Feels tight.”

I reached out, letting my fingers graze over his biceps, testing their firmness. Perfect.

But then—

“Uh, dude?” His expression shifted, uncomfortable. He pulled his arm away. “Kinda weird, man. Like, chill.”

I forced a laugh, raising my hands. “Hey, just admiring the work, dude.”

He gave me a wary look, then shrugged it off, going back to his phone. But I made a mental note. Too soon. There was still something in him that resisted. I’d have to fix that.

---------------------------------------

By the time we hit week three, Troy was skipping every single class. His idea, of course—or so he thought.

“Dude,” I said one morning, watching him struggle to put on a tank top that barely fit his swelling torso. “College isn’t really for guys like you, y’know?”

He frowned, his thick brows scrunching. “Huh?”

“I mean, look at you, Troy. You were born to lift, to grow. You really think wasting time in lectures is gonna help you get swole?”

His lips moved slightly, like he was trying to process what I’d said, but I could see the gears in his head turning slower than before.

“Uh… yeah, bro,” he finally said, nodding. “Yeah! You right! I gotta, like… focus, bro. Just—just LIFT. Get BIG.”

I grinned. “Exactly.”

And just like that, Troy stopped attending College entirely.

-----------------------------------------------------

By week five, he had completely surrendered his decision-making to me without realizing it. He thought he was in control.

“Bro, should I eat this?”

“What do you think, Troy?”

His blank stare lasted a second too long. Then: “Uh… I think… I dunno, bro. You think for me.”

“I do, don’t I?”

He nodded, beaming, completely unaware of how empty his own head had become. I had done it. Troy wasn’t just dumb anymore. He was mine.

------------------------------------------------

6 months has passed since then, and now? Now I could touch him as much as I wanted.

“Hey, Troy,” I murmured, running my fingers along his thick arm. “You cool with this?”

Troy blinked, his dopey grin unwavering. “Huh? Uh… yeah, bro. I don’t mind.”

I squeezed his bicep, watching the way his muscle flexed under my grip. Perfection. “Why’s that?”

He tilted his head, slow to process. “’Cause… uh… I’m just… muscle, bro.”

I smirked. “That’s right. You’re just muscle. Just a big, strong body. No need to think, right?”

Troy’s lips parted slightly. “Yeah, bro. Just… body.”

I ran a hand down his chest, pressing into his pecs, feeling their firm weight. No resistance. Nothing but dumb compliance. My fingers brushed under his arm, grazing the warm, musky skin of his armpit. The scent hit me instantly—strong, masculine, overpowering.

“Man, you really are just a muscle,” I murmured, inhaling deeply. “Crazy, right? You used to think this was weird.”

Troy’s slack expression didn’t change. “Huh? Uh… nah, bro. Ain’t weird.”

I chuckled. “Oh, but you did think it was weird before. Remember?”

His forehead scrunched slightly, trying to think. “Uh… nah, bro. I don’t… remember.”

I grinned, giving his pec a playful squeeze. “Of course you don’t. Because a muscle doesn’t need memories.”

Troy nodded slowly. “Yeah, bro… just muscle.”

“Just a muscle that belongs to me, huh?”

There was a pause. Then, with a slow, stupid nod: “Yeah, bro. Yours.”

I smirked and grabbed the hem of his shirt. “You don’t need this, do you?”

Troy blinked, watching as I pulled it up over his head and tossed it aside. His bare torso gleamed under the light, thick with sweat, pulsing with heat.

“Just a big, dumb toy for me to play with,” I murmured, trailing my hands across his chest, his stomach, his arms. “And you’re fine with that, aren’t you?”

Troy’s lips curled into a mindless smile. “Yeah, bro… fine with it.”

“Good boy.”

I dug my fingers into his flexed bicep, relishing the way he didn’t even flinch as I placed my fingers dip into the crevices of his bicep to his armpits...

This dumb muscle hunk is really far gone. all his work, all his excursion, all his efforts to build this majestic body, all of it is all mine.

#male puppet #male hypnosis #gay hypnosis

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prettygirl-gabi · 2 months ago

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Cravings, Cramps, and Consequences

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball/ WNBA-Dallas Wings

Warnings: Period-related content, smut (pazzi), dominance/teasing dynamic, mood swings, voyeurism, soft aftercare

Summary:period mood swings leads to Paige and Azzi putting you in your place….

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @zizi-bee-yapping , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav

I woke up already pissed off.

My stomach was cramping like my uterus was reenacting Gladiator, and the heating pad had gone cold sometime in the night.

I was sticky, sore, and emotional for no clear reason other than hormones.

I hated everything — the blanket tangled around my legs, the faint sunlight slipping through the curtains, the way my own name sounded when Paige gently whispered it in the morning.

“Hey, baby,” she murmured, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck full of razors,” I grumbled, rolling away from her mouth. “And you smell like strawberries. It’s annoying.”

She blinked, surprised. “Uh… okay. I can brush my teeth?”

“Whatever,” I muttered, already regretting my tone but too grumpy to fix it.

Azzi peeked her head in a second later. “We’re making breakfast. You want pancakes or eggs?”

“Do I look like someone who wants to make decisions?” I snapped from under the blanket.

There was a pause. “Noted,” Azzi said calmly. “We’ll surprise you.”

When I finally dragged myself out of bed — 30 minutes, two cramps, and one angry trip to the bathroom later — I found them both at the kitchen counter, working in tandem like domestic goddesses.

Paige had flour on her cheek.

Azzi was cutting strawberries.

The audacity of them looking that peaceful made my eye twitch.

“Is there caffeine?” I asked, standing like a gremlin in the doorway.

Paige held up a mug gently. “Chai. Less harsh on your stomach—”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” I said, grabbing it anyway and taking a sip. It was perfect, of course, which somehow annoyed me more.

“Do you wanna eat in bed or—”

“I’ll sit. I’m not broken.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Azzi said, not looking up.

Paige slid a plate toward me. “We put extra syrup since you like—”

“Why is the butter cold?” I interrupted. “It’s not gonna spread.”

That time, neither of them answered. Just exchanged one of those subtle, silent looks — the ones that made me feel simultaneously guilty and defensive.

I knew I was being awful. I knew it. But I couldn’t stop it. Everything in me felt too tight, too raw. Even when Paige offered, “Wanna sit in my lap? I’ll rub your back,” I looked at her like she’d grown two heads.

“I’m not a toddler, Paige.”

Azzi snorted into her juice. Paige gave her a look, then turned back to me with annoying patience.

“Okay. So… no cuddles.”

“No. And don’t ask again.”

After breakfast, they tried again — gently, carefully, like I was a wild animal they didn’t want to spook.

“Wanna lie down for a bit?” Azzi asked as we settled onto the couch. “We could nap together.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not five. I don’t need a nap.”

“I meant more like—never mind,” she said, rubbing her temple.

Paige reached for the remote. “Maybe a movie? Something chill?”

I exhaled loudly, curling into a ball with my heating pad. “I don’t care. Pick whatever.”

There was a long beat of silence.

That was the moment I realized I had crossed the line from moody to spicy. Paige and Azzi didn’t argue. They didn’t snap. They just looked at each other with that subtle shared energy that said, Alright. Bet.

“You’ve been spicy all day,” Paige said lightly, plopping beside me on the couch.

“I’m bleeding. What’s your excuse?” I deadpanned.

Azzi laughed under her breath from the other side of the room. “Damn.”

“Okay,” Paige said, raising her brows. “Noted.”

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said slowly, “we love you… but you’ve been on one since like 9 a.m., and it might be time for some consequences.”

I blinked. “Consequences? What are you gonna do, ground me?”

Azzi wandered over, her hoodie sleeves pushed up, looking deceptively casual. But the glint in her eyes said otherwise.

Azzi dropped a kiss to the top of my head, voice deceptively sweet.

“No,” she said, “we’re just gonna give you a little reminder.”

Before I could even register what that meant, Paige was tugging gently at my wrist.

“Up,” she said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes — not in a mean way, more like a warning cloaked in affection. “Let’s go.”

“What—where?”

Neither of them answered directly. Azzi just took the mug out of my hand and Paige was already guiding me toward the bedroom with calm insistence. When I stopped in the doorway, blinking in confusion, Azzi nodded toward the desk in the corner.

“Sit.”

I glanced between the two of them. “Why?”

“Because,” Paige said, crossing the room to pull the chair out slowly, “you’ve been bratty since sunrise, and since you clearly don’t need us today…” She motioned toward the chair. “You get to watch.”

My stomach flipped.

“You’re joking.”

Azzi smiled, too pleasant. “Nope. Blanket optional. Attitude not recommended.”

I huffed, arms folded tightly. “This is dramatic.”

“You are dramatic,” Paige countered, “but go on, keep pushing.”

I sat — mostly out of curiosity, but also because I knew the second I didn’t, they’d both double down. The chair was cold through my shorts, a little too upright. Distant. And that was the point.

Azzi leaned down, brushing her fingers under my chin. “Don’t pout. You’re still our girl.”

“Just not the one getting spoiled right now,” Paige added as she pulled Azzi toward the bed with that slow, knowing smile that made my stomach coil tighter than any cramp ever could.

I sat there, helpless in the corner, as they kissed slow and deep in the glow of the bedside lamp — and for once, I had no say in how this played out.

Paige gasped as Azzi’s hand slipped under her shirt, tweaking her nipple just before Paige dropped to her knees in front of me.

Her hands pushed Azzi’s legs apart, her mouth kissing up the inside of her thigh.

“Fuck, Princess,” Paige murmured.

“Missed how sweet you sound when you’re begging. Bet, y/n misses how wet she can get you,”

Azzi bit Paige’s neck lightly. “Let’s see how fast we can make her fold.”

They took each other apart. With me watching, helplessly.

Paige pinned Azzi’s wrists above her head as Paige with her free hand worked her strap in, slowly and deeply, Azzi’s legs wrapped around Paige’s waist.

I let out a groan, eyes fluttering, body aching for every touch they are giving each other.

“Feels good?” Paige whispered, trailing kisses down Azzi’s jaw.

She nodded helplessly. “Y-Yes—Paige —yes—”

Paige put the tip of her strap in, inching all the way in slowly but surely. They she pulled out just long enough for Azzi to whine about lack of fullness.

I barely had time to look away before Paige thrusts into Azzi, this time harder, deeper.

“Fuck—Paige —”

“Shh,” she said, kissing Azzi. “Take it. Baby show her what’s she’s missin.”

Paige took Azzi’s mouth, silencing her cries, while her fingers and played with her clit in tight, delicious circles.

Circles I wasn’t able to witness up close. Circles I wasn’t making to make her feel good.

At some point, they switch positions.

Paige held Azzi’s hips while

Slamming into her from behind, Azzi gasping as Paige’s strap hitting all the right spots.

Azzi arching her back but turns her head to face me with hooded eyes.

“You want it?” she teased.

I whimpered. Squeezing my thighs together tightly.

Paige’s grip tightened on Azzi’s hips. Then looks at me with an evil grin “She’s drooling.”

Azzi moaned. “Fuck, P, m’so full.”

I watched as Azzi moved her hips back on Paige’s strap as Paige reached around to rub her swollen, sensitive clit again.

I in that moment felt nothing but jealousy.

Cause I wanted to be Paige.

Or maybe I wanted to be Azzi.

In this moment I wanted both.

“Come on, baby,” Paige whispered. “Let go. Come all over me.”

And I watched her do so—harder than I ever seen before.

They collapsed into a tangle of limbs, sweat, and shaky breaths.

Once they’ve gathered composure Paige feet softly padding towards me with her had healed out.

“Mm, join us for cuddles.” She said pulling me up gently and tugging me to the bed with her.

I let out a sigh of content once I was sandwiched in between the both of them.

Azzi pulled me into her chest, kissing my forehead.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Even when you’re being cranky and mean.”

“I love you too,” I croaked.

Paige curled up behind me, her hand on my stomach, stroking softly.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.

Azzi kissed my shoulder. “We know. We’ll make it up to you once you’re in the clear for activities again.”

Eventually we fell asleep and had been for hours by the time I woke up.

I woke up warm — the good kind of warm. Not from a heating pad or cramps or internal chaos, but from the quiet, steady thrum of two bodies tucked close around mine.

Azzi’s arms were still wrapped around me from behind, her breath slow against the back of my neck. Paige’s hand rested low on my stomach, her fingers gently tracing lazy circles like she’d been doing it even in her sleep.

I blinked slowly, taking in the soft golden light of early evening filtering through the bedroom blinds. The sheets were kicked down to our waists. My head was resting on Azzi’s collarbone, Paige’s bare thigh tangled with mine.

And for the first time today, I didn’t feel like I was going to cry or bite someone.

Instead, I felt… clingy.

Like my body was still sore from cramp and my hormones were still doing the absolute most, but all I wanted now was to keep them close. Tangle up tighter. Maybe cry, but in a nice way this time.

Azzi stirred behind me. “You okay?” she murmured, voice low and a little gravelly from sleep.

I nodded, then turned my face into her skin. “Wanna do something with me.”

She kissed the top of my head without hesitation. “Anything.”

Paige hummed groggily, lifting her face from the pillow. “Mm… she better not be asking us to go outside.”

“No,” I said quickly, burrowing between them. “Just… bath. Please.”

Azzi was already sitting up, hair a sleepy mess. “Bath sounds good.”

“You just want an excuse to keep us naked longer,” Paige teased, but she was already stretching, her fuzzy robe slipping off one shoulder as she stood and started running the water.

By the time the tub was full, warm and steaming, I was practically glued to Azzi’s side. She stepped in first, settling down with a relaxed sigh before opening her arms for me to sink back against her. I fit there like I was meant to be, her thighs framing my hips as I settled in.

Paige slid in across from us, facing us, her legs brushing mine beneath the surface. Her cheeks were still a little pink from sleep, hair damp from the light mist clinging to the air. She looked like something out of a daydream. So did Azzi.

Azzi’s hands found my thighs underwater, her fingers pressing gentle circles into the tense muscles there. “Relax, baby,” she whispered. “Let us take care of you now.”

I exhaled slowly, the steam and the water and their presence washing over me all at once. Paige’s foot found mine beneath the surface, hooking around it lightly, grounding me.

Paige leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Still mad at us?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t really mad. Just… hormonally unhinged.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh behind me, kissing my damp shoulder. “We know.”

“I didn’t mean to be such a brat,” I added quietly, letting my head fall back against Azzi’s shoulder.

“We like your bratty side sometimes,” Paige said with a smirk. “Gives us an excuse to remind you how much you love us.”

I rolled my eyes, but it was soft. “I never forget.”

“Still,” Azzi murmured, dragging her fingers gently down my legs under the water, “it’s nice to remind you you’re safe. Loved. No matter what mood you’re in.”

I felt it in my chest, heavy and warm — that truth, that anchor. I let the bath hold me up, let their love wrap around me like the steam.

Paige shifted forward slightly, cupping water in her hands and letting it run down over my knees. “We should do this every month. Like… period pampering ritual.”

“You’re just saying that because you like baths,” I mumbled.

Azzi smiled against my neck. “We like you.”

I closed my eyes.

This… this was exactly what I needed. Not just cuddles or kisses or a bath. But them. Steady. Present. Even when I pushed, even when I snapped, even when I sulked like the world had wronged me because strawberries existed and cramps were evil.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!💚💙

-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

624 notes · View notes

fgojous · 2 months ago

Text

BULLSHIT!

alcohol mixed with a little bit of sexual tension. what could go wrong, right? wink

gojo satoru x f!reader

warnings. romance, fluff, friends to lovers, a loooot of sexual tension, college au, drinking, explicit sexual content, footsies hihi, drunk sex, making out, unprotected sex, tit sucking, cunnilingus, p in v, creampie, overstim | eighteen plus only!

word count. 4.1k

status. complete (one-shot)

note. hi. what am i doing posting a smut at 6 am? ikr. i'm unhinged for satoru, gawwwd. anyway. enjoy hehehehe

you and satoru aren’t that close.

sure, you’re in the same friend group, but you don’t chat with him everyday like you do with yuki. or he’s not the one you call first whenever you have a really personal problem like you do with shoko.

there’s familiarity, sure—but you’ve never been vulnerable alone with him. just like with typical friend groups—you know each other’s problems, each other’s likes or dislikes. you study with them. you hangout with them.

okay, maybe he’d message you once in a while—if you’d already done the essay, or if you’re going to class or ask you what he missed because he didn’t attend the lecture.

what you have with satoru is something you can’t explain.

you can call him your friend but you know there’s something that you can’t quite put your foot on.

just the other day, you’re hanging out at suguru’s place and he’d be across the room from you, sitting on the armchair—you notice him, because how could you not when he’s got that laugh—loud, bright and definitely magnetic whenever any one of you says something funny?

no, you weren’t watching him. why would you?

so, you would look away, but when your gaze lands on him again he’s already looking at you—throwing you that smile instead of looking away, and you’ll smile back at him.

then you’ll get distracted again when shoko snaps her fingers in front of you because you weren’t listening to her teaching you some card game that were overly complicated. so, you’ll look away but you could still feel the weight of his gaze on you.

or whenever you get too drunk when your group is out in the club. you’d drink too much, dance too much—so much so that you’re aware that you're pressed against him, that you’re aware that he’s gripping your hips tightly—your back settled on his chest, his breath warm against the skin of your neck.

and then you’ll both laugh—or giggle while dancing, drunk in the loud booming music and strobe lights.

then you’ll both do what you always do. pull away, because it means nothing. you’re just friends. having fun.

or when you’re studying at the library, when you don’t get something about the topic—he’ll lean in a little too close that you could smell his cologne—a little too close that his voice is right in your ear, his arm slung over the backrest of your seat, while his hand rests on the flat of your back.

and you do what you always do, as usual.

brush it off even though your brain turned blank because your thighs were too pressed together.

i mean, what do you call that?

and just like right now, you’re sitting across from him—you’re all here in suguru’s balcony—he dragged a table out here so they can smoke out in the open air while you guys were drinking.

the air was cold—you’d all been drinking, and you’re aware that you’re already a bit tipsy. i mean, you’re laughing too much even if choso’s joke isn’t that funny.

and now, you’re all playing bullshit.

“wow, you’re all terrible liars,” shoko says, dragging a smoke from her cigarette.

“okay, queen of bullshit.” suguru answers and you all chuckled, he then places down two cards on the table, “a two and a five.”

yuki’s eyes narrowed, “bullshiiit!”

then suguru reveals his cards, it’s a queen and a ten.

“we got a human lie detector right here.” choso says, suguru then takes two shots. “two sixes.”

“bullshit.” suguru called.

choso reveals his cards, he huffs a breath at suguru who’s smirking now—he takes two shots, “you’re full of shit.”

“you’re just mad, i can read you.”

choso just flipped him over, then satoru places two cards on the table with a smirk on his face, “two eights.”

you look at him—he’s leaning on his chair, too relaxed for someone who’s lying. his eyes flickers at you for a second—you may be drunk, but you saw it.

you saw it.

goddamn it, why is he making you feel this way?

why is he looking at you like he wants you—no, like he already has you wrapped around his fingers. he always has this kind of look that only he gives you—the one where it makes your nerves unravel.

the one where you get aware of everything.

like how tight your clothes are, how hard your thighs are pressed together—he has this kind of look like he’s just touching you with that gaze he’s dragging, prickling your skin that you could feel heat bubbling up to the surface.

of course, you have to play it cool.

but you hate it. you hate the way he’s looking at you. or maybe, you’re just overthinking it all. maybe it’s the liquor.

you’re quite drunk. maybe you’re just imagining things.

“bullshit.” shoko says but then he flips his card. it’s two eights. just like he said.

“you’re such a liar.”

satoru laughs, his gaze landing on you again and you swear you could feel your heart do this weird, familiar flip inside your chest.

you bit your lower lip, looking down at the cards in your hand. you set down two, “two fours.”

he smirks, speaking almost immediately. and here you’re painfully aware that he’s still looking at you. “bullshit.”

you raise your eyebrows, “how do you say so?”

“you bite your lip when you’re lying.”

there’s that smirk that you wanna smack away. how in the hell does he notice that?

“do not.”

“do too.”

“do not.”

“flip your cards then.” he says, his eyes still locked on you. there’s that look again.

you roll your eyes, flipping your cards over. it’s a jack and a three.

he gasp dramatically, there’s this playful look on his eyes. “you lie?!”

“you’re so dramatic.” you said while already reaching out for the shot glass that choso laid out for you.

then the game continued. too many shots. a lot of bickering and laughter. the boys were too loud and rowdy, you girls were just laughing at their nonsense. you swore suguru cheated but got away with it because everyone couldn’t stop laughing when choso slipped from his seat.

and somewhere in all of that, you can still feel satoru’s eyes on you. everytime he says a joke, he’ll look at you just so he could see if you’re giggling.

and suddenly, there’s a shift between the two of you that you couldn’t brush off anymore.

you were all still busy laughing when you stretched your legs—then you instinctively jolted when you bumped your foot onto his.

but neither of you moved, the contact sent your nerves firing at an impossible rate—making your body tense, you must’ve drank too much because you feel too hot even though the night air was cold.

then you tilt your head slightly, just to look at him.

he’s still playing the game—talking to suguru like your skin isn’t touching. but he must’ve noticed it. you’re sure he knows it. so, you cleared your throat and looked away.

but it kills you that he’s not reacting. why isn’t he saying something? why isn’t he looking at you now?

you don’t know where you had the guts to do what you were about to do but fuck it.

so much for liquid courage, huh?

you shifted slightly in your seat, moving a little forward. then slowly, you drag your toes on the side of his foot to the ball of his ankle, doing a circular motion with your toe.

he didn’t pull away.

you sip on your drink, propping your elbow to the table, pretending to listen to whatever story choso is telling now.

then you continue, dragging your foot lightly up to his calf—he tensed, it was subtle but enough for you to notice.

you weren’t looking at him.

not yet anyway.

you continued until your foot was just below his knee, and this time you hear the small stutter he made while he was talking to his best friend. but he composed himself, and you sip on your drink trying to hide a grin.

he recovered just like that. like you’re not teasing him under the table. like you aren’t running your toes on the hem of his gray sweatshorts—

“satoru.” yuki says, “it’s your turn.”

then you finally look at him, toes creeping under the fabric of his shorts, into his inner thighs—he blinks, his lips part slightly before clearing his throat. “huh? uh—two sixes one eight.”

you smirked, staring at him like you aren’t driving him madly crazy with what you’re doing.

“bullshit.” you called almost in a flash, all the while dragging your foot down to the side of his legs until you’re at his ankle again.

he stared at you, flipping his cards.

two fives and a king.

and just like that everyone cheered because they finally got him.

you finally got him.

“ha!” shoko says pointing at him, “drink!”

satoru smirks, and raises the shot glass while everyone chants drink! drink!

he stares at you while taking a shot then slammed the glass face down on the table. he presses his foot back against yours—slowly, deliberately.

he didn’t shy away from you when he licked the last drop of tequila from the corner of his lips.

then your heart screamed.

chest heaving like you wanted them to know what you’re doing with him. he moves his foot against yours, like intertwining his ankles with yours—and this time, you felt your heartbeat everywhere.

at your neck, your ears even at your fingertips.

you swallowed thickly, looking down at your cards before pulling away to stand up too fast—too obvious.

the air caught on your throat. what else do you do?

“i—uh, need water.”

shoko raised her eyebrow, “you good?”

“yeah.” you answer quickly, “fine.”

“someone’s already drunk~” choso says in a sing-song tone, laughing. you just raised your middle finger before you walked off.

you’re barely halfway the sliding door into the living room when—

“where you going?” suguru asked him.

satoru raised his arms, stretching— “bathroom. why, you wanna come with?”

“fuck you.” suguru answers and he laughs, you muttered a curse before opening the sliding door—stepping in before he could catch up to you.

the living room was warm while you padded into the kitchen.

you could hear the muffled sounds from the speaker and of your friends laughing out the balcony when you reached for the glass in the dish rack. you were opening the refrigerator when you heard footsteps behind you.

you didn’t need to look back.

you know it’s him.

“water?” you offered without glancing back, surprised at the steadiness of your voice even though your heart was already racing. surprised—when your brain was already reeling all kinds of things that you’d like to keep in your head.

“i’m good.” he answers with a low voice.

then you finally turned, and there he was, leaning on the counter with his arm crossed—his tousled white hair glinting underneath the dim lights—he’s watching you like you’re the only person left in the universe.

you stare back at him, leaning near the sink while holding the glass of water.

“stop looking at me like that.” you finally say.

he chuckles, “like what?”

like what exactly?

like he wants you? like he wanted to kiss you?

“like that.” you answered vaguely.

“i’m not looking at you like whatever you mean.” he answers, pushing off the counter, stepping a little forward.

you placed the glass on the sink, letting out a snort, “bullshit.”

“yeah? and are you going to pretend that you’re not looking at me that way?”

“am not.”

“bullshit. you’re a liar.”

he stepped closer until you’re just inches away, you looked up at his face. his figure is already towering over you.

your lips part slightly, “i never lie. you do though.”

“bullshit.” his voice was dangerously low, he took one step closer. his hand finds its way to your waist.

you blinked. getting hyperaware of his hands sliding up your sides. you both paused, like you’re both gauging the weight of tension that filled the air.

“i never think about you.”

your voice falters just a little, “bullshit.”

“i don’t think about being this close to you.”

you laughed breathlessly, “yeah. total bullshit.”

he stepped just a little closer until he’s pressed against you, you tried backing up until you felt the edge of the counter behind your back, the back of your knees bumping onto the cabinet just below.

“i never thought about how it would feel to kiss you.”

you never got to call bullshit because he was already kissing you.

he kissed you like he meant to do it for so long.

his kisses taste like desperation—the alcohol tasted bitter on your mouth but his was something different. something that you’ve thought about for so long.

his kisses tasted like you’re meant to, like it fits, it belongs.

your hands found his shirt, clinging onto him to anchor yourself. your fingers twist against the fabric as your mouth moves against his—it was desperate, so wet and messy.

you’re already drowning but you’re aching for more. he kisses you frantically that your knees almost buckle, and you kiss him in a more needy way, like it’d kill you if his mouth weren’t on yours.

he licks your lips before sucking your lower lip into his mouth. he was biting your lip, sucking it in—his tongue brushes over your lips like a quiet plea and you instinctively let him in, his tongue rolling over yours and you let out a soft moan.

he pressed against you more—you’re trapped in between his body and the cold counter. his hand creeping inside your shirt just so he could feel you. just so he could ground himself—tell him that this was real.

this was finally happening.

you barely notice that he’d already lifted you on the counter until you feel the cold marble clashing with the heat in your thighs. you open your knees, legs hooking around his hips to pull him in.

his hands gripped your thigh like he’s melding his skin into yours, his thumb rubbing circles onto the soft swell of your skin.

“can’t seem to stop,” he breathed pulling away, then he bites your lip, “tell me to stop—and i will—fuck, but please, fucking don’t.”

you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to press soft hungry kisses on his lips.

“do i look..” kiss “like i want you..” you kiss him deeper, you pull away gasping, “to stop?”

and just like that he was kissing you again. teeth clashing, tongues swirling into each other. messy—filthy and starved.

his hand underneath your shirt unclasps your bra, you pulled away to lift your own shirt up until you’re rid of it. your bra flawlessly dropping on your lap—

“fuuuck.” he choked, he gripped your hair to kiss you again—his hand massaging your breast—he rubs your nipple in between his fingers earning a muffled moan from you.

you tug at the hem of his shirt, you murmured against his mouth, “take this off.”

and he did so eagerly, tossed it aside and the moment it was gone, your hands were on every part of his body—his chest, shoulder—god, his abs. his skin was hot against your palm—you trace your fingers like you're memorizing every part of him.

“satoru—fuck.” you mewled when his kisses went down to your jaw—he sucks on a spot just below your ear, biting your skin hungrily. you gasp, your fingers gripping his surprisingly soft hair, “don’t stop.”

“i don’t plan to,” he murmured against your skin until he’s down, dipping his tongue on your collarbone, licking down until he’s on your chest.

you pulled his hair while he pushed your mounds together—licking a stripe on your nipples, he was gripping the soft swell of your tits while sucking it in his mouth.

your skin was prickly, your nails dug into his back while he continued.

“satoruuu—” you whine, “want you. please.”

he lets go of your tits with a pop, a string of saliva dripping from his swollen lips, he breathes, tugging on the waistband of your shorts, “you got me, baby.”

you lift yourself up a bit so he could pull your shorts down, he wasted no time sliding the fabric off your legs until it pooled on the kitchen floor.

his eyes sinfully dragged across your body like he’d seen something so perfect—so maddeningly beautiful. he leaned in, pressing soft kisses against your inner thigh—his lips moved up until you felt his breath ghosting over exactly where you needed him to.

“satoru—”

“god,” he rasped out, licking your skin, “i’ve thought about this for so many times that i’ve lost count.”

you whimper when you feel his finger tug your underwear to the side, giving him a view of your wet, sloppy cunt—then he drops to his knees as if he’s worshipping you. your legs hooked on his shoulders while his hands were gripping on your thighs to keep you open.

“satoru—fucking hell—nghh—” his tongue was flat against your slit, he drags it up and down, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit, his fingers parting your folds.

you threw your head back, your hand anchoring you to the counter while the other was pulling on his hair as he ate you out like a starved man.

satoru laps on your slit wantonly like he’d been denied for months and was making up for it—his tongue was moving sloppily, so filthy.

he looks up at you while he sucks your clit, your eyes meet and you bite your lip—you choked when he pulled away a bit just to spit on your already dripping cunt then he was back on you again.

he pries your folds open a little more, then he delves his tongue inside you— “fuuuck—nghhh—toruuu, so good! don’t stop, fuck—”

your toes curl just above the skin on his back, your grip on his hair tightens. the electricity reverberating on your body, pooling in your core.

“satoruuu!” you cried out, fisting his hair.

he moaned against your cunt, the vibration pushing all of the sanity left in you. he was so so messy, so goddamn pretty eating you out so shamelessly.

then he shattered you—your body arched above the counter, bucking your hips against his mouth, his name tumbles off your mouth over and over again, your thighs convulse against his head.

“sto—ugh! fuck,” you were a stuttering mess as he licked you through your orgasm—he run his tongue up and down until the very last twitch.

you pulled his head away, breath ragged as you laugh breathlessly, “stop—you’re going to fucking kill me.”

he smirks as he stands up, his face is a mess—your juices coated around his mouth trickling down to his chin, he leaned in to kiss you again—you could taste yourself in his mouth but that didn’t matter.

didn’t even matter that your friends are just outside.

the fuck if you both care.

you pull away, you stare with heavy-lidded eyes. “i want you inside me, please.”

my goood, how can he not fuck you when you desperately beg like that?

he didn’t make you ask again. he was already pulling his shorts down, his hard cock springs free.

he’s fucking big—his cock was veiny with a slight curve, the tip flushed, glistening with precum—you couldn’t stop staring.

who knew. i mean, you’ve imagined what his dick looked like but—gaaah, this was so beyond—

you whine when you felt his tip slide against your wet folds, your juices smeared against the tip of his cock so deliciously.

“toru.” you rasped, “toru—want you inside, please.”

“you’re going to fucking kill me.” he choked, his eyes was dark, staring at you—still teasing your cunt, he groans, “you know that? you’re gonna be the death of me—shit.”

he leaned into your mouth, pressing a sloppy kiss while he lined himself, pushing in slowly. you both gasp into each other’s mouth as he buried his cock, he sank into you—slowly, inch by inch until you’re stuffed full of his cock.

“shit—” he muttered, pressing his forehead against you, “you feel so—god, you feel so fucking good. so warm and tight.”

“move,” you mewled, locking him in between your legs, “move, ‘toru, please.”

and he did, slowly. he wants to revel in the way you clamp around him—your walls so tight and warm, just perfect—so perfect, like you’re made for him.

your body twitches with every move he makes—then he moves, faster—harder, your sweaty skins slapping deliciously against each other, echoing through the kitchen.

his hands gripped your waist—his lips were on every part of your face, then your jaw, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to kiss. god, he wanted it all. he wanted all of you.

“fuck, if i knew this was going to be this good—” he stutters, he wraps his arm around you to pull you closer, his hips angling a bit just so he could hit that spot that has your body writhing, “i would’ve made a move months ago—fuuuuck.”

you half-laughed, half-moaned, “what took you—nghhh—so long, huh?”

he smirks so devilishly, rutting his hips harder—his eyes stare at his cock disappearing inside you before he is back on your face, “didn’t know how to. you make me—fuck, you make me a fucking mess—”

he moved harder, melding his hands on your skin, “can’t think straight when i’m around you.”

because he really didn’t know how to. because he knew, if he touched you, he’s done for. he’s gone and he’ll never be able to come back.

“fuuuuck,” you cried out, your tits bouncing with every rut of his hips, “didn’t know you were—hngggg, such a lover boy—god!”

you clench around him, you feel a spring coiling—tightening around your stomach as your forehead falls onto his shoulder, you bite on the skin just above his collarbone while you come undone.

he followed soon after, steadied thrusts becoming sloppy—hips stuttering along with a cracked groan, spilling his load inside you with a shudder.

he collapsed against you. both of you catching your breath—and now you’re aware that you’re both naked above suguru’s counter.

god, he’s going to kill you both.

you could feel the sweat trickle on your skin, your heart slowly coming down from a high. his thumbs lazily rubbing circles against your thighs.

“you know,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses on your jaw “i’m not that into you.”

you laugh a little out of breath, biting the lobe of his ear. your breath ghosting over, “bullshit.”

—

the sliding door opened with a slight creak.

you stepped out first. there was no trace that you just got railed shamelessly on the kitchen counter—well, except from the faint hickeys already forming along your jaw to your collarbone.

but are they really going to see it? your friends are drunk—clueless, they probably think you were only gone for ten minutes, they’d already opened the fifth bottle of tequila.

you sit quietly beside shoko, she looked at you with a hazy eyes, unmistakably drunk, and you smiled sheepishly.

“what the fuck is that?”

“huh?” you asked innocently.

she pointed at your jaw, and the remaining three looked at you—wide eyes like sobriety just washed over them just like that.

“the fuck—”

suguru was cut off when satoru stepped out. this fucking asshole didn’t bother fixing his hair. your lipstick still slightly smudged on his lips.

their eyes alternate between the two of you.

then silence.

loud silence.

“you fucking assholes!” choso stands up laughing, “pay up!”

you shot satoru a look, he sits down shrugging. just as clueless as you are.

what the fuck are they talking about?

“goddamn it. you can’t wait until next week at the house party?!” suguru punched satoru’s shoulder.

“ow—fuck! what the fuck are you guys talking about?!”

but they didn’t answer. they just pulled out their wallets—groaning, as they put bills on choso’s hand, who’s practically already dancing so happily from where he stands.

“for the record!” yuki shouted, rolling her eyes at choso, “i bet that it was going to happen tonight! if not for this asshole convincing me that it’s definitely going to happen at the party next week!”

you choked, “do you guys have a bet?!”

“duhhh?” shoko nudged your shoulder, “we’ve been betting for months. you guys practically eye each other every time we hang out.”

unbelievable.

you purse your lips, looking at satoru—who just winked at you.

“wait,” suguru deadpanned, “did you guys have sex in my kitchen?!”

“no.” you both said at the same time. looking at each other, sharing knowing glances. trying not to laugh.

they all laughed—except for suguru, “BULLSHIT!”

720 notes · View notes

sparklingchim · 21 days ago

Text

game on 05 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x oc

word count: 2.9k

tropes: footballer!jungkook, fake dating, f2l

rating: pg

warning: jk flexing his abs (he is just a man😔), sleeping in one bed, mentions of oc flashing her boobs in the past (rumour created by jk), they compare their abs..😭, cuddles <3, their parents adore them <3,

summary: the hardest part so far: lying to your parents. a close second: squeezing into jungkook's tiny twin bed with his big body taking up too much space.

a/n: finished this up listening to new lorde n eating pizza at 4am oh how i love life !!!!!

masterlist

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

The thing about fake dating is that it works great until you’re sitting across from both your mothers and your dad at your not-boyfriend’s family dinner table, and suddenly everyone’s looking at you like you’ve already picked out wedding venues.

Jungkook had the audacity to look normal. You were barely holding it together, one fake smile and suspiciously warm face at a time.

“I didn’t realise you two were so close these days,” Jungkook’s mum says, smiling sweetly. “I was so happy when I saw the news, but also a little hurt that I had to find out through the internet and not from my own son.” Her gaze slides pointedly to Jungkook, giving him a scolding look. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of things about you through the internet.”

Oh no. Once mums start scolding you for one thing, they bring up every mistake you’ve ever made too. One thing turns into five, and suddenly you’re being reminded of stuff you did when you were a child.

But obviously, Jungkook’s used to this – sitting in the hot seat while his mum lectures him. He doesn’t even flinch anymore. Just lets the scolding roll off and ignores the jabs.

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together lately,” he retorts, voice smooth, hand resting on the back of your chair like it belonges there. It didn’t. But now it does. Kinda? “It just kind of… happened. And it felt right.”

You are going to die here. Choke on your food and perish.

“___ didn’t say anything either,“ your dad pipes up, immediately throwing you under the bus.

“She has a lot on her plate,” your mum cuts in, quick to defend you. “At least she always makes time to call. And she visits when she can.”

Jungkook’s mum gives her son another pointed glare before her face softens as she turns to you. Her tone shifts completely, warm and doting. “How’s university, sweetheart? You’re not running yourself into the ground, are you?”

You sit up a little straighter under the attention, managing a small smile. “Ah, there’s always a lot to do. But it’s not too much.”

She nods approvingly, already scooping more rice into your bowl before you can protest. “Good. You always were such a hardworking girl. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself too, hmm?”

“And you’re joining Jungkook for the world cup?” your dad asks. “You sure it won’t be too stressful with university and everything?”

“It’s just a few weeks,” you say, trying to sound more chill than you feel. “My exams are still far away anyway, I’ll manage. Most of the work I can keep up with online.”

“The only thing I’m really worried about is the flight,” you admit, voice dipping slightly. “Being up in the air for that long kind of freaks me out.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jungkook says. “It’s really not that bad. We’ll probably sleep the whole plane ride anyway.”

“Our Jungkook will make sure to take care of you,” his mum chimes in, beaming with full maternal confidence. “Right? You’ll look after her properly – make sure she feels safe and comfortable. Especially because she’s willing to keep up with her studies while traveling, which is very responsible.”

You nod, cheeks heating. Her approval has always felt… different. Kinder. She’s not your mum. She doesn’t have to think the world of you, but she always has. She’s been rooting for you since the days you and Jungkook used to sit cross-legged on the living room floor doing homework together.

“Of course,” Jungkook says easily. His voice is light, when he glances over at you, his eyes are all doe-like and shiny, crinkling at the corners the way they only do when he’s being extra sincere. “I always try to take care of her.”

And then, ever so casually, his hand reaches up to rest lightly on your shoulder. His fingers brush your shoulder for a second, barely there, but enough to make you feel it everywhere.

Your lips twitch with the start of a smile you’re trying hard to hide. You shyly look away.

“I wish your dad could see you two like this,” his mum says with a fond smile. She tilts her head, gaze softening even more with pure endearment. “Such a shame he had to work this evening.”

All three of you look at Jungkook and you with adoring eyes. This is probably all they’ve hoped your entire lives long.

You swallow a little harder than usual.

“I’m so glad you two found each other.” Your dad gives you an approving smile. “You’ve always looked after each other. Even as little kids.”

“Finally ___ could bring some sense into Jungkook’s life,” his mum says. “I didn’t like your behaviour at all, Jungkook.” She directly speaks to him. “It’s time to stop behaving like a young boy, hm? Stop acting reckless. You’ve got someone beside you now.”

Jungkook blinks. He probably thought the scolding was over. “Mum...”

You have to stifle your giggles. If his dad were here, the conversation would’ve already derailed into football tactics and match predictions, with your dad chiming in too. But in his absence, Jungkook’s mum is fully in charge and she’s on a roll.

“He’s been good,” you add quickly, defending him. “He’s a very good boyfriend.”

You can feel Jungkook’s stare burning into the side of your face, but you refuse to look at him. One glance and you might start laughing or fumbling your words or blushing or whatever.

You don’t say anything else. But you think he knows.

Somehow, Jungkook’s mum managed to trick you both into staying the night.

She started with a sweet suggestion – “Why don’t you sleep here and have breakfast with us in the morning? Jungkook’s dad will be home then too!”

Without much resistance (none), you found yourself smiling and nodding along. Because who says no to Jungkook’s mum?

This is not a regular sleepover, though. This is not popcorn and movies and matching pyjama sets. This is sharing a bed that is definitely not made for two people, in a room that still has posters of football players from 2010.

You’ve been offered one of Jungkook’s old high school football jerseys, which hangs halfway to your knees, and a pair of smallish athletic shorts you had to tie tight around your waist to keep them from slipping – both a little ridiculous, both weirdly comforting.

But even with his clothes on your body, you’ve been granted no special privileges.

Your regular resident monster is hogging the bed.

Jungkook’s broad shoulders stretch close to the edge, and his strong arms don’t exactly make it easy for you to claim your side.

And you’re just. Lying there. Eyes wide open.

Fake dating, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

“I don’t think I could ever get married,” you blurt out.

“What? Why?” he asks, clearly startled. “You’re too much of a lover girl to be saying shit like that.” You feel him shift slightly, looking over at you.

“Sleeping next to a man for the rest of my life? Doesn’t sound appealing to me.”

“You don’t wanna to spend every waking moment with the love of your life?”

“I want to, but.” You meet his gaze. “What if he snores like you?”

He scoffs. “Rude.”

“It’s a real concern.”

“Your love would be big enough to drown out the snoring?” He fully turns on his side, moving the mattress and making you pray he won’t accidentally push you off.

“That’s your argument?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “I think if you love someone enough, you’d stop noticing the noise. Maybe even become comforting.”

“That’s… actually kind of cute.” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, maybe I’m not writing off marriage completely.”

“I’m always changing lives.”

“All you did was defend snoring.”

“And love,” he says, pointing at himself. “Don’t forget love.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks feel a little warm. His face is close now, his hair a soft mess and his expression sleepy but somehow still handsome. You shift just a bit to make space.

“You can come closer,” Jungkook says, pulling you to him by your waist.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

Jungkook grabs your arm before you can even try to get out of bed.

“No. Imagine my mum catching you in the living room in the morning.”

“I’ll say your snoring bothered me,” you say. “Which would not be a total lie.”

You’re concerned about not being able to fall asleep with his snoring in your ear and the very real possibility of him accidentally pushing you off the bed. The couch sounds like a dream compared to this.

“I’ll be quiet,” Jungkook promises. “But mum would immediately assume we had a fight if she catches one of us on the couch.” He sighs. “Would make us wash dishes side by side like back when we were kids and had a fight.”

“I’m so good at washing dishes now, though,” you say. “I’m thankful for her bonding strategy, honestly.”

“You’re weird for enjoying cleaning up.”

“But it’s so therapeutic!” you defend. “It’s just me, my dishcloth, and a good audiobook. I love it.”

“You’re, like, every mothers dream daughter-in-law.”

Your eyelashes flutter in a tentative, shy way. “You think so?”

Jungkook sniffs a laugh at your reaction. “Studying medicine seals half the deal already.”

“Remember when you had that injury from football in the first year of high school, and your mum called me right after you got back from the hospital to check if the doctors knew what they were doing?”

Jungkook groans at the memory. “She kept bugging me to send you photos of my meds so you could double-check if they prescribed the right thing,” he says. “Like, just because you wanted to be a doctor back then didn’t mean you actually knew anything.”

“She’s cute.”

“She’s overprotective.”

“She cares about her baby,” you retort, voice a little high-pitched as you squish his cheeks together with your hand.

“You know, I was just thinking how I strive to be more like you, but I rest my case.” His hand clutches your wrist. “I don’t want to be someone who does stuff like this.”

“Too tired to be silly?” You let go of his face, dropping your hand on his chest.

“Too much food,” he sighs dramatically, giving his tummy a few taps.

You frown. “There’s no food baby.”

Jungkook lifts his shirt, showing off the rippled lines across his abdomen. “Just pretty abs.”

“I have those too, you know.” You tug Jungkook’s jersey up a few inches, just enough to reveal the soft skin of your belly. “They’re just hiding.” The jersey pools around your ribs, the fabric bunching slightly in your hands.

He chuckles. Then with a grin, he reaches over and gently pokes your tummy, making you flinch.

“They shy?” he says, amused. “Gotta coax them out?”

“They’re waiting for me to pick up my Pilates classes again.” You tug the jersey down again. “I've had a defined tummy for a bit, but I'm just too lazy when it comes to working out. I have zero discipline in that regard.”

Because why would you willingly choose moving your body when you could use your free time to curl up in bed and sleep?

“Lets work out in the gym together,” he proposes. “I'll motivate you.”

“Why do you always try to get me to work out with you?”

“So we can spend more time together?”

“We’re about to spend plenty of time together.”

“It’s gonna give class trip vibes,” he beams. “So excited to be there with the boys and you.”

You’re excited too. You’ve never left the country before, and the idea of going abroad feels surreal, but you wish the circumstances were different. Is pretending going to be easy with so many eyes on you?

You pout a little at the thought, kicking off the sheets as warmth starts spreading across your body.

Jungkook frees himself from the sheets too. “It’s hot,” he mutters.

“Your room’s too tiny for two people in summer.”

Jungkook sits up just enough for his arm to bump into yours. You let out a little grumpy noise.

“Jungkook,” you huff, giving him a lazy shove. “Personal space.”

Only then do you realise he’s pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric dragging slowly up his torso before he chucks it somewhere into the abyss that is his floor. It’s dark, but not dark enough. Your eyes still catch on the muscles of his back, the dip of his waist, the way his shoulder blades shift with the motion.

“Personal space doesn’t exist on this bed.” His voice is a bit low, probably the sleepiness seeping through, but coupled with him slowly dragging his hand through his hair it makes it feel like more than just tiredness.

Your eyes flick to the stretch of his arm, the shift in his shoulders. It’s mildly offensive how effortlessly good he looks. Maybe even a bit annoying.

“Why are you getting naked?”

Jungkook laughs and looks down at you. “I usually never wear this much to bed.”

“You can take your sweatpants off too,” you say. “I don’t mind.”

Jungkook tilts his head. His hair falling over his forehead in little strands. “You trying to get me naked?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t want to be the only one getting naked,” he shamelessly tosses out.

This absolute freak. Jungkook has to tease you every 5 minutes or else he’ll spontaneously combust.

“This is not 10th grade truth or dare strip version,” you reply, unfazed. But then the memory hits you like a brick. “Oh my god, remember that school trip? When we all snuck into Jimin’s room and someone asked you a relatively tame question, and you took your shirt off for no reason, but everyone knew you just wanted to show off?” You shove his shoulder playfully, remembering his silly antics from high school. “You literally just wanted to flex in front of Hyejin.”

Jungkook sighs dreamily at the memory as he gets comfy on the bed. “Ah, teenage hormones and desperation. Simpler times.”

“I bet you’d do the same thing right now if you had a crush.”

He turns his head on the pillow to face you, smile soft and cheeky. A quiet dimple tucks into his cheek.

“Shirt’s off already.” He raises an eyebrow and lets his gaze flick very obviously from your eyes to your mouth and back.

“Ugh,” you grumble, closing your eyes for a second. “How am I going to tolerate you for two whole weeks during the world cup?”

“Just the way you ignored me during the game when Taehyung dared you to kiss someone, and you refused my offer to just kiss me so you wouldn’t have to take off your clothes?”

You immediately cover your face with your hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“That was the highlight of the night. Taehyung knew you wouldn’t do the dare. Just wanted you to take off your shirt.”

“You said ‘if you’re too nervous I’ll volunteer’.”

“I was giving you a way out! I knew you weren’t gonna kiss any of those douchebags.”

“You said it in front of like ten people, Jungkook. What was I supposed to do, make out with you in the middle of the circle?” You shake your head in disbelief. “Do you think Taehyung thinks of us sometimes?” you ask, curiosity tugging at your words.

“Nah, he’s too busy with his influencer friends now.” He rolls his eyes as he says it.

Taehyung was such a good friend until high school ended, and everyone’s lives drifted apart. He stopped showing up to hangouts and stopped texting.

“Anyway, my offer would’ve saved you flashing your tits at everyone.”

You sit up, glaring at him. “I was not flashing my tits at everyone. I had a bra on!”

He was the one flashing his tits.

“Well then, flashing your cute bra at everyone,” he corrects. He’s got one hand behind his head, looking at you through amused eyes.

You think for a second. “I don’t remember what bra I was wearing.”

“A white one. It had little cherries all over and a little bow in the middle.”

“That one!” you perk up. You click your tongue mournfully. “Grew out of it though.”

Jungkook hums thoughtfully. His gaze drops down to your chest – though there’s really nothing to see, not with you absolutely drowning in his old jersey. Still, his eyes linger with a soft kind of amusement.

“We could buy a new one?”

“No, some things are better left as good memories.”

Without a word, Jungkook wraps an arm around you and gently tugs you down onto his chest. You let yourself go easily, curling into his side, and resting your head on his chest.

“Then I hope you’ll always think of that bra fondly.” His fingers brush absentmindedly along your spine.

You giggle. “Thank you, silly.”

When you start to shift back to your ridiculously tiny sliver of the bed – because someone (the bicep exhibit to your right) is taking up eighty percent of the mattress – Jungkook presses a gentle hand to the small of your back, stopping you.

“You can stay.”

“But I drool.”

“That’s okay. I snore.”

You consider it for a moment. “Fair trade.”

Jungkook chuckles as you settle again, placing your head right back on his chest. His hand stays where it is, comfortable and still.

You wake up multiple times that night.

Each time, you try to inch further toward the edge of the bed, desperate to escape the relentless, blaring noise of Jungkook’s snoring.

But every single time, he reaches for you in his sleep. An arm looping around your waist, a hand tugging you back in.

You stop fighting, eventually. Let the (annoying) noise carry you through the night while you’re half-draped over Jungkook’s chest, face smushed into warm skin, drooling peacefully.

702 notes · View notes

hyoer · 16 hours ago

Text

Project: Get Over Bob (3)

pairing. Bob Reynolds x reader

synopsis. Bob likes someone that’s not you and now, wait- is Bob over you?

warnings. some mention of heavy topics like trafficking but no in depth descriptions! lotttttsss of angst but some comfort too because I'm not completely evil ;0 reader and bob are constantly misunderstanding each other!! some descriptions of injuries and meanie bob.

word count. 6.7k

part 1.

part 2.

Notes at the end of this chapter

Project: Find Ivan

Mongolia was beautiful

Blue skies, quiet mornings, space to breathe and think .

Maybe a bit too much.

You’d needed the break. Needed to get out after Project: Get Over Bob had failed so spectacularly. None of your well-planned phases helped to squash the intense feelings you had for Bob.

You, Alexei and John were crammed into a one-bedroom flat in Ulaanbaatar that felt more like a storage closet with windows than a living space. You tried not to think about how much money Valentina had and how little she’d spent on housing funds for the mission.

She was a multi-millionaire for crying out loud.

Mel had a theory about your lack of sleeping space: punishment.

Bob had been distracted at the gala, distracted by you.

Valentina had noticed, of course she had.

You cursed her for her pettiness.

At least the meal budget was unlimited, well you were pretty sure the budget was there to satiate Alexei’s uncanny ability to eat everything within a five-foot radius of his body.

The IBJJF championship venue was close enough that you only needed a pair of old-fashion binoculars, a digicam and some hefty patience to scope out the coaches. Your first few days were spent watching matches, taking notes and eating your body weight in Khuushuur.

Nights in the capital smelled like sweat and sounded like fists meeting pads. You and Walker sparred on every spare patch of floor in the apartment until you were breathless and sore and collapsing onto the pull-out couch. Alexei would then find a way to keep you both up until the am, regaling you with stories of his time as the Red Guardian. His stories were loud, sometimes funny and full of impossible heroics.

But the stories and the night never lasted as long as you wanted.

Sleep rarely came. But when she did, Lady Morpheus made sure to torture you with the thoughts you tried to bury during the day. Dreams of Bob and Lily in a booth somewhere peaceful, laughing at something small, leaning into each other. His hands at her shoulders, touches so light they even made you shiver.

Your subconscious clearly had no respect for your boundaries.

You had three weeks to build up your cover, plenty of time to enjoy your fully funded holiday with a side of espionage. The first month’s mission brief: blend in, train and explore. Be the wide-eyed American athlete with the eccentric Russian coach.

Ok so, maybe Valentina wasn’t that petty.

Sukhbaatar Square became your favourite place, hours were spent there, watching street performances and listening to live music. Walker got dragged into an impromptu volleyball game once. Then again. And again. And soon the local teens were arguing over who got him for the next match like he was prime Shaq.

You grinned every time.

Alexei was glued to his camera the whole trip. Constantly fiddling with settings he definitely didn’t understand, restless at the opportunity to document everything he did.

At one point, you’d all gone to the Equestrian statue of Genghis Khan and spent a minimum of forty minutes being directed by Alexei. Those awkward JC Penney TikTok videos had nothing on you and John’s poses.

The National Museum of Mongolia was Alexei’s version of heaven.

He ignored the all of the “no photography” signs, ranting on about Lena, Melina and printing. He had an explanation for everything there. John dragged his feet at first, bored out of his mind; until he stumbled across an exhibit on nomadic tools and then it was lecture time. He was smug, irritating, but oddly endearing. Your ears were turned vaguely in his direction, pretending to listen while you took in the artefacts yourself.

Once you all had had your fill of real life, it was time to get down to business.

The mission was simple on file: find Ivan Petrovitch.

In reality, it was anything but. Intel said he was buried somewhere behind the scenes- tucked into the judging committee. Invisible, but still present.

You walked into the competition hall like it belonged to you- shoulders squared, your steps measured, eyes locked forward. Your expression alone carved a path through the crowd, and Walker and Alexei followed closely behind.

Your first opponent Natalia had two recent losses via armbar. On paper, she should have been a warm-up for you. You made a mental note to go easy. Keep it clean and professional.

Approaching the mat with a warm smile, you had extended your hand to greet her.

She walked past you.

No nod, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. You muttered under your breath, “Rude.”

Her head snapped towards you eyeing you with distain.

She was a good ten feet away- how the hell had she heard that?

The bell rang.

You stepped onto the mat, confident in your movements. Natalia backed up immediately, basically inviting you to attack her lead leg. Her retreat looked like hesitation but something about the movement made you feel uneasy. You lunged, but she became a blur, intercepting your move with a sharp arm drag. In one brutal motion, she locked your right leg and flipped you to the floor, knocking the air from your lungs.

You blinked up, blinded by the harsh lights above you.

She pummelled you into the mat with precision and power that bordered on inhuman. Every attempt at escape, deep half guard, underhook, anything, was shut down effortlessly. Her arms caged you around you like steel, you could barely breathe, barely think, barely move.

So much for taking it easy on her.

When it was over, the ref pulled her off you. Humiliated, you slipped off to the bench and dropped your gaze to your feet in an attempt to catch your breath.

A sharp yelp suddenly caught your attention.

You looked up just in time to see Natalia’s coach grab her arm, his nails piercing at the material of her uniform. He handled her like a misbehaving child while she just stood hunched and apologetic.

Your stare lingered too long.

His eyes locked with yours in warning as he shoved her towards a side door. She stumbled and glanced back at you apologetically as she disappeared.

John crossed the mat with his signature smirk. He spoke out cockily. “Did you even bother practicing before you got here?”

You didn’t look at him right away. The ache in your shoulders still hadn’t faded. “There’s something wrong,” you murmured.

“You see something while she was beating your ass?”

You exhaled slowly. “More like felt it. That girl- Natalia- her collar drag could’ve ripped my arm clean off.”

“So what?” he scoffed.

You stared at him, brows raised. “She’s strong. Unnaturally strong.” He blinked. Confused.

“Strong like you, bonehead.”

As John finally managed to put two and two together, you stared off at the door the girl had been shepherded through. “Every movement of hers, on and off the mat, just doesn’t feel right,” standing up “I don’t think, I don’t think we’re here for Ivan, or well we shouldn’t be here for him”

Your steps were heavy as you made your way toward Alexei, taking your time to observe the almost robotic agility some of the other girls also moved with.

“What was the name of the woman we had on file for the Widow serum?”

“Kurdrin.” he said, barely glancing up from the files in his hand.

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “Lexei, this competition isn’t a lure for Ivan.” You swallowed hard.

“It’s a sales floor.”

The moment you voiced your suspicion, something shifted between the three of you, an unspoken understanding that Valentina was going to be super pissed when you got back.

You weren’t here for Ivan anymore.

You all began to make your way through the hall weaving your way to the service entrance attached to the laundry room. John knelt down and pulled back a maintenance panel, lifting his tactical bag around with a grunt. From the side pocket, he produced a tablet about the size of a paperback.

“Who gave you that?”

He smiled guilty. “A little flirting with Mel goes a long way.”

Remind yourself to keep him away from her when you got back.

He flicked open the case, revealing a small screen. A quiet hum pulsed from it as the scanner powered up, casting a faint bluish glow onto his face. You all took a breath as he sent out an alert for backup.

“There,” he muttered, adjusting the map. “One room, lower southeast wing. Ten heat signatures with minimal movement, it has to be where they’re holding the girls.”

Alexei squinted at the bright screen. “I do not trust this. Looks like arcade game.”

“You don’t need to trust it,” handing him the tablet. “you just need to hold it, the big red dots are people. Tell us where to avoid over comms. Easy peasy.”

“I do not like blobs,” Alexei muttered resignedly, his hands turning the tablet upset down in distrust.

Alexei’s tone would have been comical to you if you weren’t so terrified at the thought of such high-tech equipment in the hands of the man that had once added his entire contact list to the Thunderbolts group chat.

As if sensing your unease, he gave you a overly reassuring smile.

Yeah, this wasn’t going to be good.

“John, take the west corridor and sweep the other storage rooms. I’ll hit southeast and check the other wing.” He nodded. “We meet in the middle. If anything smells off, pull back.”

One last look at the Alexei and you both set off.

You slipped into the staff corridors, the noise of the match hall faded behind as you made your way through the narrow passageways. The air was still and heavy with the kind of silence that made you feel uneasy.

“Left turn my dochka,” Alexei’s voice buzzed in your ear. “The room in front- has lots of people. I think ten, but they are still.”

You crept forward, every step calculated as you pressed your ear to the surface of the door.

No whispers. No breathing. Just still.

“You sure the signatures coming from this room?”

“Very sure, lots of blobs.”

The doorknob was cold in your hands and with some slight pressure you turned it slowly.

Your eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and you saw them.

Ten girls.

All of them sat slumped on the floor, zip ties tight around their wrists, heads hanging low.

Every step you took towards them had them flinching.

As you got closer you noticed their uniforms were clean, not a speck of dirt on any of them. Like they were props set out for display. And off to the side, resting with her back against the wall, was Natalia. Her eyes shot up to yours and her lips parted-

The door behind you slammed open.

You turned just in time to block the first hit from one of the men that was clad in tactical gear. But the hits came harder and faster the more you were pushed around the room. One grabbed your arm and slammed you against the crates stacked at the back of the room. You stood up dizzy and swung back, landing a blow to his gut.

“Walker, I need help” you gasped into your comms.

“I’m pinned,” came his response. “Five on me right now. Hold on.”

With the knowledge that Walker wasn’t coming anytime soon you became desperate.

You started grabbing at anyone or anything. Letting yourself loose and clawing at them as rabidly as possible.

One grabbed you by the scruff of your cotton jacket, his fist came down fast, striking the side of your head like a hammer. The blow was so forceful that all you saw was a flash of white hot light and then silence.

You came to in John’s arms, the man hushing you as you began thrashing in his arms. “No… no, please John, let me up I can – I can-“

He let you tire yourself out.

Your legs were limp under you, the bulk of your weight leaning on the super soldier’s shoulders as you made your way out of the building. Alexei was already waiting at the staff exit, pacing in circles by the van. His eyes widened, taking in your appearance, clearly ready to scold you, but John nodded softly- uncharacteristically serious.

The silence that filled the vehicle was suffocating.

Your head rested on the side of the window, bumping against the cool pane every so often making you wince. You felt Alexei begin to slowly slide into the back seat with you, his large arms wrapping around you, approaching you like an injured animal. You found yourself launching into his chest, all of the air in your lungs being exhaled out as you sank into his warmth.

Slow melodic tones rumbled from under your fingertips, a lullaby, something unfamiliar, was currently escaping Alexei. He began patting your back the same way he did once to Lena and Tasha, the movements felt repentant.

You didn’t sleep, just closed your eyes.

That was enough.

Project: Give up?

Coming home should’ve felt like relief.

Plenty of soft blankets, shelves of comics, and finally some rain. But it didn’t. You’d failed.

Not John, not Alexei, you.

Valentina made sure you knew how badly you’d screwed up. She’d stormed into tower, her shrill voice echoing off the walls, demanding consequences. Bucky and Ava stopped her at the door threatening that they had enough dirt on her to get her back into cuffs if they wanted. You’d caught the tail end of her rant- something about a deal with Sokovia being off the table now.

Not that you cared.

Bob had come to your room every day since you’d been back.

He’d sat on the edge of your bed talking about something stupid Yelena had done while you’d been gone or how studying calculus had been rotting his brain. The time away from him had made you needy, for his attention, for him. So you let him stay and ignored the part of your brain reminding you of your old project.

Eventually, you decided to stop moping.

The team was sat around on the sofa watching The Skeleton Twins- your comfort movie. Your Letterboxd top four was common knowledge around the tower so you knew they’d queued it up in hopes of luring you out.

Cheeky.

You collapsed onto the sofa and Bucky pulled you into his side like habit, like your absence hadn’t happened at all. Your legs were splayed across his lap while his vibranium hand played with the fabric of your pyjamas, twisting them absentmindedly.

The movie was just background noise for Bob His eyes were trained on the comfortable way you and Bucky had settled into the corner of the sofa.

Bob didn’t know it wasn’t romantic, but it sure as hell felt like it was to him.

And he didn’t like it at all.

You didn’t notice Bob at first. Not until Bill Hader began serenading Kirsten Wiig and everyone laughed.

Almost everyone.

You didn’t hear his laugh.

You always could, no matter how crowded the room. It was soft and melodic, filtering into your ears like a warm cup of cocoa on a cold day. Your last image of him had been him cooped up in the med bay, shaking from the stress of being taken over by an eldritch god. The lack of laughter unnerved you.

You turned your head, hoping to capture a grin from him.

You saw the look of unease in his eyes.

Just a flicker- but there nonetheless, too heavy to be anything else but discomfort. He didn’t say anything to your raised brow and kept his face neutral. But something was wrong; his hands were tucked tightly under his arms like he was cold, his back was ramrod straight against the plush seating.

Suddenly, Bucky let out a sharp snort as the film jumped into the credit sequence taking your attention away from Bob’s strange behaviour.

You rolled your eyes. “Why are you scoffing about it’s a good film.”

“I wouldn’t say good, but it was definitely interesting doll,” Bucky teased, flicking a piece of popcorn at your head.

“Don’t call me that, Barnes.”

He grinned with those weirdly pointy teeth of his “What, you gonna beat me up?”

At that you both cackled and began play fighting with the dozens of pillows John had bought when he went through his grand designs phase. The man in question was complaining about how much he’d spent on the goose feather pillows you’d desecrated. You began to crawl towards Lena, the woman shrugged you off and handed you back to Bucky leading to an all-out fight between the three of you.

Bob watched on.

Feeling as though there was no place for him in your intimate moment.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. Bob knew that, he should’ve been happy to see you fall back into your regular routine after being cooped up in your room for so long.

But he wasn’t.

No one noticed when he left, not even you.

Life carried on with the same mundane tone for Bob.

He was like a band stretched too far, too tight.

Who knew when he would snap.

You were held up in your room for most of the next day.

You’d ordered enough Chick-fil-A to create your own monster like Frankenstein with the chicken bones.

Your phone pinged again. And then again.

It was buried under the laundry heap you hadn’t bothered folding. With an annoyed sigh you scrambled your way to the pile and dug it out.

OPN DOOR. Well, at least Bucky was straight to the point

You texted, Can you come back tomorrow for my corpse?

His reply was instant: No, I opn door now.

You barely had enough time to straighten out your workspace before the hot-head made his way through. “Why do you type like you’ve never seen the alphabet before?” you muttered.

“So I can annoy you,” his grin was almost endearing as he eyed the mounds of halo top underneath your desk. “how you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” you shuffled the empty containers towards the rubbish bin, failing miserably. “just taking a sabbatical”

He gave you an incensed look. “And this extended sabbatical requires copious amounts of fried chicken and whatever the hell that is.” inspecting the container on your lap.

“Kanafeh,” you said, lifting your chin. “it’s the world’s greatest dessert. Educate yourself.”

He leant down and took a slice before flopping onto your bed. “Im sure you’ll be willing to part with some so I can learn.”

He didn’t look at your face when he questioned you again, softer this time. “So… are you finally gonna tell me what happened.”

“Not you too.” you groaned, letting your head fall onto your desk, muffling your voice.

“Sweetheart,” patient as ever “even before you and Bob had your soiree in the death zone you were fumbling about and ignoring him. What’s this really all about?”

You lifted half of your face to the man “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Never“

You inhaled. “Okay, I had this like plan. Like, a well-thought-out, multi-phase plan.”

“To get over Bob?”

You shot him a look. “Mhmm and before you say anything. yes, it didn’t work.”

While you pouted and Bucky chastised you, a tall figure approached your door, half in shadow.

Bob stood, well floated, outside of your door his fist half-raised ready to knock, but he didn’t. He just watched.

Watched as you stared at Bucky with a playful expression, the same way you did a few days before. His chest ached , God he felt stupid. He’d come to show you his latest breakthrough. the ability to fly without passing out or ending the world.

He’d been proud.

For the first time in a long time Bob had something good to bring to you.

Inside, Bucky fiddled with your pillow, grinning at your very obvious love for the golden boy “I can see that.”

“And flooding my room didn’t help either,” you added under your breath furrowing your brows in annoyance.

“…Sorry, what?”

“You and your creepy super hearing Jesus,” Looking away from him in embarrassment. “I might’ve taken a hammer to the pipes. I needed an excuse to move to the room next to yours.”

Bucky stared at you, silent for a moment before bursting into loud, uncontrollable laughter, rolling around on the bed in circles.

“Why don’t you ever laugh that hard when I tell actual jokes?” you asked, mock offended.

“Because nothing’s funnier than imagining you thinking tactical plumbing was the best idea for this plan”

“I just…” you sighed. “I couldn’t be next to him anymore. Having him walk past every night, hearing his voice through the wall. It was actual torture.”

The words hit Bob in waves.

He stared at the door like it might offer an explanation, like maybe you’d jump put and tell him “I knew you were there Bob we were just teasing you, come inside so you can propose to me!”

But no, you really had just admitted you’d damaged your room just to avoid being next to him. The room that you had spent weeks carefully decorating, dragging him to every plant shop within the city to curate your own dreamspace as you coined it.

You’d destroyed that room.

Did you hate him that much?

Bob lowered his hand from its place near your door. Curling his fingers into a fist by his side. His face stayed calm, almost expressionless. He turned without a sound, hovering down the hallway. Your laugh followed, mocking him as he made his way to his room.

One thought in his mind.

She wanted to get away from you.

None the wiser, you continued your conversation with Bucky.

“It’s like, well, imagine being stuck in a closet with David Corensweat for 3 hours, you’re telling me you wouldn’t want to give the guy a smooch?”

He scrunched his nose in thought. “I’m not denying he was good-looking in The Politician but he’s not my type.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot he flies without wings, right.” He guffawed at that, throwing a pillow at your face in mock anger, but you could see the tips of his ears slowly flushing red.

Project: Bob should get over you?

You needed a good book.

Ignoring the fact nobody wanted to start a book club when you’d asked five months ago you decided to just buy 7 copies of Americanah and tape them to everyone’s doors.

You were mid-search on Google when a name popped up. Lily’s shop.

Of course it was top of the list. Perfect reviews, handpicked recs and the best vanilla coffees in the city.

Of course.

Swallowing your pride wasn’t one of your most notable traits but what did you have to lose?

You walked in, the bell overhead chiming that same mellow note you remembered. The air smelled like paper, sandalwood, and something floral. Making a beeline for the new-in table you grabbed the first book you could see with a half-interest in the cover and a full intention to pretend that was the only reason you were there.

“Hey!” Her voice caught you off guard, as did the soft hug she pulled you into.

You tensed for a moment, then let yourself melt into her. “Hi. I haven’t- uh, haven’t seen you in a while, how’ve you been?”

“I’ve been great,” she beamed. “I decided to expand the store. We’re building into the unit next door this week!”

You nodded, eyeing the chaos behind the counter; power tools, papers, bits of half-assembled shelving strewn about the place. Just as you primed yourself to let out a well-formulated joke about power tools, a man strolled out from the back towards you both. He was tall, handsome in a probably-models-for-la-roche-posay kind of way.

He leant down, kissed lily on the cheek, saying something about fixing a computer and heading out for extra parts.

He glanced at you, smiled politely, and left.

What the hell?

Standing still for a moment you sputtered out “Sorry um… not to be nosey, but aren’t you and Bob still...?” squishing your hands together in confusion.

She chuckled softly. “Together?”

“Oh, no,” she said, smiling like the whole thing was obvious. “We figured we’d be better off as friends, he still comes by for coffee occasionally, but honestly? It was clear his head was somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else?”

Lily gave you a pointed look. “More like someone else.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Come on,” she laughed. “The man practically vibrated every time you came into a room. The whole time you were away he was pining after you like a little baby,” leaning in “one night at dinner, I caught him staring at photos he’d taken of you napping.”

“No, he did not!” You laughed, half in disbelief.

She laughed too, warm and unbothered. “Full-on wistful. like you were a picture in a locket of his husband lost at sea.”

“I’m... sorry,” you said softly, coming down from the high of finding out Bob, maybe just maybe, liked you too.

“For what? It’s not like either of you committed a war crime,” she said, waving it off. “Bob’s a good guy. Just wasn’t the one I was waiting for, I mean have you seen my boyfriend?”

You left with the books stuffed into your bag, your chest lighter than it had ever felt after your talk with her.

Time to woman up and kiss Bob (or ask him out).

As soon as the clock hit seven you were rushing back home to the dining area, you could finally unleash the months-worth of flirting you’d been saving up for Bob.

Well, that’s what you thought would be happening.

Bob was unusually quiet, his face down in his food, inspecting it as if he’d never seen broccoli before.

You tried to break the ice.

“Hey Bob, could you pass the sugar?” you spoke while tapping at his bicep.

He didn’t look up.

“I don’t get how you can eat lemon and sugar on pancakes. It’s disgusting,” Walker spoke from his seat on the other side of you.

“It’s a delicacy,” you defended, turning your head to face him.

“Even in Russia, we—” Yelena started from across the table, but you weren’t listening.

You turned back to Bob. “Could I have—”

“Get Walker to get it,” he cut in coldly, not even looking up from his plate. Pushing his salmon from side to side, not even bothering to pretend to eat.

Everyone paused.

John cleared his throat in an attempt to break the mood and pushed the sugar toward you. “Here you go?”

Bob stood up without a word and left the table, his chair scraping against the floor as he walked out. His footsteps were heavy as he made his way downstairs.

When did Bob start stomping around like that?

That was Bucky’s thing.

What’s up his ass?”

“He’s probably just stressed because of his exam jackass.” Ava scolded John, all while reaching over to squeeze your hand.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding like a bobble head. “Must be the stress.”

You weren’t convinced

That week’s sparring session had started as a team-building exercise. Everyone suited up, grumbling half-heartedly as you all prepared to pretend to beat each other up for a good five hours.

But Valentina, ever the benevolent dictator, decided to turn your fun day into a science experiment. “For data.” she’d said, an unhinged glint in her eye.

Where was Congressman Gary’s impeachment team when you needed them?

Bob descended from the upper floor just in time to watch John adjust the harness strapped across your chest, some sort of weird tracking rig measuring motion, strength, and vitals.

“Don’t move,” he muttered, tightening a strap. “There. All strapped in.”

Bob let out an audible sigh. His eyes lingered on John’s hands near your chest, then flicked away as he rolled his eyes. You didn’t say anything about his obvious distain but forced yourself to remember that he was still the same guy that apparently slept in your bed while you were abroad (information courtesy of Yelena Belova the amazing super spy).

So you smiled at him. Not the fake strained kind, but the subtle “I’m in love with you” type of smile. He gave one back- begrudging, but it was there.

You knew your charms were undeniable.

You bounced onto the mat, light on your feet, throwing silly jabs into the air like you were training for a Rocky reboot.

The performance didn’t rouse a single laugh from him.

“This one’s for comparison,” Mel called from the edge. “We need a baseline on Bob’s strength against a non-enhanced opponent.”

You squared up “Ready?”

Bob didn’t answer.

Instead, he shoved you back with a single, casual flick of his hand, a bored movement not aggressive. You stumbled back but found your footing quickly, darting in to land a punch, only for him to palm your face and push you aside like you were nothing.

“Hey,” you snapped, breathless. “Aren’t we supposed to be sparring?”

“We are,” he muttered under his breath. “Not my fault you’re not putting any effort in.”

You lunged again. He barely dodged.

You jabbed at his side. He caught your wrist, twisted it, and let go just as you lost your footing again.

“If you had any powers, maybe you’d be able to do something useful.” He spoke from above, the view reminding you of the way it’d felt when you’d first seen Bob in his sentry costume. The mocking kindness to his glare, as if his words were helping you figure out a truth that you should’ve already known.

He said it so softly, you almost convinced yourself you’d misheard. But when you looked into his eyes you saw the flicker of resentment. The way his jaw was locked tight and you knew then it hadn’t you’re your imagination.

Maybe Bob agreed with the Void after all.

Maybe everything he’d said that day was him.

Maybe he meant it all.

You blinked once, twice, and then laughed, dry and unsteady, as you raised your hand in mock surrender. “Okay, I’m tapped out.”

Mel looked ready to step over to you, concern heavy in her gaze, but Valentina waved her hand. “We have enough. That’s it.” You nodded, wiping the back of your glove across your cheek and giving Bob a hollow smile.

His eyes locked with yours and something in your expression made his stomach twist.

“Looks like everything’s coming up Bob!” John joked, walking past you trying to high-five Bob.

He walked past him keeping his eyes trained on his feet.

Yelena scoffed. “Idiot.”

“Why does everyone keep calling me that, is there something I’m missing??” He whined out.

The meeting was really dragging on.

And the team had been treating you like a sick puppy all week, too nervous to ask if you’d spoken with Bob yet.

You tried to focus, flipping through the folder in your hands.

“Hey, where are the access codes I submitted? They’re moving the drop point further north, so we’ll need clearance for the next base over—”

“They’ll be in the southern base,” Yelena interrupted. Her head was turned towards you, waiting for you to say something that might change her mind. She was always like this when it came to anything Red Room-related, no space for deviation.

You pressed her. “I know, but just listen. If the convoys are rerouted north like the last drop—”

“Why don’t you let someone who knows what they’re doing handle it?” Bob’s voice cut through.

His eyes were fixed on you, almost gleeful at what he’d said.

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t even blink. “You had one job. Keep the girls safe. And you let them get taken.”

“Bob,” Yelena warned, tone low, almost disbelieving.

“That wasn’t even the mission,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “We had to improvise. We weren’t even meant to—”

“The Red Room doesn’t give second chances,” he snapped again “you know that. But hey, maybe if you’d been able to handle yourself, we wouldn’t be here figuring out how to clean up your mess.”

His voice was soft but the venom in it was unmistakable.

Bucky shifted beside you, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Ava’s eyes were dark, her glare practically burning holes through Bob’s skull. Yelena, Alexei, and John exchanged looks like they weren’t sure whether to hold you back or hold him down.

Your body began to tremble, not just from the anger stewing inside you, but from the humiliation of knowing that what he said was the truth. You weren’t strong enough to hold off a couple of mercenaries and hadn’t pushed for Alexei to go in. Instead, you’d let the strongest team-mate you had stay on comms while you went in, ego high.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, unable to find the words to defend yourself. “You don’t know what happened.”

You left.

Alexei stood up slowly.

His voice was firm and fatherly. “I do not know why you choose cruelty today Robert. But you will say sorry to her.”

Finally snapping to his senses, Bob rushed up, intent on catching up to you. As he began darting for the door he was stopped by John gripping his arm. “That was really fucked up dude.”

“I know Walker.” He griped, sounding annoyed.

“No you don’t, we didn’t even know the red room was directly involved until she figured it out. We would have been in and out without any kind of knowledge of what was going on if she hadn’t used her brain.”

John sighed loosening his hold on him “Look, buddy I know you like her, we all do. The only person that doesn’t is her, just talk to her-”

“I know. I’m just… angry. At myself. And she-she doesn’t even need me. Not with Bucky around.” Bob swallowed.

“Bucky.” Yelena wiped her hand over her face clearly exasperated, not stopping there, she looked over to the others gesturing wildly in the air. “Christ, you two are morons”

“Bucky’s got a certain captain that he talks about all day, every day. Why would he want to be with her.” Ava chimed in from the front of the room.

Bob seemed confused “But she said she couldn’t stand me, I-I heard you both.” Pointing at the man who was currently red-faced.

John, clearly at his wits end, stated while holding onto Bob’s shoulders. “I don’t know what the hell that’s about but, maybe you could use your big mouth to ask her with your words?”

Before Bob could protest, Bucky walked up his arms folded, giving him a disapproving stare.

“You didn’t hear everything,” Bucky said flatly.

“What else was there to hear?”

Bucky sighed, like he was regretting getting involved. “She didn’t move because she hates you. She moved because she was trying to get over you.”

Bob stared. “What?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, glancing toward the hallway you’d disappeared down in deep thought. “She thought if she put some distance between you, she’d stop liking you so much.” his voice was softer, reluctant. “Didn’t work obviously.”

Bob’s face fell. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even think- I’m such an idiot-.”

“Yup,” Walker said, not even hiding his irritation. “Now go fix it.”

Bob took off down the hallway, heart pounding, really hoping he wasn’t too late.

“Open the door,” Bob pleaded, voice muffled through the wood but still loud enough to hear how desperate he sounded.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” The distance between you and the door wasn’t enough to hide the exhaustion in your tone. Months of constant back and forth between you and Bob played through your mind as you stuffed yourself deeper under your covers.

The mounds of fabric weren’t enough to keep out Bob’s incessant knocking and pleading.

“I’m sorry. Please. I don’t know what came over me. I- I know I’ve been all over the place, but just let me see your face. Let me explain.” You heard him exhale, long and slow. The weight of his frustration pressed through the door, like he was leaning his whole body weight into the apology.

You imagined his forehead resting on the wood, hands in his hair ruffling the curls that you loved so much.

Stop thinking about his curls!

You perched up on your bed, your sheets wrapped around everything apart from your mouth. Still refusing to open the door. “So you can realise you were being a dick,” you said flatly. “but not before you decided to act like one?”

Silence.

“I was jealous of Bucky, and John and just the thought of anyone that wasn’t me being with you the way I want to be with you.” he said, quiet enough that you had padded back over to the door just to hear him without straining.

“And what way is that?”

“The kind of way that has us being sixty years old, surrounded by at least ten grandchildren on Thanksgiving.”

You fumbled with the door handle, the chill of the hallway air biting at your skin as you yanked it open. The duvet clung to you like armour, preventing him from seeing you. You barely had time to adjust before you realised you were staring directly at Bob’s chest.

He smelt like clean cotton and distress. The thin black shirt he wore strained at the shoulders and you could feel warmth pouring off him,. The thump of his heartbeat was so close to your cheek.

Reality suddenly set in, coming out of your haze you took a step back, pulling the fabric back down your face.

“Still doesn’t explain,” A cough escaped you. “why you’ve been treating me like I’m leper.”

“I know it doesn’t.” His voice broke, just slightly. “I was scared. And I took it out on you.”

“You made me feel like an idiot,” you say. “The worst part is … you’re not wrong, it was my fault.” Your breath hiccups as tears stream down your face.

“No, no, no” he says quickly. “You fought like hell to get them out of there; even Walker was swamped and the guy has about ten tonnes of hydra serum pumping through him.”

His fingers tentatively graze over your form, brushing your face like he’s unsure if he has the right to. His fingertips trace the shape of you, your cheekbone, the curve of your brow, almost like he’s memorising you. His thumb strokes slow circles at your temple, easing the tension in your furrowed brow.

Glancing up at him, your eyes big, glossy and red. “You want us to be grandparents at sixty years old?”

The corner of his mouth quirks as lips purse together. “Baby,” he murmurs, tender now, “I’d be fine with anything you want.”

Then his face shifts - gaze absolute, voice hushed and certain. “I love you.”

You buried your head into his chest, overwhelmed by the statement.

“Say it again,” you whisper, barely audible.

“I love you.”

You pressed yourself closer to him. “One more time?”

He kissed the top of your head murmuring it again and again.

Mustering up some confidence you snapped your head up, capturing his lips with yours. Feeling his well chapsticked lips against yours sent a shiver down your spine and he stood frozen as you continued your attack. While caught off guard Bob managed to come-to enough to slip his hands down to your waist as he kissed you back deeper, slower and desperate. Your arms reached out looping around his neck and into his hair, pulling him closer to you, attempting to drink in as much of him as you could.

Once you’d realised that you werent able to hold your breath you pulled back, you took some time to admire your handy-work. Bob looked out of his mind, his lips were parted, breathing heavily like he’d just fought off a hundred men.

“Was that ok?”

His voice cracked “Yeah- yeah that was nice.”

Yeah, Project: Get Over Bob was a bust.

“Soooo, was this the intended outcome of your little project?”

“Who told you about that?!!?”

Hiiii I know its been a while my lovelies, I had no motivation to finish after my word app blunder, and then all the studying for my exam didn’t help my morale.

I want to thank all of you for sticking by this fic and leaving such lovely comments and engaging with it! There's a lot more dialogue in this chapter so I had a bit of a tricky time writing it, I hope it doesn’t seem to clunky.

I have another exam this august so won’t be back to writing until after it but I have a very cheeky idea for a Bucky x Congresswoman!reader fic if any of you are interested :) and also a kinda? epilogue to PGOB!1

Also, yes I believe in sambucky supremacy im sorry to the stucky shippers out there.

Ps. Im not a kissing pro but I hope the description is good enough for ya’ll!! there will be a lot more of that in the epilogue :)

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #thunderbolts #alexei shostakov #ava starr #bob x reader #bucky barnes #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #fanfiction #marvel x reader #sentry x reader

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firelilyfox · 2 months ago

Text

Some girls think it's cute

Thunderbolts: Bob x Female Reader

Summary: Bob has a HUGE crush on you and no talent in talking (shy king)

Warnings: none really. sfw. fluff overload. passionate kissing.

Words: 2k

Like always: leave a heart if you like or a comment or ideas :) all is welcome!

_____________________________

The sun rises over the skyline bringing New York to life again.

Bob is already standing in the kitchen making coffee to survive the upcoming challenges for today: don’t break anything while training with Bucky, staying awake through the boring lectures by Yelena and most importantly… not having a stroke as soon as he sees Y/N.

Multiple times this week Bob had severe problems to even breathe when you would enter the room or - god help him - standing within an arm length away. Every time you laid eyes on his nervous face he was already looking at you and the way you smiled because of it … he felt his heart skipped a beat. Or five.

Worst of all: the others noticed.

„Mornin’ Bob“, Bucky grumbles from across the huge kitchen slash dining hall.

Bob looked up and sighted in relief (or disappointment). „Good Morning.“

„I bet you wish I had lovely curves and longer hair. Don’t ya?“ He said mockingly. And the pale skin in Bobs face turned instantly red. Bucky barks out a laugh.

„Jesus this is too easy.“ He grabs himself a cup with his metal hand and poured some coffee in it. „You seriously have to work on your pokerface if you plan to keep this a secret.“

„I don’t know what you’re talking about“, Bob mumbles ashamed.

Before Bucky could say anything else the elevator makes a soft ping sound and Yelena stepped inside the kitchen. One step behind her … there where you.

„Hey Boys what’s up!“, Yelena shouts with a big smile. „Ready for some training with your favorite sparringpartners?“

„C´mon Yelena give me at least five minutes to enjoy my coffee before I’m going to kick your ass off the mat“, Bucky mocks.

Bob couldn’t even hear the half of the conversation the two soldiers were having because he was way to focused on you standing there right in front of him. And now he sucked up every move you body was making while coming over to him.

„Good morning Bob“, you said with a little rasp in your voice wich made it obviously that Yelena had just pulled you out of bed. „I’m so tired. No clue how they have so much energy at this time of the day.“

Bob swallows hard. Your hand lays right next to his while resting on the kitchen counter. „I-I… Yeah no clue.“ He wants to sink into the ground.

For a second you just look at him, trying to figure him out, then you hit him with a shy smile. „You look good this morning … I mean you uhm - you look well rested.“

Bob froze solid in place to stare at you. He wasn’t able to move at all but his powers were totally going nuts. Heat sizzled beneath his skin and without noticing he mirrored it to Buckys full cup of coffee. Wich was bubbling now. He put the cup down, smiling knowingly and gave Bob a brotherly pat on his shoulder.

„We will be down in a minute. You girls go ahead and we will meet you at the sparring halls.“ With a meaningful look Bucky gives Yelena a sign to not ask anymore questions. She smirked and grabs Y/N by the elbow to drag her away from Bob.

After the girls had left the room Bob blinks multiple times to make sure he didn’t just dreamed that.

„Well, I know for sure that you didn’t cook my coffee because of Yelena so … yeah. Work on that pokerface or tell her that you like her.“

Bob runs his hand through his hair. No point in denying it any longer. „I tried but every time I- I just … i go tongue-tied.“

„Some girls think it’s cute.“

Bob sighs. „I don’t want her to think I’m cute.“

**Downstairs**

It was even harder for Bob to focus while he is being forced to sparr against you. The rule is to not use any powers (especially for him because … well he could blow this entire building up within a heartbeat) so his only chance not to completely collapse as soon as he blocks some of your kicks was pure self control.

After hours of hard training Yelena and Bucky decided that it’s enough for one day and made their way up to the quarters again. You and Bob stayed.

„You are getting better and better each day Bob. Hard for me to keep up.“ The amusement in your voice sends a warm feeling right in his heart and fills his stomach with butterflies.

„I just copy what I see. You have … you are … uhm I mean“, Bob stutters. Cursing himself for sounding like a damn toddler not being able to form a whole damn sentence. „You are amazing.“ The words escaped is mouth before he could think twice.

You give him a thankful smile. „That is very sweet of you to say.“

Bob doesn't know how to respond to that so he stays silent. Wrenching his fingers nervously, trying to make eye contact without starring at you.

„I - uhm“, Y/N starts. „I should go up and take a shower. But would you like to watch a movie later?“

A wide smile appears on his face. „Yes! I mean uh yeah sure. The others wanted to watch this uhm historic drama I think … I dunno how its called … but yeah if you want we can sit there together. I mean …“ His tongue gets all tied up again while trying to sound not to exited.

Y/N giggles. „No that’s not what I meant. I don’t want to watch this historic thingy with the others. I wanted to ask if you would like to watch a different movie with me.“

Maybe the coffee were never able to stop a stroke from happening. Did he really just hear what he think you said? You wanted to watch a movie with him … alone?

„But … there is only one home theater?“

„Yeah. But we could watch it in my quarters … if you like to come over?“ Your voice gets a silent as if you weren’t sure if Bob would like the idea.

He swallows. Blinks. Then swallows again. „Y-Yeah. I would like that.“

**Later that day**

He flexed both of his hands before he finds the strength to knock at your door. With one last quick look at the corner of his eye he sees the entire Thunderbolts standing at the end of the long hallway pointing their thumbs up and smiling. Bob gestures to make them go away but that’s when the door swung open and suddenly he forgets about the nosy roommates.

You were wearing a oversized shirt of a band he never heard of and one of your shoulders was showing. Your legs were covered in a tight black leggings, wich does not leave much for the imagination. With your hair tied up in a wild bun you looked very comfy.

„You look stunning“, he said with a scratchy voice. Bob could see that Yelena clutches a hand over her mouth and Bucky modding in approval. Ava and Walker trying everything in their power to keep Alexei from making any sound and he wanted to disappear in thin air. It was like having you parents watch you talking to a girl for the first time.

Basically its exactly what was happening right now. He was thankful that you couldn’t see them from your position. That would make this even more awkward.

A soft pink appears on your cheeks. „Thank you. Come in.“

Bob follows you inside and scans the room with one long look. It felt cozy and warm. In every corner was a plant and books were lying around on the different surfaces. The Tv were the only source of light wich made it even more … private.

He catches you looking at him. „I like it. It looks like you.“

„I look like a room?“, you ask in confusion.

„Pretty.“ He says, surprised by his own confidence. Never had he felt so brave talking to you but standing here in the middle of the room, that belongs to the girl he adores … makes him feel safer than ever.

The two of you decide to watch a movie about something funny. Then you choose to watch another movie about something with much action scenes and fast cars. After that you decide to watch another movie wich you totally forgot what it was about because while being all cuddled up on the bed, you are getting closer with each passing minute. By the time the third movie was playing, your legs were laying across his lap and Bob has managed to almost naturally lay his arm around your shoulder, touching the small of your back softly.

„I think that you are pretty too“, you whisper so silent that he almost missed it.

„What?“

You raise your head from his shoulder to look at him. „You called me pretty earlier. And I think you are pretty too.“

„You were thinking of this for the last couple of hours?“ Bob asks in disbelieve.

You nod. „I think about you quiet often.“ Your eyes dart down to his lips when they part in surprise. Bob notices not sure what it means.

„Why?“, he finally whispers. „Why would you do that?“

You look away while clearing your throat. „Oh uhm - I - ignore what I just said. Sometimes I just say weird stuff.“ A nervous chuckle escaping your mouth, trying to cover up the embarrassment.

Bob wants to slap himself across the face. Why couldn’t he have said something more ... well something more intelligent maybe? For fucks sake he were lying in a bed with the girl he was into head over heals and she told him hat she thinks about him and all he had to say to that was; Why?!

Work on your pokerface or tell her that you like her. Buckys voice ringing in his ears with what he said earlier that day. He had to choose between them.

But Bob didn't choose, because there is only one right answer.

And he never wanted to have a pokerface.

He gathers all his courage and hooks one finger under your chin. Gently forcing you to look at him. „I think … about you too. Quiet often Y/N.“

His thumb brushes over the soft skin of your bottom lip. „You do?“ Your voice was nothing more than a whisper asking him that. And he nods.

Painfully slow his palm cups your cheek, long fingers touching the spot right beneath your ear, pulling you closer. „I have trouble to think about anything else.“ His lips brushes yours soft like a feather as if he was asking for permission. You lean into the kiss to deepen it and all of the hesitation falls of Bobs shoulders. His hand on your back holding you close to him and the other on find its way to your throat. Not to squeeze it, but to worship the sensitive skin. His lips calming yours. Your hands wander over his chest into his hair.

The kiss wasn’t wild. It felt soft and gentle and passionate. You felt like falling and flying all at the same time. And he felt like he could finally breath again without trouble. Like you were the air he needs to stay alive.

A sudden crack interrupts the intimate kissing. The window to your left is now having a huge dark line wich stretches all from the bottom left to the top right corner.

„Was that …?“, you ask a little breathless. Bobs head falls back and he closes his eyes shut out of embarrassment. This cannot be happening. „Robert Reynolds, did you just crack my window?“ The amusement in your voice was unmistakable.

„I’m afraid so.“ He sighs. „I’m sorry.“

You shake your head. „I think its cute.“

His eyes fly open in disbelieve. „You think I’m cute?“

„It’s not a bad thing“, you say and kiss him again. „I think it’s cute that I can make you loose control a little bit.“

He never saw it this way. He thought that being seen as cute meant to be weak and that he would never had a chance to get out of the friend zone. But apparently being cute is not at all a bad thing. So if the girl in his arms - and out of his dreams- thinks he is cute… then he wants to be cute for her.

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fckmebarnes · 2 months ago

Text

honeybee

professor!bucky barnes x student!reader

bucky convinces you to stay in his class

18+ men and minors dni! smut — fingering (r). oral (r & bucky!)

w/c — 4.6k

a/n — iykyk <3 @professor-james-buchanan-barnes you are heavily on my mind with this one <3

the drone of the professor at the front of the theater had your head falling to the side of your shoulder, your pack back sitting tightly in your lap. your shoe tapped anxiously as the orientation went on, checking the clock every so often to see if time had passed by any quicker. but it hasn't, it only passed by in five’s and you wanted to groan out loud with how long and boring this orientation was going.

you had been to plenty of these, it was your third year earning your bachelors in art history, but for some reason the college made all students go to one each year. it was a pain in the ass, but you did what you had to do.

you focused back into the professor at the front and caught the tail end of the lecture, “that’s a wrap! if you need any help your counselors will be in the student offices.” as soon as the words left the man’s mouth, the theater roared softly with hushed conversations with students, and the shuffling of feet and zipped book bags.

you left out a sigh as you looked down at your schedule. you had a new class you wanted to add to your already 4 classes, but you knew it would be worth it. art history with a very profound and well known professor barnes.

you did your research on the man over the summer, your friends telling you to take his class not only because he was unusually handsome for a professor, but the way he spoke made everyone want to drop their panties. your friends had a bet that by the third class you’d dress like the rest, see through button up white blouses and the shortest skirt that you knew you didn’t have.

you could only roll your eyes, shooing them away as you read about him. he was top his grade in his graduating class at college, his father was an alumni at the college you were attending and was one of the first people on campus to make an art history department. before, the campus didn’t see too much of a need for history classes on old art, just people being hands on. but after they added a few courses with professor barnes being one of the options, enrollment for the courses boomed.

you had only seen a picture of him online in the catalog for the rest of the professors. he had short hair, the top a little longer so you could see his curls. and a full beard adorned his face, the sharpest blue eyes you had ever seen. it was no wonder people thought he was handsome, because he was. he was someone people would talk about through the halls and at lunch and even in other classes. you did your best to drown out the conversations, but the ones you did pick up on were heavily sexual

you walked through the art building and went up a few flights of stairs until you reached professor barnes’ classroom. you peered in through the window and only saw a few people taking up seats, and the man himself sitting behind his desk, eyes glued to the screen. you turned the handle, the squeak on the door announcing your presence and all eyes including his turned towards you. you knew you weren’t late, class started in ten but the way he stared you down made it seem like you missed all of the lesson.

“welcome, grab a seat anywhere you’d like. we’ll begin shortly.” you could only nod as you gulped, taking the first open seat at the front closest to the door. it gave you a better way to leave the class first, so you didn’t have to wait behind. you settled in your seat, pushing your backpack onto the table and unzipped it, taking out a notebook and a pen. you weren’t sure what the first day of his class would look like, so you prepared lightly. knowing that you’d read over the syllabus and maybe take a few notes. as you zipped up your backpack, you could see from the corner of your eye he stood up from his seat.

his black dress shirt sleeves were rolled to the middle of his arm, right above his elbows. he had two buttons undone at the top, and his black slacks and dress shoes topped off the all black look. he shook his right wrist to center the silver watch that sat against his skin and checked the time. you took note of the way his black and gold arm shone in the light, how the soft whirring of the plates shifted as he shook his wrist.

you nervously hit your lip, glancing between him and the clock right in front of you. your knee shook, you weren’t sure why you were so nervous, maybe it was the course itself. or maybe it was because you had the sexiest man as your professor for the next five months.

you shook your head to try and focus on something else other than the fact that this 6’4 giant man was your professor. he shoved his hands in his pockets as he stood in the front of the class and cleared his throat.

“good afternoon everyone. i will be your professor for the next five months. you’ll learn everything that has to do with dutch and flemish works and how the folks in the 1600’s lived life in the dead of winter. i will be focusing on a few artists such as Vermeer and Rembrandt and the impact that had with their oil paintings.” you could feel the nerves that were buzzing in your body dissipate as he spoke, the low and soft tone reverberated throughout the silent and mostly empty classroom. you watched as he walked back and forth in front of the room, but your mind had already started to wander. you couldn’t help your eyes as they trailed over his face down to his neck, where the slope of his neck met his broad shoulders and how tight the black dress shirt fit on his chest. you watched how his arms moved as he spoke, making sure to announce anything he was saying with his hands.

and his hands. his flesh right hand that held the silver watch, the veins protesting as he moved his fingers. and his metal hand? the fingers moving on their own and the secrets they held on how he came to have a metal arm? you wondered if it went only half way to his elbow or even further to his shoulder. you wondered exactly how long he’s had it, and imagined how the coolness of the metal would feel against your throat.

you snapped out of your thoughts as you heard him clearing his throat, eyes locked directly onto your face. your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as your leg came to a halt, and started to tap your pen lightly on the notebook. his eyes searched through yours and you swore you saw the corner of his lip turn upwards into a smirk.

“uh, sorry. can you repeat that?” you felt your face heating up, the warmth spread through your cheeks and down to your neck as he shook his head

“stay after a few minutes.” could only nod in response, looking back at the clock and seeing there was still a whole 40 minutes left of the class.

this was going to be a long class.

***

as the students shuffled quickly out of the classroom, you looked over and saw professor barnes sitting in his chair, beckoning you over to him. you shoved your things in your bag and slung it over your shoulder, head dipped down and embarrassment radiating off of you.

“it seems like you were lost in thought today. may i ask, what about?” oh god, there was going to be absolutely no way in hell you were going to tell him you were thinking of him choking you out with his metal hand. you shook your head and shrugged your shoulders the best you could.

“nothing important, i’m so sorry.” you hoped that he didn’t detect the nerves in your tone, and how your voice cracked just slightly because you knew you were bad at lying.

he noticed.

“hm.” was the only response he gave you as he sat forward and rested his forearms on the edge of his desk, shuffling some papers. his hands lay flat on the papers and looked up at you, a small smile against his lips. you felt that shit in your tummy and in your pussy.

“i suppose while you were daydreaming, you didn’t catch onto the assignment i gave out.” you shook your head.

“due by friday, i would like a short essay on the artist Vermeer, a little autobiography if you will.” you nodded, making a mental note do plug your laptop in when you got back to your apartment to do some research. “if you need any assistance, my office hours after class are posted on the paper outside the door. see you wednesday, y/n.”

***

“you’ve got to be kidding me.” it was the next week of the new semester, you turned in your essay and looked back on your graded work. a bold C stood out to you, and a frown etched onto your face. you weren’t sure what prompted professor barnes to give you a C, you busted your ass on that research, you knew that it was worth of an A.

it was after class hours and you marched right down to his classroom, looking at the times on the paper he told that was posted out front. you knocked on the door twice, and heard a gentle ‘come in’ from the other side. you turned the handle and closed it behind you, walking right up to his desk.

“why’d you grade me a C?” you couldn’t handle having a grade lower than a B-, you didn’t want to put pressure on yourself but the thought of failing your semester really was daunting. you pushed yourself to do better, you needed to do better. he looked up from his phone, setting it face down and sitting back in his chair, lacing his fingers together on his lap.

“that’s what i think you earned. is it not fair?” the tone in his voice felt condescending, hating the way he gave you a pointed look, licking his bottom lip quickly. you shook your head and crossed your arms.

the entire last week of having classes with him, there was nothing short of passing glances and subtle looks here and there. you could tell by the way his eyes raked over your body, he was thinking about you more than just a student. the thought made your core ache just slightly, and you were beginning to find that the rumors of girls throwing themselves at him were true, you just weren’t ready to do that just yet. the brat in you was telling you to prolong it, and boy could you.

“is that not the answer you wanted to hear?” you shook your head again, rolling your eyes and tapping your foot. he sensed the attitude coming off of you, and cocked an eyebrow, leaning forward. he had to admit, he was pretty impressed with you standing there. he was normally known throughout the student like for girls to just kneel and beg for a good grade. usually, he waved them off. he didn’t want that kind of reputation.

but you.

you were different. you were a different kind of attention seeker. you thrived off of getting told what to do and praises. he noticed each lesson he had so far, that when you raised your hand and got an answer correct, his praise would make you smile and a satisfied grin would come across your face.

this, this attitude was different though. you weren’t happy with your grace, and he thought of a good way to get that grace bumped up a bit.

“you know, y/n, you’re the first student to not throw themselves at me.” he paused, watching as your features relaxed, your foot tapping slower. “but don’t think i don’t notice each thigh squeeze when i praise you,” he stood up slowly, rounding the corner of his desk so he stood just next to you, leaning down ever so slightly with his face mere inches next to you.

“each lip bite you do that drives me insane when we make eye contact and you pretend to look away. i notice the way you squirm under my gaze.” his lips brushed the outside of your ear, biting on the shell softly, before pulling away.

“don’t think i don’t notice how much you want me, honeybee. just as much as i want you.” he leaned back and crossed his arms against his chest. you could feel the slick on the inside of your thighs under your jeans, a shudder falling through your spine as you watched him bite his lower lip. he thought for a second, wondering what exactly you would do for him and how far you were willing to go to be a brat just for a better grade.

between you and him, you didn’t know he was a brat tamer.

“so, are you going to be a good girl and tell me why you deserve a better grade than what you got? or, are you going to be a little brat and make it harder for you? it’s your choice, love.” the nickname went straight to your pussy, rolling your bottom lip in between your teeth you gulped and shook your head. you were prepared for his reaction, weren’t prepared for him to be so /prepared/ for your attitude.

you shook your head, biting your lower lip hard enough to draw some blood and the metallic taste spread across your tastebuds. he bummed in response, nodding and his hand outstretched to cup the side of your face ever so gently you weren’t even sure he was caressing your face.

“see you in class on wednesday, love.” you could only nod as you turned on your heel and gripped the strap of your bag so tight you swore you would rip it off. as soon as the soft click of the door was heard behind you, you leaned against the exposed brick wall of the hallway and let out the longest sigh you hadn’t been aware you were holding.

you were royally fucked.

***

you had done your best to not steal glances to your professor as he spoke no matter how close he usually walked towards your desk as he gave his lecture. it didn’t matter how good he smelled each time he walked by, how the sound of his voice went straight to your core, how he wore those tight fucking shirts each class. you weren’t going to cave.

it had been a few weeks since you had that little talk with professor barnes, and quiet frankly he had it. he coulndt stop thinking about how you looked each day when you came into class, the way you always gave him doe eyes everytime you swore he didn’t see you sneaking glances an how you shifted in your seat afterwards, your cheeks glowing red. he thought of a way to have you stay after class, just so he could play with you. there wasn’t a night that had gone by where he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night with his sheets covered in him cum from a wet dream he was just having of eating your sweet pussy out.

he was tired of dreaming. he wanted the real thing.

this week you seemed exceptionally fed up and tense. you had been biting your fingernails for the last twenty minutes of class and it was driving him mad seeing this nervous tick he didn’t realize you had.

“next class we will go over the dutch golden age. there, i will be explaining more in depth why Rembrandt was exceptional in his day and age. class is dismissed.” you huffed as you gathered your things in your bag, jumping softly at the tap on your desk. you looked up and saw professor barnes motioning towards his desk, telling you to stay after. you slumped your shoulders, just wanting to go home and go to sleepy. reluctantly you nodded your head and watched the last student leave the classroom and shut the door behind them.

“what can i help you with, professor?” you walked over to his desk as he sat down, one strap over your shoulder and your arms crossed, tapping your foot just wanting to leave. he lifted his hand and stuck out his pointer finger, telling you to come around the side of the desk and face him. you dropped your bag, rounding the desk and stood in front of him as he turned towards you.

“whats up with you? you seem.. on edge.” you were pretty shocked that he had even noticed your odd behavior. you sighed softly, dropping your arms to your sides and playing with the end of your shirt.

“just having a hard time in other classes.” you hated to admit it but you were falling behind, and you were normally really good at keeping up with homework and projects. but truth be told, you over loaded yourself. you were in between dropping your statistics class or this one, and you really didn’t want to drop this one. “i might drop a class, it looks more like this one im going to have to drop.” a frown etched onto professor barnes face as he realized what you just said. there was no way he was going to have you drop this class.

his hands lifted gingerly from his lap and settled lighting on your hips, your breath hitching in your throat at the contact. he pulled you forward towards him slow enough for you to turn around and leave the classroom, but you didn’t. instead you willingly walked towards him until you were standing in between his legs, your hands placed on his shoulders. he was looking up at you, and the view from over him was breathtaking

“i would hate to lose you as a student, love.” his fingers made small little circles on your hips, catching his bottom lip in his teeth, rolling it in thought. you could feel your heart skip a beat as you watched his eyes travel from your gaze, down the side of your face to your lips, down your neck and cascading down your chest before quickly up to your eyes again.

“let me try and convince you to stay, will you?” you felt your pussy throb at his words, knowign exactly what he meant by that, but you wanted to hear him say it, fuck you wanted to see him do it. instead you merely nodded, the lust in his eyes growing bigger as you gave him consent and he went for your face, his hands gripping the sides of your head and pulling you down to his lips. it was heavy and heated, desperation with each movement of his lips against yours, and you kissed him just as needily. he pulled away, his lips glistening with spit, red and swollen. he stood up, and as soon as he cowered over you, you felt small.

his hands went to your waist and he picked you up with ease, pushing all the papers on his desk to the side as they flung onto the floor. the back of your bare thighs from wearing shorts made contact with the cool wooden surface, his hands travelling to your knee and pushing your thighs apart.

“tell me to stop.” he breathed softly, his fingers hovering over your clothed cunt, eyes flickering back to yours searching for any indication you didn’t want this

“want you to convince me, professor.” the softest sigh came from your lips as soon as the words left your mouth, his thumb pressing against your clothed clit. your hips immediately responded to his touch, and he couldn only let out a lowe chuckle as he watched your thighs flex with every move of his thumb against your clit.

“so responsive..” he mumbled more to himself than you, sinking down to his knees and pulling your closer to the edge of the desk. you let out of asoft shriek until your thing stung from a small smack from his metal hand.

“try and stay quiet, love. dont want anyone to hear us, now do you?” you shook your head, cant believing you momentarily forgot you were in a fucking classroom, on your college campus.

the thought left as soon as you felt a cool blow of breath on your now exposed pussy,panties behind pushed aside, dripping just for him.

“shit.” he groaned softly as he dragged his knuckles through your folds and loved how his metal fingers glistened with your arousal. this was a sight he only wanted. his eyes flickered up to yours as he pushed the tip of his metall finger only barely into your cunt. his mouth opened with yours as you let out a small gasp, licking his bottom lip as he pushed his finger all the way in. you hummed in satisfaction as soon as he bottomed out to his knuckle.

but he was dissatisfied, pushing a second finger into your cunt, and the quiet moan in return made his cock harder than it already was, straining against his dress pants.

“fuck..” was all he could say as he pumped his fingers in and otu of you, slowing down every so often to see your arousal coating both of his fingers. you whimpered as soon as he pulled his fingers out of you all the way, your hands splayed out on the desk holding your wait.

before you could beg for his fingers again, he pushed his fingers back into your cunt and his lips attached to your clit, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan as soon as he started sucking on your clit, pumping and curling his fingers inside of your sweet cunt. he was addicted, and he hadn’t even made cum yet. you threw your head back as his fingers curled in your cunt, hitting your g-spot just soft enough that you felt a small coil in your tummy. you clenched his fingers and he swore he busted a nut as soon as he felt your pussy gripping onto his two metal fingers.

“fuck love, your cunt is gripping the shit out of my fingers. you gonna cum, honeybee? make a mess on your professor’s fingers?” he cooed softly, attaching his lips once again on your clit and sucked the swollen bud, making your thighs clench and you bit your bottom lip to suppress the loudest moan you think it was going to be.

he hummed against your clit as you came, taking his fingers out and pushing his tongue in your dripping pussy, his fingers going up to your mouth and you instantly wrapped your lips around his two metal fingers, tasting your cum on your tongue. you both let out two soft low moans as his tongue assaulted your cunt, lappin gup every single drop of your cum.

he pulled away and took his fingers with him, looking down at your pussy and licking his lips, his beard shining in your slick.

it was one of the hottest things you have ever seen, and he noticed that something about that moment turned you on because your cunt clenched around nothing.

“you taste so fucking sweet, honeybee. the most forbidden flower, only for me.” his eyelids were hooded as he pulled his hand away from your panties and shorts, putting them back in place. he sat back and could see his hard cock pressing tightly against his dress pants. you wetted your lips at the sight and before he could even say anything, you hopped off the desk and got on your knees in between his legs.

his hand instantly went to the back of your head, panting softly as your hands went up his thich, cloth covered thighs, reaching the zipper of his dress pants. slowly, you unzipped the zipper, your eyes never leaving his. the sexual tension between the two of you was thick enough you could cut with a knife.

as you popped the button on his dress pants, you pulled his cock out from the confines of his boxers, the tip leaking gpre-cum and you noticed a small damp spot against his dress pants. “see what you do to me, honeybee?” you could only nod as you gripped his cock, the hottest moan leaving his lips as his felt your soft and delicate warm skin on his cock. he watched as your eyes traveled from the bottom of his shaft to his throbbing and leaking tip.

“go on, honeybee. show your professor how you actually use that mouth. must be good for something other than giving attitude.” you licked your lips and sucked on the tip of his cock, moaning at the taste of him on your tongue. he sucked in a sharp breath, the grip on the back of your hair tightening causing you to moan. he checked that kink off on his mental list of things you were into.

you sat up straighter, leaning over more of his cock and taking more in your mouth, your hand gripping the base of his cock before you pumped a little as you went deeper. your spit was trailing down the sides of his cock and making a damp spot on his boxers, but you knew for a fact with the curses and mumbling he did under his breath, you knew he didn’t give one shit about his clothes.

“just like that, baby. doing so good for me. youre such a good girl.” you moaned softly at the praise, and finally he was able to get an actual noise from you instead of the sight of you shuffling your thighs together.

his other hand went to the back of his head as he leaned back and thrusted his hips a little up into your throat. you stilled your movement and that had him put his other hand on the side of your face as he fucked up into you, your hands gripping his thick thighs.

“like when i fuck your throat, honeybee? course you do. only want to please me, dont you?” you nodded as best as you could with his cock down your throat but he already knew the answer. he knew you only wanted to please him, and with the way your lips were wrapped around his cock, he knew you had already made up your mind about not dropping his class.

you opened your throat more for his cock, and the second your hnd moved from his thigh to his ballsack and fondled them in your hands, you felt his balls tightened and a low groan coming from his throat. his hot cum shot down your throat and you swallowed it all, sucked on his cock as he emptied his load into your throat, not wanting to waste a single drop.

you sucked him off a little longer to prolong his high until he rested his hips back onto the chair, your lips leaving his cock with a lewd pop. you licked your lips and your hands went back to his thighs.

“good girl, let me see. did you swallow all of your professors cum?” you nodded, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue to show him you did exactly what he asked of you. he nodded in approval, his hands going to cradle your face. you leaned into his touch and a smile played against your lips.

“ill drop statistics.”

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headdinthewall · 2 months ago

Text

TAPED TEMPERS ── g.clarke ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : in which your lost-tempered ‘argument’ is caught on george’s stream, and his viewers have something to say about it a/n : next post will either be INSIDE part three or a tiktok trend post ! this is not proof read it’s also 3AM so there might be an abundance of mistakes, sorry if it’s really bad! content : established relationship ,, arguing ,, a lot of swearing on readers behalf ,, hate comments ,, a little bit of angst & comfort ,, family planning at the end

─────── YOU’D HAD A terrible day. You were late for work, though it wasn’t a big job and George was constantly reminding you that you didn’t have to work, it was nice to have your own thing to do. On top of that, it seemed to be ‘treat customer service like shit’ day, because you’d had an abundance of horrible people come up to you, when all you were trying to do was serve them coffee. The third thing that ruined your day? Some arsehole thought a good way to ‘flirt’ with you was to bump into you while you were holding a hot cup of coffee. And just to put the cherry on the cake, your bus was late, it was raining, and George was too busy filming to be able to come and pick you up.

To put it simply, you were in a very, very sour mood when you got back to the apartment.

You slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with much more force than necessary. You grumbled curses under your breath as you tried to run your hand through your hair.

Key word, tried.

A frustrated whine/cry/groan left your throat as your fingers got tangled in the wet, knotted strands of your hair.

It was quiet, and there were two pairs of shoes missing from the entry ways shoe rack, but you could hear George talking in his room, so that meant Arthur and Chris were the ones out.

As you walked towards the kitchen, you stumbled over a pair of trainers you recognised that had been carelessly strewn across the floor and you lost it.

“George, how many fucking times do I have to tell you to either keep your shoes in your room or put them on the fucking rack?!” You shouted, picking them up.

You took note of the sink full of dishes and wanted to rip the hair out of scalp and peel the skin from your bones.

“And the fucking dishes too! I did them for you last time it was your turn, but I’m not fucking doing it again! You’re 25, wash the fucking dishes!”

You practically threw his bedroom door open and slapped his trainers on the floor, an expression on your face that was nothing short of absolutely livid.

“Chat, I’m gonna have to cut this stream short, apologies—“

“Oh yeah, ‘sorry chat’ ‘sorry chat’ how about ‘sorry reader, for leaving the house a fucking mess’?!” You yelled.

He cut the stream short, “Okay, I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” He said softly, tucking his chair under his desk and making his way into the kitchen to do the dishes.

“Honestly, I’m tired of coming back to a shit tip of an apartment, George. And you’re talking about us wanting to move out and get our own house? Well not if this is how you’re treating an apartment!” You lectured him, almost like a mother would her son.

The crash out was entirely unneeded, but the stress and constant fuck-ups of the day had finally caught up to you and were just spilling over your tongue.

“Okay, well if we lived together there wouldn’t be half the mess there is here, because Arthur and Chris make half of it themselves!” George argued while washing the plates.

“I’m not talking about their mess! I’m talking about your mess! The trainers on the floor were yours, it’s your turn to wash the dishes and you’ve been procrastinating it like a fucking year 11!”

“It’s not even that deep, reader! It’s a couple of dirty dishes!”

“Yeah, exactly! A couple of dirty dishes, so why cant you fucking take five minutes to clean them?!”

George sighed, knowing to just nod at your words when you were in this state. You let out a loud huff and slumped down on the couch.

After 10 minutes, the water stopped running and the sound of ceramic clattering together stopped. There was a dip in the couch beside you and George was there, arms open with a sympathetic look on his face.

You bit your lip, tears brimming in your eyes as you just fell not-so-gracefully, sideways into his embrace, tension dissipating from your body upon contact. His arms enveloped around you and he rested his chin on top of your head.

“What happened, hm?” George asked calmly, “Why are you in a bad mood, my lovely?”

“Everything that could’ve gone wrong today, has gone wrong.” You croaked, sniffling as tears traveled down your face, rolling over the hills of your cheeks. “Everyone I served at work today was a fucking arsehole, my bus was late, it rained on the way home, some wanker bumped into me and spilt coffee all down me. God, it was fucking dreadful today.”

“Oh, my darling, I’m sorry.” He mumbled into your hair, kissing it softly. “Think about it like this, yeah? Not everything that could’ve gone wrong today has. You could’ve lost your keys, but you didn’t. A car could’ve driven in a puddle while you were going past, but it didn’t.”

You nodded, wiping your cheeks with the backs of your hands. George shifted you, lifting your head with his hands on your cheeks.

“Also, an old witch could’ve cursed you to be an ugly bastard forever, but that never happened. You’re still beautiful.” He joked, kissing you softly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, “I shouldn’t have shouted and sworn at you like that.”

“It’s alright. I probably deserved it. Especially if we’re going to be moving in together soon, need to make sure I’m on my best behaviour.” He smirked, kissing your forehead, practically smothering you with affection, trying his absolute hardest to rid you of any negative thoughts and feelings of the days events.

“I love you.” You mumbled.

“I love you too, my darling.”

a combination of tweets & comments on youtube

user1 anyone else mildly concerned about the way reader spoke to george during last nights stream?

user2 🚩 🚩 can’t believe she spoke to him so violently

user3 i could never let my partner talk me like that, i’d just walk out on them

user4 massive ick the way reader shouted at george last night!

user5 now imagine if he had shouted at her like that… it would be a whole different story

user6 the fact that she portrays herself as a cutesy girl online but speaks to her boyfriend like that behind closed doors is just… ugh

user7 nah… her audacity. he literally pays her bills, pays for her clothes and got her half the fame she has

user8 you’d never catch me staying in a relationship like that.

─────── THE NEXT MORNING, George was setting up his phone against his monitor on his desk, ready to film a tiktok as he sat in his gaming chair.

“Um, hello everyone. I don’t normally do a video like this, so … apologies for the weird switch up, but I’ve seen a lot of comments circling on youtube and twitter about my girlfriend, and I just want to clear a few things up. One, yes, she did yell at me last night. Did I deserve it? Kind of. I— I will admit that I did commit a bit of an oopsie last night, but we’ve had our own conversation and settled things, what you saw in the stream was just … her shouting at me. You guys are acting like I was just getting an onslaught of verbal abuse, which didn’t happen. Two, please don’t involve yourselves in my relationship. I appreciate each and every one of you for your support, but … yeah. I promise that our relationship is 100% healthy, and it has been for a year now. Me and reader don’t need any sort of … advice, if you will, about how to communicate. The odd argument will happen in a relationship, but what matters is how you deal with it, which we have done.” George held two thumbs up.

“Also, please stop sending her hate. We woke up this morning and a number of you have sent her DM’s claiming that she’s a ‘horrible girlfriend’ and that she doesn’t deserve me. Again, please stay out of my relationship and my private life and just … appreciate what I do share with you and the content that I do put out. I think reader actually wants to say something …” He looked over at you off screen.

You shimmied out of bed and appeared on camera, wearing one of George’s shirts that came down to your upper thigh.

“Hi everyone! Um, leave me alone, please and thanks.” You shrugged, “No, but seriously, please stop sending me messages saying ‘apologies to George now’ ‘you shouldn’t speak to him like that’ and whatever else you guys — for some reason — think is acceptable to text me. I can assure you that me and George spoke and it’s all been dealt with. Another thing is, I’m not apologising to you guys. Why? Because I’m not dating you guys. I don’t owe you guys anything apology or a reason as to why I behaved like that, but I did owe it to George, and—“

“The owe has been made.” George interrupted, putting on a fancy voice. “El Clarko is pleased and happy.”

“Exactly, so … yeah. But thank you to those who were defending me in the comments. Love you all!” You blew a kiss to the screen.

“Yeah, sorry for the weird post, just thought this was necessary to put across because reader was getting hate and it was making us both quite upset, and I wanted to address the whole situation. Thanks guys, see you later.” George finalised before ending the video, rewatching it over and then posting it.

Once he had done that, you got back into bed with each other, legs entangled with your head on his chest and his fingers dancing along your bare thigh.

“Do you want to look at houses online today?” George muttered, using his spare hand to comb through your hair.

“Sure.” You hummed, your throat vibrating against his chest. “Two bedroom? Or one?”

“What would we need two for?”

“I dunno …” Lie. “Maybe … I dunno, just in case … y’know …”

“Just in case what?” George frowned, completely oblivious as to what you were trying to get at.

“In case we get a baby Clarkey.” You mumbled shyly.

“You want a baby Clarkey?” A smirk slowly sores across his face.

“Yeah— No— I dunno, I was just thinking … What if it happened?” You shrugged, looking up at him. “What are you smirking at?”

“Oh, nothing.” He chuckled, coming forward to kiss your forehead, “We can look at two bedroom houses if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not a free pass for you to cum in me.” You spoke quickly before he got any ideas, but you both knew you were treading lightly on the topic, quite open to the idea of kids, especially now you were both mid-20s.

“Okay, okay.” He said with a dramatic sigh.

You stared at each other, sleepy eyes looking at sleepy eyes. Eyes full of love and adoration, the idea of starting a family together being a blossoming thought in both of your minds.

#ukyt #george clarke #george clarke fanfic #george clarke fics #george clarkey #george clarkey x reader #ukyt fanfic

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meiyokbf · 8 days ago

Text

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part five

author's note: took me long enough but i’m backkk! got down with a flu + writers block but now i’m better than ever, lmk what you think & i hope you guys enjoy this one. :’)

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara. no smut, just megan being scared and reader trying their best. kind of a filler chapter but in the best intention possible. also, meet sophia!

word count: 4,2k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut, manon x lara, marz, sophia laforteza.

megan’s spotify playlist!

masterlist. | prev. I next.

you tell yourself you’re not going to text her.

and you say it out loud this time, a quiet promise to your ceiling fan, to the wrinkles in your sheets, to the ghost of her hand that still lingers somewhere near your ribs. you won’t do it. not again.

but, oh well. you open your phone anyway.

it’s muscle memory at this point: swipe, tap, check. still no new message. nothing since the one she sent at 2:17am.

megan: can’t sleep.

megan: thinking about the way you said my name.

you had read it twice. then again. then again until the words felt like they weren’t in english anymore. you didn’t know how to respond. or if she even wanted you to.

you think about replying now. type something. delete it. type again. delete.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

and leave it there.

it was wednesday now; three days since the last time you’ve seen her. but honestly, at this point, it kinda felt like three years. you couldn’t even focus on your uni work without thinking about her voice or her eyes, and the way she purposefully seemed to take hours to text you back was driving you insane. you needed to take a breather before going to class, in which you already knew you would doze off the entire lecture because you would much rather be around her instead.

so, you dress slowly. batman & robin tee, jacket, sneakers that squeak when you walk too fast. you grab your bag and ignore the pile of laundry in the corner, the coffee mug on your nightstand still full of yesterday’s tea. before leaving, you decided to grab something to eat on the way, already listening manon’s voice in your head about how you always forget to eat while studying and how your blood pressure is shit. so you decide to steal one of her granola bars. which, of course, had a heart-shaped post-it on it.

“these are technically for me, but i know your sad little raccoon hands will find them.

fine. take one.

ONE.

(ily though. please hydrate.)

- manz”

you laughed slightly and took one bar. this was your guys’ thing; you both knew that you could always talk to each other over text messages, but ever since you moved in together, post-its were the main mean of communication between you two. there were some things that could only be said on a paper, you thought. and you cherished that a lot.

you’ve got class in less than an hour, but your brain isn’t ready for structure. it feels like soup. or static.

you take the long way. the sun hasn’t fully committed to the sky yet and everything is washed in that early kind of light; soft and blue, like it doesn’t want to wake you up too quickly. birds chirp like they don’t know what day it is.

you pass three dogs, one crying baby, a couple making out against a bike rack. the world is still moving. it always is.

and then you think about her again.

the way she laughed back at her place last weekend. her hand pressed to your chest like she was checking for signs of life. the way she looked at you; half-there, half-running.

you stop by the café before class. it’s not your usual morning haunt, but you can’t sit still. you need something warm to hold.

you open the door. the smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso. the low hum of other people’s lives. this place always feels like a sigh.

you look up to the counter. you’ve seen her before —the barista with the glossy lips and flower name tag. sophia.

you’ve seen her smile at other people. never you. not because she’s mean. just because you’ve never given her a reason to.

you stand in line, staring at the drinks menu like it might give you a sign.

when it’s your turn, you step forward too fast, nearly bump into the display case. she glances up and smiles like she doesn’t notice your awkwardness. like she’s known you all along.

— hey. you’re usually here on fridays, right?

you blink. startled that she noticed. your mouth is slower than your brain.

— yeah, uh… i guess i just needed caffeine sooner this week.

she smiles, warm and easy.

— well, don’t we all? — she laughs. not mockingly. not like she’s uncomfortable. just warm. you look up at the menu like it might offer guidance. she tilts her head. — want me to surprise you?

— what would you recommend?

— hmm… maybe a dirty chai with oat milk and a side of emotional clarity.

you almost laugh. it comes out soft.

— can you do that?

— only the chai. emotional clarity’s a seasonal special. — she smiles to you like she just came out of a disney movie, then grabs a cup, scribbles something on the side.

you think you’ll leave it there; just a weird, slightly too-honest exchange with a stranger. but your chest is buzzing, and your mouth is tired of keeping secrets.

— can i tell you something insane?

she looks at you, curious. elbows on the counter, chin in her hand. she doesn’t look bored.

— always.

— i’m… losing my mind a little over this girl.

the words tumble out before you can pull them back.

— she… she did these things. and they’re not even big stuff. just… things that made me feel seen. and then she disappeared. not like, forever. for like a day or two. just enough to make me feel crazy. and then she’s back like nothing happened. it’s hot and then cold, you know?

you exhale. glance down. your fingers tap against the wood of the counter.

— and i believe i’ll keep letting her do it. because when she’s here, it’s… really good. and i think she’s trying. i want to believe she’s trying. but sometimes it feels like she’s just…

you don’t finish. sophia watches you for a second, then gently replies.

— you think she’s afraid?

you nod. a little too fast.

— yeah. i think she’s afraid of being loved.

— and you’re not?

— maybe. — you pause. — i think i’m more afraid of not trying.

she starts the espresso machine. the hiss and churn of it fills the silence between you.

— you know… — she says eventually. — when i was sixteen, i fell in love with someone who only called me when it rained.

you glance at her. — what?

— seriously. it would pour, and they’d text. every time. for almost a year. — she smiles, but there’s something sad behind it.

— i used to think it meant something. like maybe i reminded them of safety. or lightning. or the sound of thunder in someone else’s bed. — she shrugs. — turns out, they just didn’t like being alone when it stormed.

you don’t know what to say. so you say nothing. she hands you the drink. your name’s not on it; instead, she’s drawn a small sun and the words “this is a hug in a cup. :)”

— look, i don’t think your girl’s trying to hurt you. — she smiles at you sympathetically. — but sometimes people like that… they don’t know they’re pulling you under until you’ve already drowned.

your throat feels tight.

— yeah… i’m just terrified, you know?

— i know, truly. — she adds. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care.

you swallow hard. grip the cup. feel the warmth press against your palms like a second heartbeat. give her the money and don’t even bother about asking for the change. she definitely deserves it.

— thank you.

she nods, her smile making you believe for a second that she might be right. — i hope she figures it out.

you almost ask her name. then remember you already know it. so you leave the café with a little more silence in your body.

not emptiness, just space.

and of course, megan hasn’t texted back.

but you check anyway.

the studio walls on the velvet room’s backstage are mirror-lined and unforgiving. overhead, the lights buzz faintly, the kind of sound that feels like it’s echoing inside your teeth. the floor is a little sticky from last week’s sweat and glitter. it always is.

megan leans back against the barre, gum in her mouth, legs crossed at the ankle. she’s supposed to be warming up, stretching, something. instead, she watches lara in the mirror; ponytail sharp, eyeliner sharper, heels already on. lara looks like someone who bites when she loves you.

they’re rehearsing a shared number. or at least, they were supposed to be. it’s for friday’s late set: something femme fatale-coded, high energy, choreography that flirts with the edge of violence. lara had chosen the song. megan had said fine. she really didn’t care.

but her head’s not in it. not today.

she’s been messing up small things all afternoon; missing beats, forgetting transitions, zoning out mid-chorus. it’s pissing lara off. megan can feel it in the way she keeps clicking her nails against her thigh, like she’s trying not to scream.

— megan. — the indian scoffed, annoyed. — you’re two beats behind. again.

— i know.

— jesus christ, then fix it.

megan doesn’t move. she just shifts her jaw slightly, biting down harder on her gum, staring at her own reflection like it might offer her a better version of herself. it doesn’t.

lara exhales, sharp, just like her makeup.

— what the hell is going on with you today?

megan shrugs. doesn’t answer.

they’ve danced together a hundred times. shared sets, shared shots, shared nights curled into each other on lara’s couch when the world got too loud. this shouldn’t feel like a battle, but it does. today it does.

lara crosses the floor, heels clicking.

— i’m not going to babysit you through this, meg. if you can’t do the number-

— i can. — megan says it too fast. defensive. like she’s been caught bleeding.

— then act like it, god damn it. — lara counters.

— you’re off, you’re distracted, you’re… — she continues, then trails off, dragging her hands down her face. — is this about them?

silence. megan looks away. fixes her gaze on the smudge on the mirror near her hip. says nothing. lara sighs.

— okay, yeah. that’s what i thought.

megan still doesn’t speak. her throat is tight in a way she doesn’t like. lara softens, just slightly.

— you’ve been weird all week.

— no, i haven’t.

— megan.

that tone again; not angry, not pitying. worse. the one lara uses when she’s worried. and god knows how megan hates it.

she shrugs again. sits down on the floor, stretching her legs out, arms behind her for balance. her body feels too heavy. her chest even more so.

— i don’t know what i’m fucking doing. — she says, eventually.

— with them?

— with anything.

lara doesn’t laugh. doesn’t scoff. just sits next to her, their shoulders not quite touching.

— then do what you know.

megan chews her gum slower. the peppermint tastes like regret.

— it’s not that simple.

— yeah, it is.

they sit there in the silence for a beat. outside the studio, someone’s blasting music from the dressing rooms. something with too much bass, too much bravado. probably other girls who were rehearsing too. and the world keeps spinning. megan picks at her fishnets, nails chipping.

— it was supposed to be a hookup. — she says quietly. — that’s what i wanted. easy. clean. fun.

— and? — megan doesn’t answer. lara studies her, then sighs again. louder this time. more tired than angry. — ok, fine. do you wanna know what scares me?

— isn’t it, like, everything?

— cute. — lara smiled sarcastically. — but no. what scares me is watching you do what i did.

megan blinks, looking up. lara rarely goes here. not out loud. so, she paid attention.

— i felt something too, after that night with manon. — lara reluctantly said, almost swallowing her own words. — just for a second. one fucking second. like maybe i wasn’t alone in the world; maybe someone actually wanted me, not the performance. not dallas. then i ran. because that was easier. safer. and now? i keep thinking about the way she fucking caressed my hair when she thought i was asleep.

that’s the most she’s said about it since that night.

— you… really liked her? — megan stares.

— that’s not the point.

— it feels like the point.

— shut the fuck up, my point is… — she raised her voice for a second, then lowered it back again. — don’t do what i did. don’t pretend you don’t care just because you’re afraid they’ll stop.

— but what if they do?

— then at least you were honest. and you’ll survive it. like we always do.

— yeah, but that’s the point, lara. i don’t wanna survive it. — megan sighed. — i don’t know how to do it right. okay? i don’t know what they want from me. i don’t know if i can give it. i’m trying and i still fuck it up. i say something nice and then i hate myself for saying it. i feel soft and then i feel stupid. and they keep being… them. they’re so fucking kind it hurts. i hate it.

she buries her face in her hands.

— i fucking hate it.

lara watches her. eyes narrowed. something like protectiveness crests beneath her ribs, sharp and sudden.

— you don’t hate it. — she says.

megan doesn’t look up.

— you hate that it makes you want to be good.

megan scoffs. — fuck you.

— yeah, yeah.

they sit in it for a moment. the ruin of what megan isn’t saying. lara reaches into her bag, pulls out her phone.

— i’m putting something on. you’re going to breathe for five seconds and stop being a nightmare.

megan groans into her hands.

— don’t send me another thirst trap compilation.

— shut up, you love those.

— i don’t.

lara scrolls through her feed, thumb flicking fast. trying to find something dumb and distracting: a dog in pajamas, a couple falling off a paddleboard, something with sparkles. something easy.

but instead; there she is.

manon. on her screen. lips glossy, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head; the lighting is shit. but her voice is bright. and her smile’s too real. “thrift haul! let’s see how many gay crimes i can commit in one outfit!”

the screen shakes slightly as she flips the camera around. mirror shot. oversized leather trench coat. chain belt. cropped tee with a vintage graphic of the moon.

lara’s breath catches in her throat.

it’s stupid. it’s not even a hot video. she’s not dancing. not even trying.

but she looks so damn good. effortless. sharp and funny and alive. the way she talks to the camera like it’s an old friend. then lara’s hand freezes on the screen, her eyes trying their best not to roll.

— fuck.

megan glances over.

— what?

lara doesn’t answer. the video keeps playing. manon holds up a faux-fur coat with rhinestones on the collar and says “this is either a blessing or a curse and honestly i’m fine with both.”

megan snorts softly.

— you’re watching her tiktoks now?

lara swipes out of the app. shoves her phone face-down.

— it came up.

— sure.

— whatever.

megan leans back, grin small but alive now.

— do you miss her?

lara’s jaw flexes. — i miss not thinking about her.

— same.

a beat.

— so when you’re gonna tell her you left your favorite earring there?

— jesus christ, i don’t know.

— just saying. — megan shrugs, looking at the indian girl. — you’ve been debating this for three days.

— shut up. — megan just raises her brows. — i can’t just show up. it’ll look like i care.

— you do care.

— i don’t want to.

— doesn’t make it less true.

lara picks at her nail polish. chips it off in angry flakes.

— what would you do then, smart-ass?

— me?

— yeah. if it were you. if you left something in (y/n)’s bed and didn’t know how to go back for it without handing them your heart on a plate.

megan thinks for a moment. then shrugs.

— i’d probably pretend i came for the earring, then make some excuse about how i didn’t even like it that much. but really i’d just want to see them again.

lara goes still.

— well, that’s fucking stupid.

— it is.

— but also maybe i’ll do it. not like you, though. that shit’s way too emotional for me.

megan leans back on her palms. the sweat cooling on her collarbones.

— tomorrow?

— yeah. maybe.

— want me to come?

— no. — then, quieter. — i think i have to do it alone.

— well… — megan stands. brushes dust off her thighs. — you’ll be fine.

— you say that like you believe it.

— i don’t. but i say it anyway.

lara watches her stretch, watches the way her muscles flex and settle. she wonders if (y/n) notices that too. she bets they do.

this room doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a cracked glass door above a laundromat. the buzzer always broken, the hallway always smelling faintly of bleach and cheap incense. the kind of place you’d walk past unless you knew what it was.

but to megan, it’s one of the only places in the city that doesn’t ask her to be anything.

the studio is warm when she steps in. humid from bodies, from movement, from the echo of whatever song was just playing. the floor is a little warped near the mirrors. the ceiling fan clicks. someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the barre like it lives there.

there are ten, maybe twelve students tonight. all kinds: a bartender with a buzzcut, two nursing students who come on their off weeks, someone who teaches yoga and always wears too many bracelets. none of them look like the girls at the velvet room. no glitter. no lashes. no faking.

here, sweat is just sweat. not spectacle.

the instructor plays a low-tempo r&b track and starts calling out warmups, but it’s loose. no one’s here to impress anyone. just to move. to let their bodies be something besides currency.

megan sheds her hoodie and finds a spot near the corner. she ties her hair up in a quick knot and lets her shoulders roll back, the ache of the day bleeding slowly down her spine. there’s no choreography yet, just a long stretch of breath and flow. hips shifting, ankles loosening, torsos bending with the music. she lets herself get lost in it. or she tries to.

but her head’s still full of you.

still looping back to the texts, the silences between them. still thinking about the way you looked that first night in your apartment; nervous, knees bouncing, wearing that one jacket and trying to act like your heart wasn’t pounding. the way you listened. the way you didn’t run.

she hates that she keeps thinking about you like this. like she’s seventeen again and still thinks crushes are a kind of religion.

but she does. and it’s starting to show.

— hey, stranger. you’re late.

sophia’s voice breaks the loop. megan turns, and there she is: perched near the windows, stretching her legs in her usual half-graceful way, hair braided tight down her back, tank top tucked into carefully chosen leggings. she always looks like she walked out of a painting and into a dance class. megan hates how comforting that is.

— wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.

— fair enough.

they fall into their usual rhythm, stretching near each other, no real pressure to talk, just syncing up. sophia’s already glancing at her in that quiet, knowing way, like she’s waiting for the admission she knows is coming.

megan stalls for a while. bends. breathes. watches her reflection in the mirror and tries not to think about whether you’d still look at her the same if you saw her here.

the instructor cues up a guided improv drill. everyone’s scattered around the room now, moving to the rhythm without mirrors, facing inward. it’s not about precision. it’s about emotion. presence. release.

megan dances like she’s trying to remember what her body is for. not performance. not seduction. not survival.

just hers.

soft shoulders. open arms. eyes half-closed. but she still feels off, even after her conversation with lara. like something’s humming wrong in her ribcage.

when the exercise ends, everyone collapses to the floor or leans on the barre. the lights are dimmed now. the window’s cracked, letting in the smell of street food and summer sweat.

she and sophia drift to the corner together. they sit, legs sprawled, water bottles pressed to their necks. and after a long pause, megan decided to, for once, take the first step.

— i met someone.

sophia doesn’t flinch. just raises a brow. megan fidgets with the label on her bottle, eyes on her fingers.

— i didn’t mean to. it was supposed to be… nothing. or fun. or whatever. but they’re… — she shakes her head. — they’re soft. and sharp. like, smart but quiet about it. and they made me feel like i mattered. not just… existed.

sophia watches her. not judging, never. just absorbing.

— well, that sounds terrifying. — she says, soft smile tugging at her lips.

— it is.

— and?

— and i don’t know what to do with it.

megan leans back on her elbows, the floor still warm beneath her. the ceiling above her spins gently. her voice drops.

— they’re a college student, sophia. good kid, the kind of person who plays those weird medieval games with dices on their mom’s basement. and i’m… me. a girl who strips three nights a week because her life didn’t turned out the way she planned.

megan stopped for a second; sophia just listened.

— and i keep thinking they’re gonna wake up and realize what this is. what i am. and they’ll go tell their friends “oh yeah, remember when i hooked up with that stripper?” — she scoffed. — like i’m gonna be their edgy college rebellion they survived.

after a couple of seconds, sophia said softly, the only way she knew how.

— you know, i met someone at work today. — she says, voice warm, then megan looks over.

— just a customer. we barely talked. i made them some chai, poor thing looked like they were carrying the weight of the world in a canvas tote bag. didn’t even realize how much they were spilling until they were halfway through their order. said something about someone being distant, magnetic and scary in a beautiful way.

megan goes still. then sophia smiles, small.

— i gave them this exact advice. so i’m giving it to you too. — sophia held megan’s hand and squeezed it slightly. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care. and if they care, they’ll stay. not because you made it easy. but because you were real.

megan exhales through her nose. the kind of breath that’s half-sob, half-surrender. — but what if i ruin it?

— then you learn. and try again. and live. — sophia said, as if the solution to this problem was simple and easy. — but maybe; just maybe, you don’t ruin it. maybe you get it right this time around.

megan doesn’t answer. she picks at her knee. there’s a scar there from rollerblading in sixth grade. her skin’s always trying to remind her of who she was. sophia speaks again, quieter now.

— i know you think being seen is dangerous. but maybe this time it’s just being loved.

megan feels something lodge in her throat. her heart hiccups. she bites the inside of her cheek.

— i keep waiting for them to change their mind.

— have they given you any reason to think they will?

— no.

— then stop making yourself suffer in advance. go a little easier on yourself, huh?

megan’s quiet for a long time. just the sound of music switching again in the background, bodies stretching, someone cracking their back.

— should i text them?

sophia gives her a look.

— you already know the answer, honey.

megan pulls out her phone. the screen glows too bright. your last text is still there, soft and patient.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

she stares at it like it might respond if she waits long enough.

— i want to see them. — she says, mostly to herself. sophia smiles, almost proudly.

— so ask them out.

megan types. deletes. types again. tries a hundred different combinations of words.

megan: wanna get food tomorrow?

megan: not a date. don’t be weird about it.

she shows sophia.

— pathetic?

— very. — sophia grins. — they’re gonna love it.

megan stares a moment longer. then hits send.

the message floats away like a dare.

she locks her phone. presses it to her chest. breathes deep.

— fuck, i’m gonna hate myself if this goes bad.

— no, you won’t.

— why?

— because this time you’re not disappearing first.

megan doesn’t answer. just stares at the ceiling, where the fan keeps spinning, and lets the soft ache of hope settle into her sternum like something earned.

#under your spell.#katseye #katseye x reader #katseye imagines #megan skiendiel x reader #katseye megan #megan x reader #megan skiendiel #manon bannerman x lara raj #katseye lara #katseye manon #katseye sophia #sophia laforteza #manon bannerman #lara raj #katseye x masc reader #katseye x you #katseye x y/n

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