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sevikalvr · 13 days ago

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— 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒 —

summary!; bodyguard!sevika x reader > you are a PR management control for a band named faultline and things get messy and out of hand, which calls for a new security personnel.

wc; 5.7k — cw; dom top!sevika, bottom!reader, fingering, biting, scratching, lots of cursing, if you skim you’ll miss pet names, humping, MINORS DNI!!

notes - this is my first post! i intended for this to be a series if people like this fic, i have had this idea sitting in my drafts and finally decided to put it into words! enjoy!🌸 p.s. @littledykeblue account gave me the motivation to post! 💗💗💗 go check them out!

part 2 here!

Faultline. The only rock band that seemed to live up to its name. They’re messy, chaotic, and then turn the internet upside when they really want too.

And you? Well you have the damn luxury to be the fucking ductape of this band. Fucking backbone even. With only you having the pleasure of cleaning up their messes.

Every. Damn. Time.

The hallway outside the VIP lounge still smells like sweat, hairspray, spilled champagne, and ego. You shove the double doors open with both hands, the slam echoing loud enough to make a few crew members flinch from their seats.

“Jinx!”

She’s sprawled on a velvet couch like she’s the queen of a ruined empire, all glitter and eyeliner and zero remorse. You don’t know how she’s still smiling after what just happened. The show incident. The shouting match. The mic she nearly threw at Vi.

You storm toward her, ignoring the sidelong glances from assistants and event staff still pretending not to be eavesdropping.

She doesn’t even blink. Just props her boots on the armrest, upside-down and grinning like a menace. As if she's expecting this outburst from you. Cocky bastard.

“You know, if I had a dollar for every time you screamed my name—”

“—you’d be paying for the goddamn crisis PR team I had to hire after the last time you lost it in public!” you snap, jabbing a finger in her direction. “What the hell was that out there!?”

Jinx twirls a lollipop between her fingers like she’s twelve and invincible. “A family moment.”

“She bumped your shoulder.”

“She meant it.”

“She brushed you and you tried to bodycheck her in front of three different cameras and a live stream!” Your voice cracks as you throw your hands up. “You want me to lose this job? Because that’s the next step! I already had to fake two fucking apologies and bribe a damn blogger today!”

Jinx winks, her legs swinging off the couch with her elbows resting against her knees. “You’re so good at it though.”

“You’re going to be the reason I develop stress ulcers.”

“Could be worse,” she says, blowing a kiss. “Could be herpes.”

You let out a strangled sound.

That’s when you hear it—the quiet thud of boots on the hardwood near the door. You don’t need to look. You clocked her the second she walked in. Standing guard like she belongs in a damn action movie: arms crossed, black shirt stretched over muscle, one scarred eyebrow raised in calm observation.

Sevika.

Some newly hired personal security. Supposed to be here to “reinforce safety protocols and de-escalate threats.” Which, so far, you haven’t seen her do once. Considering that this is your first real encounter, her stance is a little intimidating. A little. You hadn’t spoken yet—not more than a nod when she was introduced earlier—but she’s been watching the room with that cold, unbothered stare the whole damn time.

You finally glance at her, jaw tight. “I assume you were hired to prevent a repeat of the Vi situation?”

Sevika doesn’t move. “Didn’t realize I was hired to babysit.”

Jinx loses it, nearly falling off the couch in laughter. You glare at both of them, pulse hammering behind your eyes.

“I don’t care what unresolved twin hell you two have going on,” you say, turning your focus back to Jinx. “The sponsors are jumpy. The label is breathing down my neck, and you guys haven’t even got halfway through your fucking tour yet! If I get one more email with the word rebrand, I’m going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

She rolls onto her stomach like a bored cat. “What happened to letting me be authentic?”

“Authentic doesn’t mean unhinged.”

“Pretty sure it does if you’re me.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Unbelievable..”

You turn to leave—but Sevika shifts just slightly. She’s still leaning on the wall, but she subtly blocks the door with one arm, like she’s testing whether you’re going to keep unraveling.

You stop, your temper still burning like acid. “Something to add?”

She looks at you then—really looks. Not dismissive, not hostile. Just… assessing. Measuring the edge in your voice, the tight grip you still have on your clipboard, the wild mess of a job you’re doing to keep a whole brand duct-taped together.

“You good?” she asks, voice low and even. Not teasing. Just… steady.

You blink.

“…Yeah,” you say. “Totally thriving right now.”

She doesn’t smile, but something in her expression shifts. Like she’s seen this kind of pressure before, just not wrapped in eyeliner and a chaotic PR spin.

“You always this high-strung?” she asks, that same calm tone—but now with a little curiosity under it.

You bristle. “Only when I have to explain basic boundaries to a crazy grown ass woman.”

Jinx salutes from the couch.

Sevika tilts her head just slightly, that unreadable look still in place. “You hold it together better than most.”

You glance back at her, slightly narrowing your eyes. She’s unreadable. Solid. Completely unshaken by the chaos around her. And for some reason, that is the most unsettling thing of all.

“Yeah, well…” you mutter, pulling open the door. “Get used to it. This is only just a quiet night.”

You feel her eyes follow you out. And it’s not until the door swings shut behind you that you realize,

you're not entirely sure which one of them you should be more worried about.

──────────

You’re barefoot on a fake leather couch that squeaks every time you shift. Your heels are kicked off by the door, one of them scuffed—probably from when you chased Jinx off the fire escape earlier.

Your phone is at 6%.

The Notes app is open to an aggressively polite draft that reads:

“We’re aware of the situation that occurred between performers Jinx and Vi at tonight’s event. At this time, we…”

You delete the whole sentence in one angry swipe. This is fucking ridiculous. If Jinx just manages to keep her damn hands to yourself and her mouth shut, none of this would be necessary! You swear you’re going to grow gray hairs at this rate. With the two unhinged sisters going on tour. You had a feeling some shit was going to happen. Christ, this was only just the fourth show so far, and they have already messed up so much. But then again, who else would deal with their chaotic selves?

Regardless, a knock interrupts your train of thoughts.. Except not really. More like a dull tap tap against the open door frame.

You don’t look up.

“You're still here?” you mutter, thumbs pausing over the screen.

Sevika’s voice rumbles in like the bassline of a threat. Or a reassurance, “Didn’t hear an all-clear.”

You glance up. She's leaning in the doorway like she owns the place—jacket draped over one arm, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable. The overhead light hits her jaw just right. Of course it does.

“I didn’t realize I needed to declare the room emotionally decontaminated.”

Sevika walks in anyway.

She grabs one of the unopened water bottles from the counter, cracks it open, and drinks half without blinking. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to say anything. That silence is part of the intimidation package, probably.

You go back to the message:

“...mutual artistic tension between the performers is part of their established brand and we do not condone—”

No. God, no.

You throw your head back with a groan.

“I went to school for this,” you say out loud. “Media strategy. Corporate theory. Top of my class. And now I’m negotiating apologies between two adult women who threw mic stands at each other like they were on fucking Jerry Springer.”

Sevika huffs something that might be a laugh. “Sounds like you’re good at it.”

You glare at her over your phone. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Nope.” She shrugs, then crosses to the armchair across from you and sits with the kind of heavy ease that only people like her can pull off. Like she's never once rushed a thing in her life. “Just calling it.”

You squint at her. “Do you even do anything? Or is looming your main job?”

“I stop things before they break,” she says, tone even. “You’re the one walking in when they’re already cracked.”

That hits. A little too accurately. Jeez she just started working too, you wonder how many similar scenarios she had seen compared to this. You go quiet. The only sound is the soft buzz of your phone warning you it’s now at 5%.

“I didn’t know about you until today,” you say finally, softer. “PR only told me after the Vi thing. That they were bringing in someone to... ‘manage conflict.’” You put the air quotes in hard.

Sevika nods once, unbothered. “They wanted someone who didn’t scare easily.”

You snort. “And yet you flinched when Jinx tried to light her setlist on fire.”

“That wasn’t flinching,” she says dryly. “That was calculating fire risk.”

You glance at her, then back at your phone, hiding a smile behind your knuckles. No, that wasn’t funny. Stop.

“I’m used to security being in the background,” you say after a beat. “Not...participating in group therapy by proximity.”

“You yell loud,” Sevika says. “Hard not to overhear.”

“That was just me being calm.”

She leans back a little, studying you. “Right. I’ll brace myself for when you’re actually pissed then.”

Another pause. Not awkward. Just...stretched.

You close the Notes app, giving up with a headline to fix the situation right now.

“They make me care too much,” you admit, voice quiet. “Jinx. Vi. All of them. And they don’t even know it. Or worse—they do, and they don’t care.”

You regret saying it the second it leaves your mouth. Shit, that made you sound vulnerable didn’t it? Worst part was they probably don’t even realize the amount of effort you put in just to keep their band going.

But Sevika doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t offer a half-assed platitude. She just nods, slow and steady, like she understands without needing to say it.

“You can’t fix people,” she says. “You just hold the line.”

You blink at her.

“I thought you weren’t here to give advice.”

“I’m not,” she says, standing again, stretching one shoulder with a quiet roll. “Just figured you looked like someone who needed to hear it.” She starts toward the door, jacket slung over her shoulder. But she stops before she leaves.

“You should plug in your phone,” she adds without turning around. “I’m assuming tomorrow’s gonna be worse.”

You smile despite yourself. “Thanks for the pep talk, Sevika.”

That scarred eyebrow lifts slightly. “Wasn’t one.”

Then she’s gone.

And you’re still sitting barefoot on a couch that smells like Jinx’s hairspray, staring at your phone screen, wondering what the hell just happened—and why it felt like someone finally saw you through all the damn chaos. Maybe she wasn’t so shady after all..

Actually, speaking of shady. Now you’re curious about Sevika, because she came out of nowhere earlier in the VIP room. A thought crosses your mind. You jump up to plug your phone in before it dies on you. Your phone has truly been through hell, at this point you need to be sponsored by high quality brands just to feel content.

Regardless, you grabbed your computer from your bag and went to sit back down on the fake leather couch, it giving that obnoxious squeak sound. You just rolled your eyes. Your fingers were quick to log in, as you clicked on a new browser typing in;

Sevika. Faultline security.

Nothing immediately comes up. You try just ‘Sevika’, and suddenly you’re scrolling through blurry photos: her towering outside venues, sunglasses on even at night, arms folded, always near chaos but never in it. One grainy paparazzi shot has her with her hand braced against someone’s chest—is that a Medarda? Anyways, she was holding her back mid-argument. The title reads:

“SECURITY OR BOUNCER BAE? WHO IS FAULTLINE’S MYSTERY MUSCLE?”

You chuckled, and kept scrolling.

She’s private. That much is clear. No Instagram, no interviews, no tags you can trace. But the fan forums are already on it. There’s a Reddit thread titled “Sevika thirst trap central” with hundreds of reposts.

You click it. Just for research. Obviously..

Clearly the entire page was just full of thirsty girls and possibly some blurry pictures here and there of Sevika. Eventually, you pause, thumb hovering over a photo of her from backstage—cigarette between her lips, arm slung over a crate like she owns the building. Professional interest, you tell yourself. But your stomach’s doing that thing.. and it shouldn’t. Ugh.

As you scroll, your thumb slows as you hit a post buried halfway down a forum thread titled "Faultline's Realest Ones". Most of it is memes and low-res gifs, but then— a user named spittinimage32 posts a screenshot of a blurred-out article, dated three years ago. The headline is cropped, but you can still make out part of it:

“...Security Contractor Under Investigation After Club Incident Leaves Two Hospitalized.”

Underneath is a zoomed-in still from grainy security footage. The photo quality is awful, but you recognize her—Sevika, unmistakable even in motion blur and shadow. Standing over a man doubled over on the pavement, one arm outstretched like she’s just landed a punch.

The caption under the post reads:

→ “Pretty sure this was her before she started working with musicians. Some private club Zaun. No charges were filed, but the story disappeared fast.”

You tap the article link. It’s dead. Damn, that’s some good management. Wish you had power like that.

Another comment below says:

→ “Medarda’s firm handled it. Probably paid the guy off.”

You stare at the screen, heartbeat picking up just slightly. The Medarda’s. They’re wealthy business owners, and wealthy like— dollar dollar bills wealthy and they don’t stop till they get what they want. This must’ve been serious, you think to yourself.

No official record. No explanation. Just that photo. Her fist. And two men in the hospital.

You suddenly remember how calm her voice was when she told you earlier, “I don’t step in unless I have to.”

Apparently, when she does, someone ends up in a trauma ward. But are you surprised? Not really. If she gets the job done then.. That's that. Although now you’re left wondering what truly happened in that situation.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You wake up to the buzz of your phone—fifteen unread messages, three voicemails and especially one from your boss saying ‘fix it’, then at least ten push notifications from media outlets.

“BREAKING: Vi Allegedly Wants Out of Faultline,” “Is the Band Imploding?” and your personal favorite, “PR Nightmare or PR Genius?”

You scroll faster, heart thudding. There’s multiple blurry shots of Vi storming off stage, Jinx yelling with a microphone in her hand as if she’s about to throw it, and somewhere in the background—your face, mid-horrified gasp. You try to breathe, but the headlines keep coming. Sponsors threatening to pull out. The tour manager "checking in." The label asks where your “statement” is. And all of this before coffee.

Fucking hell you expected this. After the whole chaotic mess from last night, you didn’t think it would be this bad. But this? This is beyond fucked.

You're not even dressed when the emails start rolling in—

"URGENT: Clarify band status." "What’s the narrative here?" "Is Jinx okay?" "Is Vi leaving?"

You throw your phone on the bed. Immediately regretting it, picking it back up.

Your team’s group chat is useless. Two interns are arguing over font sizes for the Instagram apology and your assistant is asking if she should cancel the shoot or wait for someone else to make the call. Not even that but when you call both Jinx and Vi, neither of them picks up. You’ve probably messaged them more than a dozen times, acting like a damn desperate ex.

They’re lucky the next show isn’t until three weeks. But that only means three weeks to fix all of this shit.

You’re now pacing your hotel room in a hoodie, coffee going cold on the counter. There are like five open tabs on your laptop, and every headline feels like another layer of anxiety pressing down. The one that sticks out the most to you:

“Insiders say PR is losing control.”

and only probably because they’re right. You are losing it.

You hastily get dressed, the least thing you're doing is only making yourself look neat with your hair up and your makeup done but barely noticeable. The shirt you have on feels like a damn compressor against your chest as if it's restricting you to breath, and your jeans— god you look and feel like a fucking mess.

──────────

You storm into the temporary backstage office at the venue from yesterday’s show, clipboard in hand and murder in your eyes. There’s a junior label rep there—smug, unhelpful, sipping a green juice and scrolling on their iPad. You ask if they’ve handled the sponsor callback list. They blink at you. “We’re waiting to see how the narrative evolves.” They pause before adding, “Oh and— we’ve lost two sponsors.”

That’s when it happens.

You scream.

Something about "narrative evolution" and "branding alignment" and “how this isn’t a goddamn improv troupe, it’s a multi-million-dollar tour and we are hemorrhaging public goodwill like a gunshot wound!” You’re near tears. Frustrated. Helpless. And fucking livid. You’re talking too loud, your voice is breaking, and nobody is doing anything.

The room goes quiet. People freeze. Hell, some even have the audacity to back out of the room from you.

Then—

A low voice from behind you cuts through the static.

“Hey.”

You spin around, breathing heavily, expecting more bullshit. But it’s Sevika. She’s leaning against the wall with arms folded, unreadable as always. Where the hell did she come from?

“You done yelling at the kid?” she says, calm. Not mocking. Just... grounding.

You blink. Realizing your hand—matter fact your whole damn arm is shaking. Your breathing’s off. Your face is most likely red.

She steps forward, slow, steady, and without touching you, positions herself between you and the others in the room. She says nothing else. Doesn’t need to. The tension starts to bleed out of the air.

Someone asks if they should reschedule the press call.

Sevika looks at them. Just looks.

They scurry out.

She turns back to you. “Come on. Breathe.”

You inhale. Exhale. You hate that it works. Hate more that she’s the only one who’s helped all day.

“I’m going to snap,” you whisper, not entirely joking, as your hands clenched into a fist.

“No,” she says. “You’re not. Because you’re the only one who knows how to keep this thing from falling apart. And you’re not about to give them the satisfaction of seeing you lose it.”

You’re still shaking, but her voice, low and steady, keeps you anchored. Your phone buzzes again. You silence it this time. You nod once. Just once. Enough to say; I’m still here.

And Sevika steps aside. Not leaving. Just letting you move forward again. But now with someone behind you who’s actually watching your back.

Eventually, you’re working with the other interns and your assistant to handle the chaos that is currently circulating around the damn internet. You decided to take on the press call only hoping this will smooth the headlines out for now. You still keep checking your phone just in case you get a message or a call from either of the sisters.

But you doubt that will happen.

Not really a choice made but it came to a conclusion that you have to take an overnight red-eye trip for a crisis briefing. Great. Just another thing to look forward to. You sighed softly, throwing your clipboard aside for now. The room had been emptied out for the day. You hadn’t even realized that you all were working the entire day to fix this mess.

You lean back against the couch, your head resting back staring at the ceiling. You felt the couch dip beside you, already knowing who it is.

You don’t bother to look.

“I’ll come with you,” Sevika says.

“There’s no need”

“I’m not asking, it’s protocol” she says in a tone that is non-arguable.

You scoff, slowly turning your head to look at her. But for some reason you don’t really mind that she’ll tag along with you. Infact you find it better that you have company rather than handling it alone, like always.

But seriously?

“Protocol my ass..” you muttered out, going back to gazing at the ceiling. But she didn’t say anything back.

You both knew it was her choice.

Before you knew it, you were in the car with her as she drove. The place was only just a couple hours from the previous show. Both your bags in the back as the car was silent throughout the drive. Some small talk here and there as she stopped for gas, and as well getting you some snacks. Other than that, the ride was silent.

Silence was slightly awkward though. Sometimes you’d catch her glancing at you, or vice versa. There was still tension from before. It wasn’t anything bad but— there was something lingering between you two. You couldn’t help but notice her wearing casual attire. The sleeve hugging against her biceps, the dark brown complimenting her skin color as her as the slight makeup she used on her face. Just some eyeliner and brown lipstick.

Yeah— you definitely couldn't deny it now. She was very attractive. Her sleek jaw, hair pulled back into a half up ponytail, the way her lips were the perfect amount of thickness, and those biceps— christ. You knew you were beyond screwed. She was beautiful, handsome even.

And you?

Probably not even her type regardless. Or so you thought.

“You think this crisis meeting will solve anything?” Sevika asks, breaking the silence and odd tension from your trance.

You sighed from exhaustion before responding, “The best that will come out of it right now will probably be controlling the headlines and to avert their attention from Jinx and Vi to something else. Probably the next show or something..” you pause, rubbing your temples before continuing, “This will only be properly fixed once they get their shit figured out. And to answer their damn phone calls.”

You checked your phone to see if either of them had texted, but nothing. You sighed, setting your phone down.

“You’ll figure it out” She says after a beat, glancing at you.

“Yeah I’m the only one who ever does” You retorted, scoffing as you met her eye for a moment.

Even though it wasn't loud, you heard her chuckle under her breath. Your lips quirked from amusement hearing that from her. You eventually look away as you two fall into silence again. Comfortable silence.

──────────

You’ve both just endured a brutal crisis meeting. You're exhausted, emotionally fried, but still high on tension. Sevika’s been calm the entire time—cutting through the bullshit in the room when you couldn’t, quiet when she needed to be, but fiercely in your corner.

You’re both walking into the hotel, late-night check-in, bags slung, the hallway quiet.

You walked up to the front desk, giving the receptionist your last name that you booked the rooms under.

“Looks like we’ve got you down for just one deluxe king suite!” the lady behind the desk replied cheerfully as she prepared the card for you.

You blink.

“That better be a mistake” You say, staring at the receptionist lady with a deadpan stare.

“Sorry honey, we’re fully booked tonight otherwise” She had replied, sliding the key to you on the desk.

Are we fucking serious.. you think to yourself.

You slowly turn to Sevika with an unreadable look. She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Fucking perfect,” You muttered under your breath.

The check-in desk had one job. One. You blink at the concierge like they just slapped you.

“There were supposed to be two rooms by the way,” you say, tone brittle enough to cut tile.

The receptionist gives you that polite corporate shrug that means “not my problem.” You don’t even have it in you to argue. Not after the crisis meeting that felt more like a firing squad. Not after watching half the label toss blame back and forth while you took notes on how to be their next scapegoat. Not after Sevika said absolutely nothing the entire time but still managed to make you feel like someone was in your corner.

Now this? One room. One bed. You feel the eye twitch coming on.

“Whatever,” you mutter, snatching the keycard and stomping toward the elevator. Sevika follows. Silent. Heavy boots. Calm shadow. It shouldn’t make your skin burn hotter, but it does.

You don’t speak again until the hotel door swings shut behind you.

And then—you explode.

“Two rooms! Two. That’s all I asked for. Not world peace. Not someone’s kidney. Just two fucking rooms!”

Your heels hit the floor hard. You toss your bag onto the bed—the one bed—and just stand there for a second, teeth gritted. Sevika closes the door behind you with that quiet, deliberate calm she always has. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

“And that meeting?” you scoff. “They want a rebrand. They think Vi might go solo. They think I’ve lost control.” You turn around, anger rising like a wave. “What am I supposed to do? Photoshop a damn friendship back together!?” You gesture wildly around the room.

Sevika is leaning against the door now, watching you pace like a hurricane in heels. She raises an eyebrow. Still leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Shrugs a little. “You handled it.”

“Bullshit. I’m dangling by a thread,” you snap, voice tight. “I’m fucking done. I’m trying to put out fires and you’re just, what, always just fucking standing there? With your one-word replies and your constant brooding like a hot, grumpy—”

She steps forward. Not fast. Just enough to break the space between you. You stop mid-rant.

“You think I don’t see it?” she says, voice low. “You holding it all together. No one thanks you. No one listens. And they’d all fall apart without you since you’re the backbone of this entire band.”

Your breath catches. You don’t want that to land. But it does.

Your lip curls like you’re about to say something biting—but it falters. Because Sevika’s close now. So close. And the silence between you feels… different.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter quietly.

“Like what?” she says.

“Like you can see through me.”

“Maybe I can.”

You’re still fuming. But it’s twisted now—burning hot under your skin in a different way.

She looks at the bed. Then at you.

“We flipping a coin or...?”

“Fuck the coin,” you say, voice hoarse, “I’m too tired to care.”

You move past her like you’re going to grab something—but she grabs your wrist. Not rough. Just enough.

“You need to let it out,” she says. “Whatever it is.”

You look up at her. Chest tight. Anger still vibrating in your bones but buried under that — that need.

“Yeah?” you whisper. “And what are you gonna do if I do?”

She doesn’t answer. Because she's on you within seconds. Your back pinned against the hotel wall as her hand was on the back of your head to prevent it from hitting the wall too harshly. You let out a sharp gasp from the impact.

You both just stared at each other. The electricity crackling between you two. The moment felt like everything slowed down for a second. You stared into her eyes.

Then you surged forward.

Your mouth crashes into hers with all the fury of the day behind it—messy, desperate, teeth clashing. She catches you easily, hands gripping your waist, pinning them against the wall. Your hands were gripping her shirt tight, pulling her closer than she already is. You let your hand trail down her chest, letting them roam free. Your fingers pressing against the shirt as you felt the firmness of her stomach, trailing them down under her shirt—

Oh fuck.

The minute you felt her V line beneath your fingers you let out a moan into her mouth, one she quickly swallowed up in the filthy and greedy kiss you shared.

You gasp as she lifts you by your thighs, pinning you there. You wrap your legs around her instinctively, fingers tangled in her jacket as her mouth drags hot, slowing down your neck.

“Fuck,” you breathe, nails scraping along her shoulder. “This is such a bad idea.”

“Best one I’ve had all day,” she growls against your throat, biting down hard against your neck, erupting a strangled whine from the back of your throat.

You yank her shirt up, your hands finding skin—warm, solid muscle. She peels off your jacket without care, lets it fall. Her hands are everywhere: gripping, kneading, claiming. Your mind goes white.

Clothes hit the floor in frantic pieces. Your heels are thrown to the side of the room. The room’s too hot, your back hits the mattress, and she’s above you—hair falling into her face, pupils blown, looking at you like she’s about to wreck you.

“This is wrong” you mutter as your hands went down her back to grope her ass.

She groaned in response, her hips bucking closer to yours, “Then why aren't you stopping me?”

“I can’t” you whispered in her ear before pulling her into another filthy kiss. One that's messy, where your tongues are fighting for dominance. Your hands rake in her hair, pushing it back slightly before giving it a sharp tug. In return her hand finds your tit and gropes it, making you moan pathetically into the kiss. You feel her smile against the kiss. That fucking menence smile.

You felt her hand go down your stomach as you felt her fingers spread through your soaked folds, eliciting a soft moan from you.

“You’re fucking soaked..” she mutters against your lips, glancing down between the two of you.

“Fuck you” you panted against her, lips swollen and red from the kiss as your eyes were already half lidded, gazing down at her neck.

“I’m trying” you hear her mutter before she dips her head down to your neck, tongue flicking out as she traced a wet path along her collarbone, her mouth latching onto an aching peak deliberately sucking at your skin that sends shivers down your spine.

“Sevika..” you breathe out as your fingers dug into her shoulders, with your back arching and trembling against her touch.

“Tell me what you need”

God its almost like you were drunk and were unable to fucking speak properly. But somehow, you managed.

“Your fingers—you. I don’t care” you managed to say helplessly as she obliged.

Her thumb slowly pressed against your clit as you felt her slip two fingers in your core. Your hips buck from the contact as your fingers dig against her shoulders, dragging them down your back.

“Oh god” you groaned as you bit at her neck which made her inhale sharply, her fingers curling in you that hit your sweet spot.

Oh fuck.

Your body doesn't know what else to do other than your hands profusely scratching at her back. Your hips buck trying to find friction but you fail, all you can do is just squeeze against her fingers. But it's not changing her speed which makes you writhe in place. “You're gonna cut my fingers off at this rate” she says, almost condescendingly, smirking against your skin.

“You— you’re not helping” you bite your lip to refrain yourself from whining for more, “go faster” you whisper, burying your face in the crook of her neck planting wet, open mouths kiss under her jawline.

“You're lucky you’re pretty” she whispered before another finger was slipping inside your drooling cunt. Her pace becomes faster as her fingers curl repeatedly against your g-spot which makes you choke on a moan, letting yourself succumb to the pleasure.

Your arousal that coated her fingers makes the most obscene noises that filled up the hotel room, Sevika’s own hips were grinding at your thigh as you both chased for your climax. Your mouths captured into a kiss as you swallowed each other's moans, you propped your leg up as you felt the slick from her pussy against your thigh.

Your hand found their way to her swollen nub of her clit, with your touch being firm and insistent as you kept rubbing hard and fast. Which had added another layer of pleasure and desperation in the movement of Sevika’s hips grinding against your thigh.

“fuck— keep it like that. Just like that baby” she growls near your ear as you feel her pump her fingers in and out of you quicker.

“Sev— Sevika!” you almost fucking screamed her name out as your eyes fluttered for a moment from the pleasure. Your back arched from her touch as your free hand pushed her hips down against your thigh as the other rubbed vigorously at her clit. The minute you chased your orgasm, your hips bucked in her hand as you clenched tightly around her fingers, with you moaning her name from exhaustion at this point.

Her fingers were still curled inside that wet pussy of yours as she kept grinding against your thigh, her movements becoming sloppy as leaned her forehead against your shoulder.

“Shit..” Sevika moans against your ear which makes you clench around her fingers again as her words are followed by a few more curses as she shivers out her orgasms.

Her fingers slowly pulled out of your dripping cunt, retreating them back to her mouth, licking every drop.

“Fuck, you taste just like I imagined..” She says hoarsely before capturing your lips in another kiss, this one being more sloppy as you taste yourself. Your hands went to her neck as she flopped beside you on the bed. Legs tangling with each other capturing yourself in a moment of bliss and the aftermath of such pleasure, lost in each other's arms.

Eventually you two pulled away from each other panting, her arm around her waist pulling you chest to chest.

“I still hate this room,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen.

She huffs something like a laugh, brushing her knuckles down your thigh.

“Not how it sounded five minutes ago.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t pull away.

“This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Sure,” she says, dragging her mouth lazily across your shoulder. “That’s why you’re still shaking.”

You shove her, half-hearted.

She doesn’t move. Just smirks.

You hate that she’s right.

You hate it even more that you already want round two.

#sevikalvr🌸#zee on the keys!#sevika #arcane #sevika smut #sevika x reader #sevika x you #arcane smut #bodyguard!au #bodyguard!sevika #pr!reader #security breach;prt 1 #lesbian

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thebarneschronicles · 5 months ago

Text

Out of Depth, Into You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes was supposed to get in and out. Simple. Clean. But Hydra had other plans.

An ambush leaves him broken, bleeding, and barely standing—and you’re the only thing keeping him upright. Trapped in a safehouse, patching him up with shaking hands, you realize the truth you’ve been avoiding: you almost lost him. And that scares you more than anything.

Because Bucky isn’t just your mission partner. He’s yours.

And maybe… just maybe, he’s known it all along.

Trigger Warnings: Violence (injuries, blood, broken bones, combat); Medical trauma (setting a broken bone, treating severe wounds); PTSD/trauma symptoms (flashbacks, avoidance, emotional suppression); Self-deprecation/self-worth issues (Bucky struggling with his identity and past); Smut (very little but still there !!!!)

Author’s Note: OOPS, I did it again. Idk, man, thoughts of being the one to save him for once were swirling and I had to do it again. Blame the hormones! Hope you like it and let me know what you think. B x

He should’ve been in and out. That was the plan.

But somewhere between Bucky taking out the first two guards and you directing him toward the extraction point, everything had gone to hell. You should’ve known he couldn’t, shouldn’t have gone in alone.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter how many missions he completed, Hydra never stopped hunting him. They never stopped wanting their soldier back, their weapon, their ghost of the past. Maybe they’d been waiting for an opportunity just like this—Bucky Barnes, alone in Eastern Europe, tracking down a Hydra splinter cell. Everything had been fine until it wasn’t.

And when Hydra saw their chance, they took it.

You had been following this lead together, him on the field, you in his ear, his eyes when he couldn’t see, his guide when things went south. But neither of you had expected the ambush. Too many hostiles. Too little time.

You heard it before you saw it. The grunts of effort, the dull crack of fists against flesh, the sickening crunch of bone breaking. Bullets ricocheted off vibranium in sharp, ringing bursts. Shouts filled your comms, angry orders in languages you didn’t recognize, and then—

Then you heard his hiss of pain. Short, sharp, barely contained. A sound that turned your blood to ice.

Bucky never let pain show.

Your hands flew over the keyboard, trying to pull up security feeds, but his voice cut through your panic, strained but calm. Too calm.

"I need an exit. Now."

Your heart stopped.

Bucky Barnes never walked away from a fight. He fought until there was no one left standing but him. If he was asking for an exit, it meant something was very, very wrong.

You yanked up the nearest camera feed and felt the world lurch beneath you.

There he was—cornered in a crumbling warehouse, backed against a stack of rusted shipping crates. He was holding his own, but barely. Blood dripped down his temple in sluggish trails. A bruise darkened his jaw, stark even in the grainy footage. But worst of all—his right arm, his flesh arm, was hanging limp at his side, twisted at an angle that wasn’t natural.

You gripped the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles ached.

Broken. His arm was broken.

And if his arm was that bad, you didn’t want to think about what other injuries he was forcing himself to fight through.

Your voice wavered, but you forced it to stay steady. "Bucky, there’s a service door to your left. Get there and I can guide you out."

"Copy," he gritted out, his breath heavy, strained.

He fought his way to the door, but you saw it—the way he staggered, the way every movement came at a cost. Every punch with his left arm rippled agony through his body. Every twist, every block, every moment that should have been second nature was suddenly a fight to stay upright.

And still, he kept going.

By the time he made it through the door, you were already running.

Darkened streets blurred past as you sprinted toward the extraction point. Your lungs burned, but it didn’t matter. You needed to get to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to come out unscathed, meet you at the car, and get out before things got messy.

There weren’t supposed to be this many Hydra agents.

There wasn’t supposed to be a fight.

Fear clawed at your throat.

You rounded the last corner and skidded to a stop.

Bucky.

Leaning heavily against a brick wall, half-shadowed beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp. His chest rose and fell too fast, his breath ragged. His skin looked pale—too pale. Blood painted the side of his face, his fingers, his shirt. He lifted his head as you approached, his jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.

Up close, he looked worse. So much worse.

And that—that terrified you.

You had seen him bleed before. Had heard his sharp, bitten-off curses through comms, had watched him shake off pain like it was nothing. But this was different.

This was Bucky barely standing.

This was his chest rising and falling too fast, his face too pale, his right arm twisted and useless at his side. This was blood—so much blood—seeping through his jacket, dripping from his fingers, staining the ground beneath him.

And you—you couldn’t breathe.

Your hands trembled as you reached for him, the rest of the world fading away. Nothing else existed except for the wreckage of him—broken, bleeding, and still standing.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this.

He was just your mission partner. Just the man in your ear, the one you guided through hell and back, the one who always came out on the other side. Just the Soldier.

Except he wasn’t.

He was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

You swallowed hard, shoving the rising panic back down where it belonged. You couldn’t afford to lose it. Not now.

Stepping into his space, you braced his good side, feeling the solid weight of him against you. And that’s when you realized—

He was leaning on you.

Bucky Barnes, who carried the weight of his past like an iron chain, was letting you carry him.

Your throat tightened.

"Hey, Soldier," you murmured, voice steadying through sheer force of will. Anything to drown out the fear clawing at your ribs. "Still with me?"

For a second, he didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.

Then—his lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk, like he wanted to make some cocky remark. But all that came out was a wince.

"Yeah," he rasped, voice rough, worn down to nothing. "Just having a great time."

Something in you cracked.

You exhaled sharply, fingers twisting in his jacket, clutching onto him like you could hold him together.

He was alive.

Battered, broken, bleeding out against you—but alive.

And you were going to keep him that way.

The drive to the safehouse was short, but agonizing.

The car felt too small, too silent, too full of blood and fear. Your hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white as you tried to keep your body from shaking apart. You had to stay focused. Had to keep breathing. Had to ignore the way Bucky’s breath, shallow and uneven, filled the space between you like a countdown.

Every bump in the road pulled a ragged sound from his throat, one he barely let slip past gritted teeth. His broken arm was cradled against his chest, his fingers twitching, blood soaking through the fabric of his jacket and seeping into the leather seats. Thick. Dark. Too much.

Don’t think about it.

You’d already gone through a mental list of everything you needed to do once you got him inside—stop the bleeding, set the bone, clean the wounds. All of it so completely out of your depth that panic pressed against your ribs, sharp and unforgiving.

The safehouse appeared through the trees, a dark shape buried deep in the woods. You yanked the car into park, twisting toward him before the engine had even died.

"Buck," you said, voice unsteady. "Buck?"

Nothing.

"Bucky, you still with me?"

For a second, nothing but silence—and then, finally, a low, pained grunt. A small nod. Barely anything, but it was enough to keep the panic from swallowing you whole. A grunt of acknowledgment that shouldn’t have felt like relief but did.

You swallowed hard and moved fast, yanking open his door, looping an arm around his waist as you pulled him up. He was heavy. Too heavy.

Getting him inside was its own battle.

Bucky Barnes was all muscle and solid weight, and even now—weaker than you had ever seen him, barely upright, barely conscious—he still outweighed you by too much. You nearly buckled under his weight, but he held onto you.

His full weight pressed against you, and for the first time since you’d known him, he didn’t try to carry himself. Didn’t try to tough it out, to stay standing on his own. Because he couldn’t.

Each step sent fresh bolts of pain through him, his teeth clenched so tight you swore you could hear the grind of enamel. He swayed dangerously, his blood leaving a trail in the grass, marking the path of his suffering.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you tightened your grip around his waist.

"Almost there," you whispered, half to him, half to yourself. "Just a little further, Buck. Stay with me."

His only response was another sharp exhale through his nose—the sound of a man trying not to curse or scream.

By the time you dragged him over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you, your entire body was trembling. The adrenaline that had kept you moving, kept you upright, was beginning to wear off, leaving only panic in its wake. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps as you struggled to keep him upright, his weight more than you could truly handle.

"Come on, Bucky, please, just a little longer," you begged, voice cracking as you guided him toward the worn-out chair near the fireplace. You barely managed to ease him down before your legs nearly gave out beneath you. "I need you to stay awake, honey."

The endearment slipped out without thought, but neither of you acknowledged it. His head lolled forward, strands of damp, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. His breath was a shallow rasp, chest barely rising and falling.

Logically, you knew he could heal. His body would knit itself back together, given enough time. But logic didn’t stop the knot of dread twisting inside you, didn’t chase away the fear choking you as you took in the state of him.

You had never seen him this bad.

His skin was pale—too pale. Sickly, almost. Sweat slicked his forehead, tracing tracks down the sharp angles of his cheekbones. The bruising along his temple was already deepening, a sickly shade of purple that stood out against his ashen skin. His left arm was an ugly mess—swollen, bent at a sickening angle. And then there was the gash along his ribs, jagged and deep, seeping blood at an alarming rate.

Your hands scrambled for the first-aid kit, tearing it open with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. "Okay," you said, forcing a steadying breath, forcing yourself to focus. "I need to set your arm."

Bucky exhaled slowly. His eyelids fluttered, his breathing labored. But when his gaze finally found yours, there was no fear. No hesitation.

Just quiet, unwavering trust.

A barely perceptible nod.

No complaints. No resistance. Just Bucky Barnes trusting you with his pain.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Bucky Barnes never let anyone take care of him. He barely let people touch him, let alone see him like this—vulnerable, human. The weight of that trust settled deep in your chest, thick and heavy.

For a fleeting second, a dangerous thought slipped through the cracks of your resolve—what would it be like if he let you touch him in other ways? If his trust extended beyond battlefield necessity, beyond survival, into something more?

You swallowed hard and shoved the thought away. Now was not the time.

Shoving it down, you grabbed the shears from the kit and began cutting away his ruined jacket, peeling the blood-soaked fabric from his skin. His arm was an ugly mess—swollen, bruised, bent at an angle that made your stomach turn. But the deep gash across his ribs wasn’t much better, the bruising on his temple stark against his too-pale skin.

Your hands hovered over him for a moment. Hesitant. Terrified.

You can do this.He needs you.Your fingers pressed against his skin, searching for the break. He barely reacted.

Except—when you touched the worst of it.

His body tensed. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His metal hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, throat tight. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—"

Then, before you could think too hard about it, before you could hesitate—you pushed the bone back into place.

The sound it made was sickening.

Bucky’s whole body locked up. His teeth clenched, every muscle in his body straining against the agony tearing through him.

Your stomach lurched. You wanted to take it back. Wanted to take it from him.

But then—it was done.

You looked up, searching for his eyes, needing to see that he was still with you.

But his eyes were shut, his lips a thin, bloodless line.

He hadn’t screamed.

Hadn’t even made a sound.

"Buck?"

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it felt like a scream in the suffocating silence of the safehouse. Your hands were slick with his blood, still shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You didn't know how to make it stop.

"Bucky?"

Still no response. His head lolled slightly, his breath uneven, shallow. The dim light in the room cast long shadows over his face, accentuating the stark pallor of his skin, the gauntness in his features. He looked fragile, and that was something you never associated with Bucky Barnes.

Your fingers fumbled, pressing against his neck, searching for his pulse. Your mind screamed at you to calm down, to think logically. The serum would keep him alive. He wasn’t dying. He couldn’t be dying. But logic meant nothing when fear had its claws in you.

Too fast. But steady.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive.

A sob clawed its way up your throat, thick and suffocating, but you swallowed it down. No time for that. You had to focus. He needed you.

You forced your trembling hands to work, pressing gauze against the deep gash in his side, trying to stem the flow of blood. The fabric soaked through instantly, a deep crimson blooming across the sterile white.

"Come on, Buck," you murmured, voice barely holding steady. "The serum needs to kick in. Just let it work, okay?"

Your fingers traced the edges of the wound, breath hitching at the heat radiating from his fevered skin. The cut was deep—too deep—but not fatal. It had to be something sharp, something deliberate. The thought made your stomach twist. Whoever had done this had meant to hurt him, had meant to make him suffer.

You pressed down harder, desperate to keep the bleeding in check. He let out a low, pained groan, his body tensing beneath your touch. Your heart clenched.

"Did I make it worse?" Your voice cracked. "Am I hurting you more? Please, Buck, you gotta tell me something, anything..."

Silence stretched between you, thick and unbearable. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow movements. The hum of the wind outside filled the void. Your hands, stained with his blood, trembled against him.

Then—

A rough, barely-there sound. A groan, deep and strained.

His throat bobbed as his lashes fluttered. His brows drew together, his lips parting as he struggled to pull in a breath.

And then, so quietly you almost missed it—

"Nah."

Your heart stuttered.

His voice, though raw and wrecked, was unmistakable. Relief crashed over you like a tidal wave, so overwhelming it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You reached up, pressing his sweaty hair back and away from his forehead.

His head shifted slightly, his fevered skin pressing into the palm of your hand. His breathing hitched as another wave of pain rolled through him, but he forced his eyes open just enough to look at you.

Blue. So damn blue.

And looking right at you.

"It’s not—" He swallowed thickly. "Not your fault," he rasped. His lips twitched, like he was trying for a smile, but it barely formed before fading. "I'm still in one piece."

A breathy, choked laugh escaped you, completely unbidden. God, how could he joke right now?

Your fingers curled against his jaw, your grip grounding both of you. "Barely," you whispered. "You’re a mess, Bucky."

A slow, uneven exhale left him. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

Your throat tightened. Even now, bleeding out, clinging to consciousness by a thread, he was trying to reassure you. Trying to make it easier.

"Is there anything else I can do?" you asked, voice small, desperate. "To make the serum work faster? God, why isn't it working, Bucky?"

He let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching against his thigh. His lips parted, but it took him a moment to form words.

"Takes... time," he murmured, voice slurred with exhaustion. "Always does. Just gotta... wait."

Wait. The thought was unbearable. Sitting here, helpless, while he fought to heal—it felt like torture.

Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. He blinked sluggishly, exhaustion tugging at him, but he was here.

"You’re supposed to heal, Buck," you whispered. "Please. Promise me."

A slow, lazy blink. Then another. His lips parted, another whisper of breath escaping. Speaking seemed like a tremendous effort.

"‘I will, doll."

The nickname slipped out, rough and unintentional, but it sent something hot and aching through your chest.

He didn't know. He had no idea. How much you loved him. How much it would break you if he didn’t recover. You could barely even entertain the thought.

You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead against his, letting his warmth seep into you, grounding you.

"Good," you breathed, voice shaking. "You better."

His lips quirked—just barely, just enough.

And then, exhaustion pulled him under again.

–

He slept for hours.

So long that time lost meaning. The only markers of its passing were the slow shift of light through the windows, the way the world outside darkened and quieted, and the steady rhythm of his breath.

At some point, just before nightfall, you had dragged him to the old couch, wincing as his weight slumped against you, his body a dead weight of exhaustion and blood loss. The couch was too small, barely accommodating his frame, but it was better than the rickety old chair. You had folded up a sweater to tuck beneath his head, hoping to give him something resembling comfort.

Then, you sat beside him. You stayed there, unmoving, watching over him like some kind of silent sentinel. Every breath he took became an anchor, something to hold onto while the storm inside you raged.

The serum was working, you realized.

You willed it to.

You willed your hands not to tremble when you finally dared to check his wound. The bleeding had stopped. The deep gash at his side was still an angry thing, but no longer a threat. You cleaned him up as best you could, dabbing away the dried blood, the sweat, the remnants of a battle neither of you had been sure he’d walk away from. He didn’t stir when you bandaged him up, didn’t even wince when you pressed down to ensure it held. He was dead to the world, lost in some place where pain couldn’t touch him.

The relief hit you like a punch to the gut. So intense it nearly stole your breath.

You could have taken a shower. You could have eaten, slept, done a million things in the endless stretch of time before he woke. And yet, you sat there, knees drawn to your chest, hands curled into your sleeves as you watched him. The soft light from the kitchen, the only you one had dared to turn on, flickered across his face, softening the sharp planes of his jaw, making him look almost peaceful.

Almost.

Bucky Barnes never looked truly at peace. Even in sleep, there were the faint lines of tension around his eyes, the ever-present ghosts lingering beneath the surface.

You had no idea when it happened. When he became more than just the man you guided through missions, monitored from a distance, and kept safe from behind a screen. It had snuck up on you in the quiet moments—the way he paid attention to your every word, the way he trusted your intel without question, the way his voice softened just a little when he spoke your name. The rare, fleeting glint of warmth in his.low chuckle when you cracked a joke through his earpiece like you were the only thing tethering him to something lighter, something more than the constant battles he had to face.

You never meant for this to happen. But it had.

And now here you were, sitting in the half-dark, staring at him like a fool, with a heart that beat too fast in your chest.

A low, hoarse sound broke the silence. A groan, rough with sleep and exhaustion.

Your breath hitched as his head stirred against the makeshift pillow. The twitch of his fingers, the slow shift of his expression—until those blue eyes finally cracked open, hazy and unfocused.

“Am I dead?”

His voice was a rasp, rough and broken, like gravel scraping against metal. It sent a shiver racing down your spine, an involuntary reaction to hearing it at all. Because for a terrifying moment, you thought you never would again.

Still, the laugh that tumbled from your lips was more relieved than anything else. “No. But you were trying really hard to get there.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his battered face. He moved sluggishly, turning his head toward you, eyes struggling to focus as he took you in. The sight of him awake, coherent, was almost enough to bring you to your knees.

Almost.

“If you had,” you murmured, arching a brow as you gestured around the small, dimly lit room, “would this be your heaven?”

It was a joke, mostly. A feeble attempt to lighten the moment, though the humor didn’t quite reach your voice. The old house was barely livable, the bare minimum of furniture thrown together in a desperate attempt at a safe house. It lacked warmth. It lacked everything, really.

Bucky exhaled sharply, something caught between a laugh and a scoff. “You think I’m going to heaven?”

That laugh. Short. Self-deprecating. Dripping with irony. You hated it.

“You don’t?” you challenged, gaze unwavering. “You must’ve earned a place after all that suffering.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

The word slipped from his lips so easily, like breathing, but it knocked the air right out of your lungs. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to react, but it was useless. Especially when you realized he was still staring at you. Taking you in. Seeing the exhaustion that clung to you like a second skin, the dried blood smeared across your hands and clothes—his blood. The worry written into every crease of your expression.

You felt exposed. Raw.

“You... been sitting there this whole time?”

You hesitated. You could lie. Maybe you should. You could brush it off, say you had just been checking in on him, nothing more… Instead, you settled for the truth.

“Yeah.”

Bucky exhaled heavily, his head falling back against the pillow, but his gaze never left you. Something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable, but you felt it all the same.

After a moment, his lips quirked slightly. “Didn’t know I rated that kind of devotion.”

Your breath hitched. If he noticed, he had the decency not to comment on it.

“I never saw you like that before,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “You were bleeding all over the place, Bucky. You’re… you’re my super soldier. My Terminator. You’re supposed to be invincible.”

The joke melted into something softer, something vulnerable. You dropped your gaze, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. You couldn’t let him see. Couldn’t let him know just how close you had come to breaking.

“You could’ve at least taken a shower.”

He meant it as a distraction, but it only served as a reminder. The truth was—you hadn’t wanted to leave. Not even for a second. But admitting that? Dangerous territory.

“I couldn’t,” you muttered instead, shaking your head. “I had to make sure...”

Bucky hummed low in his throat, the weight of his gaze pressing against the side of your face. Then, with a sigh, he reached out—slow, careful, testing the limits of his body—and let his fingers ghost over your wrist. Barely a touch, but it sent your pulse into a tailspin.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words rough, real.

You swallowed hard. “Yeah, well... just try not to do it again, alright?”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “You look exhausted. Should’ve told me to move over.”

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this small, intimate space—had you reeling. “The, uh, couch is too small. And you needed the rest.”

His eyes drifted over you, lingering. “And you didn’t?”

Desperate for some normalcy, you let out a small huff, adopting a teasing tone. “I don’t need as much beauty sleep as you, Barnes.”

That earned you a tired chuckle. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“Yup. You were looking a little rough before all the blood loss. Thought I’d do you a favor and let you rest.”

Bucky groaned. “Damn. Knew you were brutal, but this?”

“Hey,” you grinned, squeezing his thigh lightly, “if you can keep up, that means you’re feeling better.”

Bucky let out a breath, and for a moment, something warm flickered behind his exhaustion. “Guess I must be.”

Silence stretched between you, heavier this time, something unspoken weaving through it. You allowed yourself to lean against the cold metal of his vibranium arm, savoring the quiet until he shifted, groaning. Both of you stayed there and you thought he’d fallen back asleep when his groan broke through the quiet. Carefully, Bucky pushed himself upright, wincing slightly as his muscles protested.

“Gonna take a shower,” he mumbled, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

"Bucky, I don’t think—"

"Not asking, sweetheart," he cut in, already pushing himself to his feet. Wobbling.

Stubborn son of a bitch.

“Why won’t you listen to me? You always listen to me,” you argued, audibly on edge, rising to your feet to try and make sure you were prepared in case he tumbled over.

“I am covered in blood and I smell,” he grunted, vibranium hand pressing to the bandage you had patched him up with. He was clearly still in pain but too stubborn to admit it. “It’ll make me feel better.”

You rushed forward, steadying him before he could fall over like an idiot. "Jesus. Fine. But keep the door unlocked, okay? In case you—"

"I'm not gonna drown in the shower," he deadpanned.

You gave him a look. "I was gonna say in case you pass out and crack your head open again, but now I’m adding ‘drowning’ to my already very long list of concerns, thank you very much."

Bucky sighed, squeezing your hand before stepping away toward the bathroom. You should have looked away when he peeled his blood-streaked shirt over his head, revealing bruised skin beneath. But you didn’t.

And when he glanced back at you, a tired smirk still playing at his lips, you knew he had caught you staring.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. He was alive. Battered, broken, but alive.

The weight of the past few hours pressed heavily against your chest, like a vice squeezing the air from your lungs. Your hands still trembled faintly, a phantom reminder of how close you had come to losing him. You told yourself you should move, should get some rest, but you couldn't. The exhaustion sat on your shoulders, thick and suffocating, but it couldn't compare to the quiet, gnawing fear that still hadn't fully released its grip on you.

What if he hadn’t woken up? What if his breathing had slowed, softened, and you hadn't noticed until it was too late? What if, even now, you had missed something—some unseen wound, some deeper injury lurking beneath the surface?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. He had survived this time. But the next?

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to clear the sting in your eyes. No, not now. Later—when he was truly safe, when you weren’t holding yourself together with nothing but sheer stubbornness and the desperate need to keep him breathing.

Then you heard it.

A muffled groan.

Maybe a pained grunt.

Then— your name.

Your stomach flipped. Fear, sharp and immediate, sank its claws into you, coiling tight around your ribs.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved.

The door swung open—

And you froze.

Steam curled around the small bathroom, thick and humid, clinging to your skin. The weak spray of the shower rained down on him, rivulets of water streaming down his battered body. His head was bowed, one hand braced against the tiled wall, his broad back rising and falling with every breath.

Bucky was naked.

Completely, gloriously naked.

Your pulse stuttered, breath hitching as your gaze trailed over him, helpless to look away. It wasn’t just the powerful cut of his shoulders or the elegant curve of his spine, the way his waist tapered into lean, honed muscle. It wasn’t just the deep bruises shadowing his ribs, the still-healing scrapes and cuts littering his arms and torso, each one a whisper of a battle he’d barely survived.

It was all of him.

The sculpted lines of his abdomen, the way water cascaded over his taut skin, tracing over each dip and ridge like it worshipped him. The sharp cut of his hips, leading down, down—

Oh. Oh.

Heat licked up your throat so fast you almost choked on it.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

Blue eyes locked onto yours—heavy-lidded, exhausted, but aware. A single droplet of water trailed from his collarbone, slipping down his chest, following the defined ridges of his stomach before disappearing.

Your brain bluescreened.

You forgot how to function. Forgot how to breathe. Forgot everything but the way he stood there, utterly unbothered by his own nakedness, watching you with quiet, unspoken curiosity.

The last thread of your sanity snapped somewhere between the sculpt of his abs and the way his very beautiful, very distracting cock hung between his thighs.

“Doll?” His voice was rough, hoarse from exhaustion, raw with something else, something you couldn't name.

The way it sank into you—deep, warm, consuming—nearly made your knees buckle.

Your throat worked, but words failed. You tried again, this time barely managing to rasp out, “You called?”

A small furrow appeared between his brows. “I didn’t…” he murmured, voice gravelly, confused.

You were so, so done.

You should turn around. Give him privacy. Make some joke, brush it off, leave before this moment became irreversible.

But Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t look away. Didn’t demand you leave.

He just stood there, watching. Waiting.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was softer now, laced with something dangerous. “Is there something you need?”

There was no anger in his expression. No embarrassment, no shock—just quiet patience. Just exhaustion. Just that quiet, quiet thing that had always existed between you, humming beneath the surface, never spoken aloud.

The air between you crackled, electric, charged. The space between the door and the shower stretched impossibly vast. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out logic, reason, the part of you that still had a chance to walk away.

Instead, you took a step forward.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t tense.

He just watched as you took another slow, deliberate step into the bathroom, your fingers trembling as they reached behind you—

And closed the door.

The quiet click sealed something between you, a silent understanding woven into the steam curling around you both.

You were going to do this.

Your fingers twitched at the hem of your shirt. Slowly, you lifted it.

His gaze dropped.

Tracked the movement, eyes dark and unblinking. Watched as your hands trembled, hesitating for only a fraction of a second—before you dragged the fabric over your head and let it fall to the floor.

The air thickened, heavy, pulsing.

Bucky’s breathing changed, a sharp inhale barely audible over the patter of water. His pupils widened, lips parting slightly. You felt the weight of his stare, dragging over every inch of newly exposed skin as you unbuttoned your pants, sliding them down your legs.

Piece by piece, layer by layer, you joined him until you were bare.

There was no way you were leaving now.

You had crossed a line—an invisible but irreversible threshold, shifting whatever had existed between you and Bucky forever.

You weren’t leaving.

Couldn’t leave.

Not tonight. Not when he was hurting. Not when this had been building for far too long. Not ever.

And as you stepped into the warmth of the water—into him—Bucky exhaled.

The heat of the water curled around your feet, sinking into your skin as you stepped closer. Closer to him. The steam wrapped around you both, thick and humid, clinging to your skin like a second layer. You were painfully aware of how bare you both were, how little there was between you—just air, charged and heavy, laced with hesitation and the weight of unspoken words.

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His vibranium hand twitched at his side, the black and gold glistening under the water, fingers flexing as if torn between restraint and impulse. His other arm—still sore from the break but free—hung at his side. He shifted slightly, muscles rippling, making room for you as you moved beneath the steady stream of water.

The moment your bodies brushed, heat flared—electric, searing. His hip grazed yours, slick with water, and you fought the urge to lean into him, to close the meager space that remained. Instead, you tipped your head back, letting the water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the day—the grime, the blood, the sweat, the panic.

When your eyes reopened, blue locked onto you. But not the sharp, perceptive blue you were used to—this was deeper, darker, laced with something raw and consuming. Something that mirrored everything you had fought to keep buried.

"Is this as nerve-wracking for you as it is for me?"

Your voice barely carried over the steady rush of water, but the confession was out before you could second-guess it—honesty slipping through the cracks of your restraint, as it always did when you were pushed past your comfort zone.

A flicker of hesitation ghosted across his face, fleeting but there. You caught it. Felt it.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough, edged with something raw. "You don’t have to—"

"I know."

You stepped forward, letting the water cascade off your shoulders, droplets ricocheting against his chest and streaming down the ridges of his abdomen. Heat radiated from his skin, from the space between you, from the sheer gravity of this moment.

"I want to," you admitted, breath hitching. "I’m just… a little nervous. There’s a lot of you."

A slow, uneven breath left him. His vibranium fingers flexed, tension coiling in his posture, but his gaze dropped, something unreadable flickering behind his storm-colored eyes.

"Not really," he murmured. He lifted his left hand slightly, the metal catching the dim light, gleaming through the mist. A humorless smile ghosted over his lips. "This is all I got right now. Kind of half a man at the moment."

A pang shot through you at the quiet self-deprecation laced in his words. Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, fingertips brushing the smooth, unyielding metal. Another step closed the distance, your chest grazing his, the barest contact sparking something molten, something inevitable.

Your voice was steady when you spoke. "You could never be half of anything."

Bucky inhaled sharply, your words sinking into the spaces he kept guarded. Still, he didn't move. He just stood there, letting you guide his hand to your waist, letting himself feel.

A moment passed. Stretched. Deepened.

Then, rough and uncertain, he confessed, "I’m not sure… how to do this."

The words slipped out before you could stop them. "Do what? Me?"

The tension in his face broke, just for a second—surprise flickering, then amusement. A real, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest, the sound so foreign in the moment that it stole your breath. It was almost impossible to believe this was the same man who had been bleeding beneath your shaking hands only hours ago.

"I don’t think that’s in the cards for us tonight, sweetheart," he said, voice edged with both apology and something else—something almost reverent.

You tilted your head, lips curving. "Thought you'd be more confident than this." Leaning in, you pressed a kiss where metal met flesh, felt the way his breath hitched. You smiled against his skin. "Big, strong super soldier, shying away from a little skin?"

His exhale was sharp, almost a scoff, but it didn’t quite mask the way his grip on your waist tightened—just barely, just enough to betray him, just enough to make your pulse trip.

"Not shying away," he murmured, voice thick against your ear. "Just… don’t wanna mess this up."

You tilted your chin, brushing your lips against the space just below his collarbone, feeling the way his muscles tensed. "And what exactly would ‘messing this up’ look like?"

His jaw clenched, tension rippling through him. "Rushing. Disappointing you… taking more than I should."

His hand flexed at your waist, like he was testing the edges of restraint, feeling out what was safe, what was allowed.

A slow exhale left you as your fingers trailed higher, mapping out the scars, the history written into his skin. "Bucky," you whispered, the warmth of his name wrapping around him. "I never thought… never thought you’d want me like this. I want you to take whatever you want."

His forehead dropped to yours, and for a moment, there was only the steady rush of water, the ragged edge of his breathing. Then, slowly, he pulled back, eyes searching yours, something fragile, unguarded, unraveling in their depths.

A quiet, breathy laugh left him—something between disbelief and surrender. His lips hovered near yours, close enough that his breath warmed your skin.

"Want isn’t quite how I’d put it."

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t joking. The depth of his words settled over you, heavy and thrilling and terrifying all at once.

"Then how would you put it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper, fingers threading into his damp hair.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressing into yours. "I think you already know."

And then his lips brushed yours, tentative, testing. Your body answered before your mind could catch up—arms winding around his neck, pressing closer, heat pooling low in your stomach. The kiss deepened, unhurried, a slow unraveling, a discovery.

Bucky's hand splayed against your spine, mapping the dip of your back, fingers tracing down to your hip, exploring, learning. Every glide of his tongue ignited something deep, every touch sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

You let your hands roam—over the hard planes of his chest, the dips and ridges of his stomach, the firm grasp of his waist. Each touch was a silent question. Every shift of his body, an answer.

"You’re shaking," he murmured against your lips, voice thick. "Still nervous?"

"A little," you admitted, breathless, cheeks flushed with heat. "I want… I want this so much."

His mouth curled, the faintest smile, almost apologetic. "I’m sorry I can’t give it to you."

"It’s alright, I—"

You surged up on your toes, kissed him harder, pouring every ounce of want into the press of your lips. A small, needy sound escaped you as his hand tightened at your waist. When you pulled away, your teeth grazed his bottom lip, and he exhaled sharply, his body rutting forward—instinctive, aching, desperate.

Your bare stomach brushed against him, and your breath hitched. "God, okay—can I touch you?" Your fingers curled at his waist, pressing, feeling the tremor in his muscles. "I want to make you feel good."

Bucky's breath stuttered, his hand tightening just enough to send a shiver racing through you. His forehead pressed to yours, a war waging behind his eyes.

Then, voice low and wrecked, he whispered, "Sweetheart… you already do."

Your fingers traced lower, over the taut muscles of his abdomen, feeling the way he tensed beneath your touch, like he was trying to hold himself together. His breath was ragged, unsteady, and when you let your nails graze lightly over his skin, a low, shuddering sound rumbled in his chest.

"Bucky," your voice was a whisper, sweet and coaxing, threading through the steam like a promise. "Will you let me touch you?"

His jaw tensed, head dipping forward as though the weight of restraint was too much to bear. "You don’t—"

"Please." Your fingers trailed lower, teasing, testing, watching the way his muscles twitched beneath your touch. "I want this. I want you."

A sharp inhale, his control fraying at the edges. Then—he gave in.

Not all at once. He unraveled in pieces, like a taut thread snapping one fiber at a time. His body melted under your hands, surrendering inch by inch. His vibranium fingers flexed at your waist before falling away entirely, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch, to take. But you saw it—the way his pupils blew wide, the way his lips parted around a strangled breath as your fingers wrapped around his length.

"Jesus," he rasped, head knocking back against the tile.

You bit your lip at the sight of him—chest heaving, muscles taut, his restraint hanging by a thread. Slowly, deliberately, you tightened your grip, savoring the way a groan tore from his throat, raw and unguarded. You stroked, slow and deliberate, thumb teasing the slick head of him before your fingers curled, picking up the pace.

"Is this okay?" Your voice was breathless, uncertain for the first time.

His answer was immediate—a sharp nod, his hand covering yours for the briefest second, grounding himself before letting go again. "Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah, just—"

A strangled noise broke from him when you abandoned his length in favor of the heavy weight of his balls, rolling them in your palm, feeling the heat, the way his hips twitched into your touch like he couldn’t help it.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to drop to your knees and taste him, make him fall apart in a way that would leave him wrecked for anything else. You wanted him to snap, to pin you against the wall and take you, bury himself so deep you forgot your own name.

You wanted, wanted, wanted.

It was all you could think about.

"Fuck," he choked out, vibranium fingers digging into the slick tile, his flesh hand flexing like he wanted to grab you but didn't trust himself to. "You're—"

"Good?" you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw, smiling against his skin when he trembled.

"Perfect," he groaned, voice wrecked.

Encouraged, you found your rhythm again—slow, deliberate, teasing your thumb over his sensitive head, drinking in the way his chest heaved. Your other hand cupped his balls, rolling them in tandem with each measured stroke, and his head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut. Water streamed down his skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat rolling off him, the way his body shook beneath your touch.

"You always this quiet?" you murmured, pressing your lips to the hollow of his throat.

A breathless laugh, broken at the edges. "Tryin’ not to lose my mind here, sweetheart."

"Maybe I want you to," you whispered, tightening your grip and twisting just enough to make him curse under his breath.

His hips bucked into your hand, desperation bleeding into every ragged exhale, every twitch of his muscles. He was unraveling, piece by piece, falling apart in your hands, and God, it was intoxicating.

"I think I could come just from watching you," the confession tumbled from your lips, unfiltered, the pulsing ache between your thighs intensifying. "You’re beautiful."

A guttural noise, raw and wrecked. "Fuck, you’re killing me." His forehead pressed against yours, the last fraying strands of control slipping from his grasp. "I—shit, I’m not gonna last."

Pleasure curled hot in your belly. He was holding on by a thread, and you wanted to be the one to pull him under.

"Don’t," you urged, pressing closer, stroking him faster, feeling the way his muscles locked beneath your touch. "Don’t hold back, Bucky. Let me see you."

His breath hitched. His jaw locked. And then—

He let go.

A shuddering moan, unrestrained and devastatingly raw, tore from his lips as he spilled into your hand. His body jerked, muscles seizing, fingers digging into the tile like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You felt the tremor in his limbs, the sharp, broken breaths leaving him, his forehead still pressed against yours like he needed the anchor.

You stayed close, pressing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, his cheek, his temple, until the tension bled from his body, until his breathing evened out.

A low, breathless laugh rumbled through him, rough around the edges. "Jesus. You’re dangerous."

You grinned against his skin, feeling the way his chest still rose and fell unevenly beneath you, the tremor of aftershocks still running through his muscles. His vibranium arm curled around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against the heat of his still-thrumming body.

"Not dangerous," you murmured, brushing your lips against the sharp line of his jaw, lingering at the corner of his mouth. "Just very, very into you. And willing to wait."

Bucky exhaled, still catching his breath, still holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. But this time, it wasn’t because of his injuries. It was because you had unraveled him, completely and utterly, in a way no one else ever had.

His fingers flexed at your hip, gripping you like he was still making sense of the way you fit against him. "Sweetheart," he muttered, voice low and rough, "whatever patience you got? You might need it for me."

You smiled, threading your fingers through his damp hair, pressing your lips to his in something soft, something promising.

"Can’t wait."

His arm curled more firmly around you, holding you against his chest, warm and steady. Your hand traced down his bruised arm, gentle over the battered skin. He tensed slightly beneath your touch, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let you hold him, let you feel the weight of him—whole, breathing, here.

You nuzzled against his chest, pressing a lingering kiss over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your lips. "You scared me today," you admitted, barely above a whisper. You tightened your grip around him, clinging to the solid warmth of his body, trying to ignore the heat of desire curling low in your stomach, giving way to something even stronger. Something scarier. "Don’t ever do that again. I mean it, Buck, I—"

"I know." His voice was softer now, his lips pressing into your hair. "I could see it. In your eyes, you were—"

"Yeah." You swallowed hard. "I was."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything you weren’t saying. The air still hummed with the remnants of adrenaline, of tension, of the quiet fear that had lodged itself in your ribs the moment you saw him bleeding, barely standing, on the edge of collapse.

Bucky shifted, just slightly, his vibranium hand pressing against the small of your back, keeping you close. Then, quietly, deliberately, he murmured, "I need you to know something, doll."

The seriousness in his voice sent your heart skipping. You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. "What is it?"

For a moment, he hesitated—like he was choosing his words carefully, like he was about to step over some invisible line he could never uncross. His thumb brushed over your jaw, a touch so tender it made your breath catch.

"This isn’t just tonight," he said, voice steady despite the rawness in it. "It’s not just the adrenaline or the heat of the moment. It’s not even just because you saved my ass back there." He exhaled, his forehead briefly pressing against yours before pulling back, searching your eyes. "It’s you. It’s been you for a while now."

Your breath hitched.

Bucky’s hand trailed up, fingers ghosting over your cheek, tracing the curve of your face like he was committing every inch of you to memory. "I don’t always know how to say the right thing," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Or how to be good at this. But I know that I want you. Not just here. Not just now. I want all of it. All of you. If you’ll have me."

A sharp, aching warmth bloomed in your chest. He was laying himself bare, in a way you knew wasn’t easy for him. No bravado, no deflection—just truth.

A slow, shaky smile tugged at your lips as you lifted a hand to his face, your thumb skimming along his stubbled jaw.

"Bucky Barnes, you are the most ridiculous man I have ever met."

His brows furrowed, lips parting—until you leaned in and kissed him. Slow, deep, like he was something precious. Something worth holding onto.

When you pulled away, you pressed your forehead to his, your fingers still tangled in his damp hair.

"I’m not going anywhere," you murmured, voice thick with emotion. "Not tonight. Not ever."

A breath shuddered out of him, and then his arms were wrapping around you—tightly, fiercely, like he could somehow pull you into him completely.

"Good," he whispered against your skin. "Because I think I’d go crazy if you did."

You smiled against his collarbone, letting yourself melt into him, into the warmth of his body, into the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bucky was safe. He was healing.

And now, finally—he was yours.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader smut #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

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cosmosluckycharms · 1 month ago

Text

Showtime☆

Dont get the deal

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

It had been a week since you got shot.

Your family barely even acknowledged that you were hurt.

So far you had been forced into three family activities, all of which you didn't enjoy.

It's not that you didn't like being around them! It's just that there are only so many times you can watch Damian take care of his animals without letting you help, or try and play games with Tim that didn't really interest you, or have an awkward conversation with your father that didn't know anything about you.

You couldn't even sneak off with your friends due to how someone was attached to your hip 24/7.

It was like they were taking shifts just to be around you.

Past you would be flattered, but you miss your friends.

You miss performing.

You miss acting.

You miss waking up by yourself, in peace.

You were tired of everyone trying to pretend they knew you.

You started to take notice of something.

After it got dark outside, your family would disappear after dark.

They'd all sneak off. To where? You had no clue. But you weren't going to ask; this was your chance to finally be around friends.

You snuck out of your room and went into Tim's room, looking around for an old blueprint of the manor.

After around 5 minutes of quickly scrambling, you found it.

You grabbed it and made your way back to your room and pulled out your whiteboard and a marker in your favorite color and started your plan.

After you were sure they all left, you were going to make your way out the window between Damian and Tim's room. They are closest to the back gate, which had the least amount of security cameras.

Afterward, you were going to sneak out to Nene's house.

It was almost the perfect plan.

Only flaw?

Despite you finding the way with the least cameras, there was still quite a bit of security.

You weren't going to give up, though.

Your hands trembled as you picked up your phone off your clean, new sheets Dick had bought for you a week ago.

Sneaking out wasn't like you.

You're a good kid.

You get good grades.

You don't cause trouble.

Sure, you're loud. A year ago, you had overheard Tim and Damian complaining about your voice being like nails on a chalkboard.

No one defended you.

But other than your voice, you're a good kid.

You try and help whenever you can around the manor even if no one lets you. You sign up for school events to get away from the manor and get out of trouble.

Compared to other people your age, you're not bad.

You hesitated, rethinking sneaking out. Sure, you missed your friends.

You haven't had freedom in a while too.

But on the other hand, your family was finally caring about you.

Finally seeing you. finally not ignoring you in favor of each other.

You could join in on conversations without freezing up looking at Dick's smile that always scared you.

You could finally sit in silence with Tim without getting yelled at.

You could talk to Bruce without him looking so scared to talk to you, as if you were fragile, as if at any moment you could break.

You could finally train with Dick without being interrupted by Damian.

You could ask Jason 'dumb questions' without being shooed off.

Right as you were about to give up on sneaking out, you had a moment of clarity.

You weren't actually being included.

Dick's smile still felt scary. You knew it wasn't as fake as how it used to be, with it never reaching his eyes, but now it felt like he was trying too hard.

Although Jason acknowledged you, he never started conversations.

Damian still didn't trust you around his animals.

Tim would go out of his way to babyproof his room and push you away from anything important, basically keeping you in a little corner of his room.

Bruce looked guilty. You assumed it was because of how he wasn't there for you when you got shot.

You didn't know how to feel about Alfred. You weren't ready to have another grandpa while still missing yours.

You grabbed your phone, which was on your bed, and pulled up UNTITLED.

Before you knew it, Miku popped up.

"Y/N! I haven't seen you in so long!"

"Hey, Miku, I need a favor."

"Hm?"

"Do you think you can hack into the cameras and turn them off for a moment? please?"

"Well..."

"Please. I can't stand to be here any longer."

"Okay!" Before you knew it, Miku disappeared from your phone.

You couldn't tell if the cameras were off, so you would just have to hope that Miku turned them off.

You quickly but quietly rushed to your closet to find something to wear.

You were currently wearing your pajamas, but you needed something darker to wear out.

You grabbed a black hoodie and gray sweatpants; you usually wouldn't wear something like this, but you didn't want to stand out at night.

Once you put it on, you grabbed your sleeping bag, prepared, and made your way to the window.

You also grabbed a beanbag and stuffed it into your bag; it couldn't fit fully, but it was fine.

It took a second to get to it due to your room being slightly farther than Tim and Damian's room.

You threw the beanbag out the window.

You almost hesitated jumping out but did it anyway.

You landed on top of the beanbag, heart beating out of your chest.

Your legs hurt due to landing on them weirdly, but you decided that's a problem for future you.

You put the hood of your sweater on and jumped the gate and got electrocuted a bit due to the electric wiring.

By the time you were fully off the property, you had scrapes all over you, your legs felt like jelly, your hair was extremely frizzy, and you looked like hell.

As you started making your way towards Nene's house, you couldn't help but feel like you were being watched.

You also noticed how, despite Gotham usually having people around, the streets were unusually empty.

You wanted to put that feeling aside, but deep down you felt...wrong.

You started hearing footsteps behind you.

Something in your head was screaming, "Turn around."

You started running, only for what seemed to be a shadow to pop up in front of you.

You fumbled back a bit and shut your eyes which was quite childish, you admit and gripped your phone harder than you ever had in your life.

You would have fallen backwards if it weren't for someone helping you up.

You turned your head sharply to see it was Nightwing.

"Hello!"

You jolted, startled from being surrounded by two of Gotham's vigilantes.

"Hi!" you spoke. Your hood fell, revealing your face.

You noticed how Nightwing's eyes widened a bit and his face fell agape slightly. Batman's face tightened slightly.

"It's late, isn't it past your bedtime?" Nightwing quipped.

You stayed silent, putting your hood back up.

"Your silence is telling" Batman spoke.

Nightwing held your wrist. "C'mon, let's get you home."

You resisted, "No! Let me go!"

"Why don't you want to go home?" Nightwing asked, letting go.

"I miss being out." you looked down at your feet.

He put his hands on his hips, a puzzled expression taking over his face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"..."

"Nightwing, I'll take it from here." Batman spoke, picking you up and putting you on top of his shoulders, which reminded you of how your grandfather used to do the same.

"Are you sure?" Nightwing asked, Batman nodded, and Nightwing left.

☆

After heading onto a rooftop and Batman giving you some ice cream, you swung your legs on the ledge.

Despite your slightly cheerful appearance, you were nervous.

Sure, Batman and his partners literally saved you and your friends, but he still looked scary.

Batman cleared his throat before speaking. "So, why don't you want to go home?"

"I've been home all week. It's the longest I haven't gone out in literal years. I miss my friends." You gripped onto the sleeping bag.

"I see, but you do realize you are still recovering, correct?" He pointed at where you were shot, raising a brow.

"No, it's not that; it's just..." You took a deep breath before continuing, "It feels like they're babying me."

"Perhaps they're just ensuring you're okay; have you thought of that?" Batman reasoned.

"Maybe, but I'm not used to it. They've never cared. At least it didn't feel like it.

He hummed, signaling for you to continue.

"They're treating me like a child when I no longer am one. I'm stronger than they think I am."

"Like they're trying too hard?"

"Yes, exactly!" you exclaimed. "It's like they don't know what to do with me now that I've gotten hurt."

"Explain."

"The whole time I've been with them, they'd never notice me. I'd be hoping all day and night they'd see me. It took me being shot at to be noticed."

"Could it be they're trying their best?"

"My whole life I've been used to dealing with my feelings alone. Back at home, everyone was busy with their own lives and each other. I think it's just a harsh change."

"I see." You kept on eating your ice cream, noticing how much more sleepy you were getting.

"What was your plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's clear you snuck out; you have an overnight bag."

"Oh, right! I was going to sleep over at my friend's house."

"Which one?"

"My friend Nene, the one with green hair."

"You should probably let her know you can't make it." You sat right up. "What?!" That's not fair! I just told you I'm tired of being home!"

"It's three in the morning. It's dangerous."

You sunk back down. "I guess you're right."

"What was your plan after you went to your friends?"

"I honestly hadn't asked her yet. I was hoping she was pulling another all-nighter and would let me stay over."

"And after that?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'd go back to the house or stay at a friend's house forever? I'm not sure."

He could tell you were slowly falling asleep. "I think it's time I take you home."

"Alright." He picked you up for the third time ever and started swinging away using his grappling hook.

While you were up high, you took one hand off Batman and put it up into the air. You squealed in excitement as Batman swung faster.

His smile grew more and more as he heard, you have fun.

He hasn't heard you like this for years. By the time you got to the manor, your hair was crazy and you were a giggly mess.

You had to playfully argue with Batman to let you stay up, but in the end he failed.

he had to drag you to bed like a toddler and tuck you in. "Good night, kid."

"Goodnight, Mr. Bat!"

He chuckled as he turned off the light.

While he was almost out the door, you said one more thing. "Y'know Mr.bat? I kind of wish you were my dad." and fell asleep.

He didn't say anything. He just guiltily made his way out.

☆

You woke up late the next morning; thankfully, it was still the weekend.

You stumbled out of bed and took a shower to wash off all of last night's events.

As you jumped into the shower, you noticed all the scrapes and bruises you forgot about.

They weren't serious-looking, thankfully, so your family probably wouldn't find out about last night's activities.

You hoped Batman didn't tell your father about what happened, and the same with Nightwing.

You felt your stomach rumble as you made your way towards the kitchen. You could hear Tim speaking.

"I don't understand it; I can't get any camera footage from last night!"

Oops.

You could practically hear him pulling on his hair from stress.

You snuck into the kitchen to grab your now cold breakfast, and just as you thought you got away, Bruce spoke up, making you shiver.

"Y/N, how'd you sleep?"

You turned towards him slowly. "Good!"

You aren't a good liar.

You scrambled away and decided to eat in your room.

you noticed how the window you used last night (and foolishly forgot to close) was now boarded up.

Once you got to your room, you closed the door with your back to it.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and sat on your bed to eat.

You didn't notice you forgot to lock it until you heard it turning. You froze up, fearing it was Bruce.

That was until you saw a pair of green eyes meet yours.

Damian.

You continued eating his breakfast, trying to ignore his glare.

He cleared his throat.

"L/N."

You looked up and saw him with his arms crossed.

"Do you have any clue why the cameras weren't on last night?"

"No clue, sorry. I was asleep."

"You were the only one here last night."

You shrugged your shoulders and offered him a piece of fruit on your plate.

He scoffed and stormed off.

You continued eating your fruit, somehow not noticing Bruce inside your room.

He let out a cough, which startled you.

"I know you weren't here last night, Y/N."

Play dumb!

"...who's Y/N?"

not that dumb!

You mentally facepalmed at what you said.

You noticed how the corner of his mouth twitched, suppressing a smile.

You spoke up from the tension in the room, "I'm sorry for sneaking out. It won't happen again."

He sat down next to where you were sitting and spoke, "Next time you want to go out, just let me know; I'll drop you off. It was reckless of you to go out by yourself. You can tell me anything, anytime."

He got up and froze in place before asking,

"Were you the one who turned off the cameras?"

You shook your head no, and he walked out.

☆☆☆☆☆

im sorry this was so buttcheeks i. m so sleepy

also tumblr is tweaking no clue why 👎

anyways tags

taglist: @shirp-collector-of-fixations @maybeethan69 @iluvcatzz @tacendxx @ninihrtss @tsxukikami @d3sperate-enuf @staarflowerr @chaoticmoontimetravel @crazycaoticsimp @sugarrush-blush @kaitense1 @ryuushou @weebbuscuit @eyeless-kun @twismare @mirou-x3 @vanessa-boo @vanilliona @awawage @kittzu @lunamonkeypower @jellystar-star @unearthlykara @snappingturt3ls @blue-slushi @reeyy0-2 @2juggie4life @lebsisdead @justafank @lateenightstories

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noirscript · 23 days ago

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His Silent Vows

pt. 2

Pairing: Yandere Husband x Reader

Notes: Apologies for not tagging both fics featuring Coen. Will refrain from posting anything mid-day so I can tag them properly moving forward. 😔 I'll schedule them 8 PM (GMT+8). :) Thank you!

The days blur, not because they’re fast, but because they repeat with near-mechanical precision.

Coen wakes early, showers in silence, then returns with your coffee already prepared the way you like it—two sugars, no cream, in the porcelain mug from your old kitchen, as if dragging familiar pieces of your old life into this twisted domestic revival.

He kisses your forehead every morning like he didn’t hold you down against the mattress the night before, whispering promises into your skin while taking you like a man possessed. He sets out fresh clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Never tight. Never restrictive. Flowing, soft, breathable.

Because he doesn’t need chains to keep you here.

He needs you to look comfortable.

“Eat, love,” he murmurs behind you as you stare at the breakfast he prepared—eggs, fruit, toast, perfectly plated. “You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot.”

You’ve been through a lot.

As if he wasn’t the one who orchestrated the fall of your freedom.

As if he wasn’t the reason your body still aches in places love was never meant to bruise.

Still, you eat.

Because he watches.

Always.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The windows don’t open. The door locks from the outside. He says it’s for security. That he “can’t risk losing you again.” The walls don’t have cameras, but you’ve stopped trusting what’s visible. His staff—those loyal men in quiet black—don’t speak to you, but they always seem to know where you are.

Once, you tried the side entrance during his call.

It was locked.

The next morning, a subtle change—your shoes were moved. He never mentioned it. Just kissed your hand at breakfast and said, “You're such a good girl for staying close.”

You never said a word.

But that night, he made love to you slower. Almost reverently. As if rewarding loyalty you never offered.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The house has a library. Coen insists you read. He brings you books you used to love—titles from your shared shelf back in the city. You thumb through the pages, half reading, half calculating.

Maps. Floorplans. Patterns.

There are no clocks. You guess the time by the light—gray mornings, golden afternoons, the sharp navy of night pressing against windowpanes you can’t open. You’ve counted five security rotations so far. Three men. Two women. They trade shifts at dusk and dawn.

Coen thinks you’re adjusting. That you’ve surrendered.

You let him think that.

Because you’ve learned that quiet is armor. That the more you comply, the more freedom he gives in return. Controlled freedom. But freedom nonetheless.

Like how he lets you roam the halls now. One level. Two wings. No access to the cellar. Never to the garage.

But you saw it once.

From the reflection in the mirror, when he left the door cracked just a little too long. A glimpse of a car, black and clean. Keys hanging from a board.

It burned itself into your memory.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

He brings you flowers on the fourth day. Not store-bought. Picked. Arranged.

He holds them out like a peace offering from a war you weren’t allowed to win.

“You’ve been so good to me,” he says, eyes soft like they used to be, the illusion stretching like paper over a blade. “I knew you just needed a little…reminding.”

Your hands tremble as you take the bouquet.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does—and just likes the way it looks on you.

“I’ve missed this version of us,” he continues, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “You’re soft again. Sweet. It suits you.”

You press your lips together, forcing a smile.

Because sweet wives don’t plot escapes.

Sweet wives don’t memorize security lapses.

Sweet wives don’t watch the keys when his hand grazes the kitchen counter.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

But you do.

Because somewhere under the bruises, under the silk and false comfort, you remember that love never felt like this.

You may wear the role well.

But you're not broken.

Not yet.

And somewhere in this fortress, this gilded prison wrapped in roses and delusion, there’s a door.

All you have to do…

…is time it right.

#yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere male #yandere imagines #male yandere #yandere x y/n #yandere male x reader #yandere fic #yandere husband x female reader #yandere husband x f!reader #yandere husband x you #yandere husband x reader #yandere husband

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lantot · 2 months ago

Text

#how to clean security camera lens #best way to clean security cameras #cleaning outdoor security cameras #security camera maintenance tips #cleaning CCTV camera lens

0 notes

violetrainbow412-blog · 14 days ago

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Worn Soft [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

wc: 2.3k

summary: Bob invites you to a charity event, but between cameras, persistent admirers, and the sweltering heat, he ends up seeking refuge in the only thing that keeps him calm: your presence.

masterlist

You didn’t have an official role or appear on the Navy’s payroll, but somehow Bob had managed to sneak you in as his assistant for the charity event the Daggers had been invited to. All it took was an access wristband, a name badge, and his "it's just protocol" expression for no one to ask too many questions. You didn’t mind. You were used to accompanying him to all kinds of odd situations—trainings, simulations, awkward dinners—but this was different. More public. More exposed.

The event was being held in San Diego, at a massive racetrack—one of those circuits where F1 engines usually roared and the stands overflowed with cheering crowds. At that time, however, it was all decorated with flags, military-branded banners, and sponsor tents. The goal was to raise funds for a foundation that supported families of fallen naval personnel. The Daggers were invited as the main attraction: young, successful, presentable—the Navy’s friendly face. And Bob, as always, tried to mask his discomfort in front of the cameras… though he couldn’t help scanning the crowd for you every time someone asked for a photo.

Some security guards were watching over the servicemen, and you walked closer to them than to your friend. You didn’t want to get in the way or seem out of place—you were just keeping an eye on anything he might need: sometimes his water bottle, some markers for autographs, something to hold. Even a sweet smile to reassure him that everything was going fine.

Bob walked a few steps ahead, smiling at the crowd. Now and then someone would stop him for a photo or a handshake. Small children got the softest reactions from him, especially the ones holding thank-you signs. With each interaction, he responded with genuine kindness, as always, though by now you could tell when he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

“Floyd!” a woman’s voice shouted from the stands. “I do want to have a baby with you!”

Some people laughed. Others clapped like it was a joke. Bob lowered his head slightly, held back a nervous laugh, and didn’t respond. You just rolled your eyes and kept walking.

A few steps later, another woman handed him a cap to sign. He did, like he did for all of them, but this one lingered longer than necessary. She touched his arm, winked at him. She said something you couldn’t quite hear, but it changed his expression for a split second. He didn’t stop. He kept walking like nothing had happened.

Some others asked him to autograph notebooks that just happened to have their phone numbers in them. Others were more shameless and straight-up asked him to sign their bras.

The rest of the pilots could probably handle situations like that with ease—in fact, you didn’t doubt they were getting hit on twice as much as your friend—but you could tell how overwhelmed it was making Bob. Every time a girl made him an indecent proposal, he’d turn to look at you, like making sure you were still there in case the women went feral and the crowd swallowed him whole.

To be fair, you couldn’t really blame them. Bob was wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a matching jacket, with his callsign stitched on the right side and some orange details. That day, he’d chosen to wear his contact lenses, which made it far too easy to get lost in the blue of his eyes.

He was also wearing his cap. Not just any cap—you’d given it to him a few months back. It was during one of those long afternoons when the weather had grounded flights, and Bob had been stuck in simulators for days. He’d sent you a short text asking if you wanted to go out somewhere, and you’d said yes.

You ended up going out to buy car cleaning supplies—something he’d been putting off for weeks—and stopped by a random auto parts store. While he examined oils with excessive concentration, you got distracted by a display of T-shirts, keychains, and hats. You spotted it immediately: plain, practical, without flashy logos. It was black, with the word MACK on the front and a stitched bulldog above it. You instantly pictured him wearing it.

“I’m buying this for you.”

“Why?” he asked without looking up.

“Because you’re always wearing that hideous gray one.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“And it still can be, but this one has... presence, you know? You can wear it on special occasions. It'll make you look handsome.”

He didn’t argue. You paid for it while he was still browsing for the right cleaner and handed it to him when he dropped you off at home, like it was a throwaway souvenir. Bob wore it the next day. And the day after that, too.

So seeing it on his head that day made you feel happy. In a way, it felt like he was saying something about your bond, even if no one else could really tell.

At some point during the walk, he glanced back at you with a quiet, resigned expression, like he’d been running a marathon for hours.

“This feels like a street market,” he muttered, adjusting the cap. “If one more person asks me to sign a boob, I’m hiding in the pits.”

“If it helps, I think Brad’s already signed three,” you replied, keeping your eyes ahead.

Bob let out a low laugh.

“I should wear a sign that says: I sign hats, not body parts.”

“Or you could just say you’re taken. Sounds more mysterious.”

He glanced sideways at you.

“It wouldn’t be a lie.”

You didn’t say anything. Not because you didn’t know what to say, but because of the way he said it—lighthearted, even a little flirty. The kind of tone that would’ve felt like a joke from anyone else, but from Bob… it was unusual. Unusual, and honest.

You both walked a few more steps, moving slightly away from the main group, until the noise settled a little. In the distance, the loudspeakers still echoed through the circuit and the crowd’s murmur lingered, but right there, the air felt easier to breathe. You looked at him from the side, closely.

“You okay?” you asked, lowering your voice. “Do you need anything?”

Bob shook his head at first, out of habit. But then he looked at you again, more slowly. With that expression he wore when he allowed himself to be honest. You handed him his water bottle before he even had to ask. He took a sip, slow, like he needed that moment.

You reached into your bag again and pulled out a small packet of wet wipes. It hadn’t been planned specifically for him, but you’d packed them just in case.

“Here,” you said, handing them over. “They’re menthol. Should help with the heat a bit.”

Bob raised an eyebrow slightly, intrigued. He carefully tore open the packet and wiped the back of his neck, then his arms. He let out a sharp breath, as if the coolness had jolted him back awake.

“You’re an angel,” he sighed, taking one of your hands like he actually meant it. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just what he said, but how. Tired, but grateful. Exposed, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“We can stop if you want,” you added, stepping a little closer and gently wiping his cheek with another towelette. “No one’s going to say anything if you need five minutes.”

Bob hesitated for a second. Then he smiled again, like just the offer alone had been enough.

“No. There’s not much left—we’ll rest soon. Just... stay close, okay?”

He gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. His head rested lightly against yours, like he was going to kiss your forehead but didn’t quite follow through. A soft, contained gesture, without crossing any lines.

“When this is over, let’s go get something to eat. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” you replied with a wide smile.

He gave your shoulder a little squeeze, then pulled away and continued walking the stretch still ahead. After the circuit walk, the pilots spoke briefly to the press, thanked the foundation for their support, and also thanked the crowd for making the event possible.

Two hours later, you were finally free from the commitment. The heat had eased, the sun had started to set, and he drove you to a nearby diner. The exterior was metallic, with red neon letters blinking above a wide window. You both sat at a booth against the wall, right under a lazily spinning fan, on burgundy vinyl seats.

Bob ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a vanilla milkshake, almost like a hungry teenager. You ordered waffles with fruit and an iced coffee. You both laughed when the food arrived and he said it looked like breakfast and dinner at the same time, though he didn’t complain.

“God, I feel like my head’s going to explode. Too much noise, lights, the heat…”

“But think of all the support those families will get,” you said with a smile. “It’s a good cause, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I think it’s all worth it when you see it that way.”

He took a sip of his milkshake, leaned his elbows on the table, and looked at you with a mix of exhaustion and relief.

“Although I have to admit, the women threw me off a bit.”

“A bit?” you laughed, raising your eyebrows. “One asked if you wanted to get her pregnant.”

“Well, yeah…” He ran a hand over his face, pretending to be resigned. “She was pretty straightforward. I didn’t know whether to laugh or run.”

“You didn’t run,” you said, taking a bite of your waffle. “You handled it well. And honestly, it’s no surprise you have that many admirers. Just look at you.”

Bob looked down slightly, as if the compliment didn’t quite sit right.

“Yeah, but... that’s exactly what makes me uncomfortable,” he said more quietly. “I don’t feel like they’re seeing me. Just... the idea. The uniform. The image. And I know it sounds dumb, but I don’t want that. I don’t want admiration—I want to be known.”

He paused. Then smiled, like trying to soften the weight of what he’d just said.

“I guess I don’t have the kind of personality that stands out. I’m not the funniest, or the most charming. So when someone comes on that strong, I think… it can’t be real. They’re only doing it because of what they think I am.”

He meant it, but without drama. Like someone who’s carried that feeling long enough to speak it without cracking.

“I don’t think it’s strange to want something real,” you finally said in a low voice. “Someone who sees you for who you are.”

Bob nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on his milkshake.

“But you won’t find out unless you give women a chance to be in your life.”

“I don’t want to date those crazies,” he said, making you laugh. “No offense, of course. But someone asking to have my baby doesn’t exactly scream let’s take it slow.”

“They’re smart. You’ve got good genes,” you shrugged. “I mean, look at your dad. He’s still handsome at his age and hasn’t gone bald.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say my dad is attractive.”

“I’m just stating facts! Anyone you ask would say the same.”

“Yeah, well not everyone has shared Christmas dinner with my family. Where, by the way, my dad was very much present.”

His offended tone made you chuckle quietly, but he wasn’t smiling. He was watching you with a calm, almost calculating expression. Until he said, calmly:

“I look a lot like him, you know? That’s what I’ll look like when I’m older.”

He said it slowly, like it wasn’t just an observation, but a trap. Like saying his dad was attractive meant you were admitting something more.

“Relax, Bobby,” you laughed. “I’m not going to sleep with your dad. I don’t like older men.”

Bob tilted his head, holding your gaze.

“Then that’s lucky,” he said softly, like it was just a casual comment.

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Idiot,” you muttered, amused.

Bob just smiled, lowering his gaze to his milkshake, like he was used to you not taking him seriously when he actually meant it.

There was a brief silence, but a comfortable one. Outside, the sun was setting, and warm light filtered through the diner window. In that moment, Bob looked up again, a little calmer, a little softer.

“Thanks for coming today,” he said. “Not just for the event, but... for everything. For being such a good friend.”

He said it without dramatics, with a quiet sincerity that softened your chest. Without thinking too much, you squeezed his hand on the table.

“There’s nothing to thank, Bob. We’ll always be friends. That doesn’t change.”

He smiled, and then, as you both looked at the empty plates, you asked with a grin:

“But you’re paying for the food, right?”

Bob raised an eyebrow, like the answer was so obvious it didn’t need to be said.

“Of course. I’m a gentleman, after all,” he said in a light, almost teasing tone.

There was a small pause, and then, in a slightly lower voice, he added:

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” you replied. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

He called the waiter, who arrived a few minutes later, and he asked for the check calmly, not letting go of your hand right away. You looked at him with a smile, feeling like that small gesture said more than words ever could.

“When you get back to the hotel, book a massage or something at the spa. It’s on me.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. You deserve it after everything today,” he said, giving your hand a brief squeeze.

You smiled, amused.

“Are you going to spoil me like this every time I go with you to an event?”

Your friend chuckled, raising an eyebrow at you.

“If you want me to, sure. Just make sure you bring those wipes for the heat.”

“Deal.”

Once he paid, you both stepped out of the diner into the fading afternoon light. Holding on to that warm, quiet feeling of a friendship that, without rush, had become something indispensable.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

#bob floyd #robert floyd #baby on board #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd imagine #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader #pilot boyfriend #bob floyd x you #top gun fluff #lewis pullman

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imagine-docx · 2 months ago

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sugar on the night shift.

Summary: You've been stress baking because you've been stressed over work. Because you have so many desserts, you started leaving treats for the night shift security guard.

Warnings: None.

A/N: it's been almost 4 years since i've last posted something, and i deeply apologize. and i also deeply apologize if my work is rusty, i actually haven't wrote ANYTHING (other than research papers) since my last post. please accept this as an apology. - amanda

Remember when you were a kid and you always wanted to hurry up and grow up? If you could go back in time, you would definitely have smacked yourself or at least told yourself to cherish your youth.

Now, here you were, back aching, cookies baking, and your nails tapping against your computer keyboard attempting to finish a PowerPoint presentation on your newest marketing research findings due in the morning.

For the past nine months you were tasked with finding out how to sell nostalgia for your company. Those nine months were absolutely brutal. Everyday you would come home and just work until 4 am. But everyday for the past 9 months you had the same hobby while working, baking.

For some reason your brain knew it couldn’t turn off if there was something in the oven. Because of this project, you managed to produce pies, cookies, cakes, the whole nine yards.

The first three baking expeditions, you kept the baked goods. But everyday there was something new being baked and you couldn’t consume the desserts fast enough. You were offering it to neighbours, coworkers, friends; if someone had a stomach, you were offering them your baked goods.

Somewhere around the four month mark, you started leaving baked goods for the night security staff. They were awake at ungodly hours protecting your building, they deserve something sweet.

You were so entranced with finishing this PowerPoint, the only thing that broke your concentration was the kitchen timer blaring, indicating that your cookies were done.

You hopped off the chair and navigated towards the kitchen, you pulled the cookies out of the oven and let them cool on the wire rack you set up when you were done cleaning.

You knew they had to cool for a few more minutes before taking it downstairs to the security guard. You picked up the sticky note and grabbed the pen that was next to your computer, and scribbled a quick note.

“Sorry for torturing you with all of these baked goods, I promise this is the last one.”

You went back to work for a little bit before another timer broke your concentration, you packed the cookies into a small takeout box and stuck the sticky note to the top of the lid.

While in the elevator, you took a look at the time and winced. 3:17 am. You knew that you had to finish the PowerPoint by 4:30 am to even be able to get up and be able to present it to upper management.

You were practically racing against the clock at this point. You walked to the front desk and saw that the night security guard was not there. This was not new. Everytime you came down, he was not there. You assumed that he was doing his rounds, or he was watching the cameras in the back, or maybe he went for a smoke break.

You left the box on the front desk and practically ran back up to your apartment to finish your presentation.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The presentation was a success and upper management took your findings seriously. That was the only win you got for the day. Everything else was sleep deprived losses. Since you got off the train, your body was absolutely screaming at you to hurry up and get home and rest.

You buzzed into your apartment complex and waved at the evening shift worker. You normally would hold a conversation but your eyes were so heavy that you might fall asleep mid-conversation.

You got into your apartment, grabbed a cookie from the counter and made a beeline to the shower to wash the gunk of the office off you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

That night you slept like an absolute baby. Nine months of no sleep made you sleep almost a full thirteen hours.

You were walking to the front door, phone in hand, cookie in mouth, checking up on the texts you missed while you were practically in a coma. Still oblivious to the world, you pull a pair of heels out and put them on. You finally broke contact with your phone to grab your keys when you noticed a white envelope on your floor.

You questioned if you dropped your mail walking in, but you were so tired yesterday that you didn’t even grab your mail. You shoved your phone in your bag and the remainder of your cookie in your mouth before picking up the envelope and inspecting it.

You thought maybe your mail went elsewhere and someone returned it. But there was nothing on the front with your name. You opened the envelope and there was a note inside.

If your company is even half as sweet as your pastries, I’m in trouble. Coffee sometime? - Bucky

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smutmind · 2 months ago

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Security Breach

Aespa Giselle X OC Male “You think this is a game?” His voice was low, biting.

You keep your back to the wall, fists clenched around the hem of your skirt. “It was a dare. Just a stupid—”

“Dares don’t land people in holding rooms with three cameras and one locked door.”

Giselle swallows hard. She’s all big brown eyes and trembling lips, face flushed under harsh fluorescents. “I didn’t even want to—my friends said—”

“You’re twenty-four. Not fourteen.” He steps closer. Broad shoulders. Buzzed hair. The kind of man who flexes without meaning to. “But maybe you like playing the brat.”

“I’m not a brat.”

“You sure?” He pulls the stolen bracelet from his pocket, gold catching the light. “Because this says otherwise.”

Her eyes dart to the door. “Are you calling the cops?”

“I could.”

“Please…” Her voice breaks, soft and scared now.

He leans down, close enough she can feel the heat off his body. “Tell me something, sweetheart—how far would you go to avoid a record?”

She stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“I gave you a break. Now it’s my turn to give a dare.”

Her lashes flutter. “You’re serious.”

“Oh, dead serious.” He grins, slow and wicked. “You wanna get out of this? You do exactly what I say.”

Giselle presses her thighs together. “W-What kind of dare?”

“You’re gonna kneel.” He tilts his head, watching her squirm. “And keep your hands behind your back. Like you’re surrendering.”

She hesitates, then drops to her knees. Her breath catches.

He circles her once, boots heavy on tile. “Good girl. Now look up.”

She lifts her chin. Her cheeks glow.

“You know what happens next, don’t you?”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “No…”

He smiled, slow and sharp, at her answer.

“No?” He crouched in front of her, knees wide, the badge on his chest catching the overhead light. “Then I’ll teach you.”

Her knees burned against the cold tile. She didn’t dare shift. The wrong move might make him change his mind. Might make him stand up and call real trouble down on her head.

“You stole,” he said. “You lied. You begged.”

Her lips parted, breath uneven.

“And now you obey.” He reached forward and traced one gloved finger along her jawline, not gentle. “That’s how this works.”

She flinched, but didn’t pull away. “I didn’t mean to—”

He cut her off with a glance. “No excuses now, little thief.”

He stood. Unbuckled his belt with one deliberate flick.

Her heart slammed. “Wait—”

“You want to walk out of here without a record, right?” He tossed the belt onto the desk. “Then I expect full participation.”

She nodded, too fast. Regret tangled in her breath. Curiosity burned through it.

“Stand. Turn around.” His voice left no space for argument.

She obeyed. Slow, unsure. Her back straightened as she faced the wall. Her hands fluttered at her sides.

“Higher,” he said. “Hands on the wall. Legs spread.”

She did. He watched her from behind, eyes narrowing on the curve of her hips under that too-short skirt, the tremble in her calves. Her innocence wasn’t fake. That made it better.

He stepped up behind her, close enough for heat to pass between them. Close enough she gasped when he pressed a hand flat to her lower back.

“See?” he murmured. “Every action has consequences. Even cute little games with your girlfriends.”

She bit her lip, cheeks red, pulse skipping.

“Now,” he said, brushing her skirt up with the back of his hand. “Keep quiet. Keep still. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you walk out clean.”

His fingers skimmed the hem of her panties. “These stay on until I say otherwise.”

She whimpered, nodding, her cheek brushing the wall.

“Use your words.”

“Yes… sir.”

That made him grin. “Good girl.”

He slipped a hand down the front of her thigh, then between them, cupping her through soft cotton. Heat soaked through, wet enough to make him growl low in his throat.

“You are enjoying this,” he murmured, breath against her ear.

“I—I don’t know,” she whispered.

He pressed harder. She gasped.

“Don’t lie again.”

She arched, body betraying her with a tremble. “It feels…”

“Exactly how it should.” He stepped back. “Turn around.”

She did, arms still raised. Her face was flushed, lips parted. Her eyes flicked to his waistband—open now, heavy with promise.

“You’re going to ride,” he said simply. “You owe me that much.”

She swallowed. “Here?”

He sat in the metal chair and nodded once, spreading his legs. “Here. Now.”

She climbed onto his lap, knees shaking.

“Slower,” he commanded. “Let me feel you. Every inch.”

He guided her, hands tight on her hips. She gasped as he entered her, inch by inch, her thighs taut against his. He filled her too well—deep and thick, her breath caught in her throat.

“Eyes on me,” he growled. “I want to see you take it.”

She moaned, nails digging into his shoulders as she moved. Rocked. Rolled her hips the way instinct told her. His hands never left her waist, guiding the pace, tightening when she got bolder.

“Oh—God—” she panted, bouncing now, thighs quaking with effort.

“That’s it. Just like that.” He tilted his head back, mouth open with a groan. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

She clenched around him, flushed all the way down her chest. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“No. Not yet.” He stopped her with a grip. “Off.”

She whimpered as he pulled out, soaked and pulsing.

“On your knees again.”

She obeyed, pupils blown wide.

“You finish what you started,” he said, standing before her. “Mouth open.”

Her lips wrapped around him slowly. She moaned as he pushed deeper, her tongue working eagerly, eyes lifted toward his.

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” he muttered, holding her head steady.

She sucked harder. One hand on his thigh. He twitched inside her mouth.

“Swallow,” he ordered.

She did—choking slightly, then licking the corner of her lips, eyes glazed and shining.

He stroked her cheek with one thumb. “Lesson learned?”

She nodded, lips swollen. “Yes… sir.”

#giselle smut #aespa smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #smut #female idol smut #male reader smut #kpop idol smut #male reader

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iwashie · 6 months ago

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Modern!Sevika, who sometimes works two jobs, morning/evening as a self-defense instructor for the ladies or personal trainer, and at night as a security guard in a club. Leaving you alone for most of the time.

Modern!Sevika, who barely uses her cellphone, but at that time, almost 04 am- finishing her work, just a glass and she'll go home to you-, she will rapidly glance, knowing that was your message just to unlock her phone and see her new wallpaper; You, taking a photo in the mirror, her cellphone covering your face and a hand holding one of your naked breasts as you wore her underwear.

Modern!Sevika chuckled, lingering her eyes on the photo, and opened your message notification to see the video you sent her.

Modern!Sevika, who lowered the volume, knowing her girl so well, and she was fucking right doing so. Your moans lowly echoing through her speaker as you caressed your boobs, hands sliding to your belly and pussy, slowly playing with your clit and moaning her name as you focused the camera on your pussy adorned with your favorite purple dildo, the one Sevika fucks you everyday.

Modern!Sevika, who was insanely horny, amazed, and indignant at your boldness; sending her that video while she worked so hard to give you a good life, and there were you, fucking your pussy so deep and fast on that dildo, your ass bouncing up and down on the floor, swallowing the entire object as you creamed on the base and moaned her name so loudly and sinfully, your whole body trembling as you came.

Modern!Sevika, who huffed a laugh as she saw you sucking clean your fingers after pumping them on your pussy, and smiled at the camera, the video stopping at that image. A single "miss you, vika 🥺" under the video.

Modern!Sevika, who just sent a "more twenty minutes, doll." and finished the day, going home as fast as she could, thinking how she would fuck- punish- you for being a bad girl, touching yourself and teasing her at work.

Modern!Sevika, who got home all pent-up just to find you laying on the bed, all naked and that brat smile widening as she entered the room, taking off her clothes, and you opened your legs to show your glistening, reddish pussy to her hungry eyes, and say "welcome home, vika."

@iwashie 2025, please do not translate, modify or republish my works

#iwashie work #iwashie writes #sevika #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #sevika x reader #sevika smut #arcane x reader #iwashie headcanons

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xobunni0 · 13 days ago

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‘𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝑰’𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔.’ Johnny storm x f!reader

having Johnny meant sharing him with the world, you can’t help but feel jealous. • fluff, hurt/comfort

the morning sun came in softly through your lace curtains. you sat at the foot of your bed, a towel spread beneath your feet to protect the carpet from any spills. your pin curls were still perfectly secured under a row of pastel pink hair rollers from the night before. you wiggled your toes, one foot already stretched out with a foam separator between each one, concentrating hard as you brushed a coat of polish over your nails

you hummed softly. your tongue poking out the corner of your mouth, you didn’t want to mess up a single toe. you wanted to look perfect for when Johnny saw you

the television flickered in the background, as some morning program rolled on. you weren’t really paying attention until

“Johnny Storm”

your head instantly perked up, eyes wide, brush pausing mid stroke. you turned up the volume on the small remote beside you

the reporters voice was full of excitement

“the city’s heart throb, Johnny Storm, is lighting up more than just the sky this summer.”

you mouth parted slightly as they cut to the footage, a huge billboard towering over the busy street. and there he was. Johnny, your Johnny. shirtless, nice tan, wearing swim trunks that hung low on his hips, lower than they should’ve, thanks to a little dog tugging them down with its teeth

the slogan read in big, bold letters

“TAN, DON’T BURN.”

you stared for a second, lips parted in awe, cheeks warming. he was so… Johnny. so effortlessly handsome, so smugly charming. you could practically hear that cocky little laugh of his in your ear

your breath came out in a dreamy little sigh

“Oh, Johnny…” you whispered

your heart quickened the way it always did when you thought about him. the man who always pulled your tights up for you after dates, who warmed your cold hands in his, who tucked your curlers so carefully each night. he was yours in the quietest, sweetest ways. the world might’ve seen the human torch, the heart throb, the show off. but you knew the real him. the one who let you fall asleep on his chest to your favorite records, the one who kissed you so tenderly

you set the polish down carefully, and leaned closer to the screen like he might see you. like he was right there on the other side, looking just at you

“Such a showoff” you mumbled with a small giggle

no matter how big his billboard got, no matter how many girls stared up at it wide eyed, you were the one he came to. you were the one he kissed goodnight

the reporters voice carried on with excitement

“and- wait a second, folks what’s this?”

the camera jolted, shaking slightly as something streaked across the sky fast, unmistakable. within seconds, a trail of flames curled up into the corner of the screen and came up right across the edge of the billboard

“There he is, folks! Johnny Storm himself!”

the flames burned harmlessly at the edges of his shirtless image on the billboard. and then the camera shifted quickly finding him hovering above the crowd

he was dressed in his fantastic four uniform, the white and blue stretching clean over his lean body, the number 4 bold across his chest. his gloves were still steaming slightly from the flame. he gave a little salute to the crowd, then flashed one of his smirks

you squealed without meaning to, giggling as you kicked your feet

“Johnny…” you cooed, head tilting as you watched him take it all in, your polish brush wobbled a little in your hand, you couldn’t focus, too caught up in that smile of his

but you weren’t the only one

“I love you, Johnny!”

the squeals and shouts came loud from the television, the camera showing the growing crowd below. dozens of girls, all waiting for a look, a wave, anything

the way they screamed for him made your smile fade

the polish brush paused mid stroke again, a small frown tugging at your lips. you reached for the remote and turned the volume down, suddenly not wanting to hear the girls anymore. not wanting to watch the way they looked at him

you let out a small huff and tried to go back to painting your nails, but the polish smeared this time, a smudge streaking over your toe

“Shoot” you muttered, brows pinching together in frustration

your head dipped, the rollers bouncing slightly. the little jealous feeling in your chest pressed down heavier now. you knew it was silly, knew he loved you, only you. he kissed your forehead every night before you fell asleep, helped you button your dress, spun you slow in the kitchen when your favorite song came on. but it was hard sometimes. knowing how the world saw him, how much of him they wanted

you began carefully wiping away the smudge with the edge of a tissue

you weren’t mad at him. just… sensitive. a little insecure. it was hard not to feel small when the whole world screamed his name, when girls dreamt about him the way you did

and you should’ve guessed, you should’ve known the second he lit up that billboard and flashed that cocky smirk, that he was already making his way to you. he never missed a moment to show off and make a quick escape to the one place he knew he’d really be seen. not by the crowd, not by the cameras, but by you.

still, you were back to angrily painting your nails, brows furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth. you weren’t even humming anymore, your favorite polish now being applied with a bit too much force. you were still thinking about those girls, the way they squealed like they knew him, like they had a chance

“Ugh” you muttered under your breath, barely noticing the faint glow on your window

two soft knock’s broke your train of thought

your hand froze, peeking up. you turned toward the window, and there he was

sitting on the roof just outside, legs stretched out casually, leaning back on one hand, his blonde hair a little messy. he wasn’t in the flashy suit anymore just a snug white tee, that little blue “4” stitched right over his heart, and dark pants rolled at the ankle like he’d come straight from somewhere and didn’t stop to change. his cheeks were flushed, eyes warm and wide the second they landed on you

a big, boyish smile spread across his face, full of adoration and a little mischief, like he knew what you’d seen, what you were thinking, and had rushed here to fix it

your heart tugged in your chest but you held strong. you raised an eyebrow, tilting your chin as you stayed seated at the foot of your bed. you still hadn’t forgiven him, you weren’t mad at him, just… upset about the whole thing. how the world never let you keep him all to yourself

another knock

“Sweetheart” he called, voice muffled through the glass but still a little teasing, a little sweet

you let out a soft sigh, careful as you rose, balancing on the heels of your feet to not smudge your still wet toes. you undid the latch and pushed it up slowly

Johnny was already halfway to stepping in before you could even say anything, swinging one leg over the sill and slipping into your room like he belonged there

“Look at you” he said low, eyes trailing from the curlers on your head to the pout on your lips, his hand immediately finding your waist “God, you’re beautiful”

he leaned in, lips parting to kiss you but you turned your head, giving him your cheek instead, eyes still slightly narrowed in that unimpressed look

he didn’t push. just grinned like he expected it, and gave you a big, exaggerated kiss on the cheek with a loud mwah!

then, like he owned the place, he strolled toward your bed and flopped right onto it arms out, sighing dramatically

“Man” he groaned, sinking into your pillows “Do you know how boring it is standing in front of a crowd pretending I don’t wanna be here instead?”

you stood there, arms crossed, trying not to smile, biting the inside of your cheek

his eyes peeked open, already watching you with that soft little grin

“cmon doll” he said, reaching one hand out toward you lazily “don’t be mad. you know I only set that billboard on fire so I could get here faster.”

that almost got you, almost got you

but you weren’t going to let him win that easily

you glanced down at his outstretched hand for half a second before brushing right past it with a huff. you sat back on the edge of your bed ignoring how close he was now and went right back to painting the last of your toes, your fingers holding the brush delicately like nothing had just happened

Johnny propped himself up on his elbows, clearly amused. he wasn’t bothered by the cold shoulder, not when he knew what this was. he’d seen it before. your cute little tantrums, the silent treatment you gave him when you were trying not to smile. he knew you were going to crack soon, he was just waiting.

you were quiet now, focused, back to humming softly as you dipped the brush into the polish again. the record player spun lazily in the corner of your room, the soft tune of a love song faint in the background

Johnny tilted his head at you

“What are you singing?” he asked even though he knew exactly what was playing

“A song” you replied simply, not even looking his way

he bit back a grin

“You kept your rollers in” he noted “Need my help to take them out?”

“I can do it” you replied

still no eye contact

“Cheer up buttercup” he teased gently

and that’s what did it

your eyes narrowed just a little, your lips twitching as you mocked in a high pitched voice “I love you, Johnny!”

you scoffed a little, scrunching up your nose

Johnny blinked pretending like he was shocked “That’s what this is all about?” he asked “You’re mad ‘cause people love me?”

“I’m not mad” you said far too quickly, focusing way too hard on not messing up your last toe

Johnny sat up fully, scooting closer behind you, arms suddenly wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against him without warning

“Johnny my hair!” you squealed, half laughing, as your head bumped back against his shoulder

he just chuckled, hugging you tighter

“You jealous baby?” he whispered near your ear, voice low and teasing, his breath warm against your cheek

“No” you said flatly

but the pout on your lips betrayed you completely. that little frown, your lashes lowered as you avoided his eyes, trying so hard not to give in

Johnny pressed a kiss to your cheek again, softer this time

“Trust in me when I say” Johnny murmured, voice softer now, his arms still wrapped around you “I’m yours.”

you blinked slowly, his lashes brushing your cheek, and your voice came out quieter than before

“I know, Johnny…”

and you did. somewhere deep down, beneath the jealousy and the world that always wanted him, you knew. but that didn’t mean those feelings didn’t still creep in sometimes, didn’t grow more when you heard girls scream his name like they had any right to it

“There’s no ‘but’” he cut in gently, but firmly. he knew you too well, knew how quickly you used your heart over your head “No ‘maybe’ or ‘what if.’ none of that, okay?”

he shifted closer behind you, nose brushing along your temple, his voice even lower as he whispered everything you needed to hear

“There’s no one else but you. no one I want. no one I see.”

his words were warm and slow and just for you “Can’t take my eyes off you, the sight of you leaves me weak.”

you breath caught softly, the brush still in your hand long forgotten now

“I don’t hear the way they say my name” he continued “I don’t feel it… not like I do when you say it.”

he leaned in a little closer “Nobody says it like you”

that made your heart quicken and your face warm. he said it so easily, like there wasn’t a doubt in the whole world about how he felt

the moment felt so intimate, so personal, just for the two of you

“I didn’t mean to upset you” Johnny said, his voice so full of guilt and sweetness “Didn’t like seeing that pout.”

your pout was already gone. you lips now parted slightly

“I love you” he said truthfully and certain, right against your ear

you shifted slowly, enough to glance back at him over your shoulder. his eyes were waiting there for you, blue and gentle and entirely yours

you didn’t answer instead, you gave him the kiss you’d rejected earlier, the one he never pushed for. this time, your lips met his sweetly, full of affection. you kissed him, your hand reaching up to his cheek, your eyes closing

and he melted into it instantly

because even when the ugly thoughts crept in, when the jealousy made your heart ache and your voice snappy you knew..

Johnny Storm was yours, and more than that he loved being yours

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

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heliosunny · 5 days ago

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LOVE CAGE

Mydei x Yandere!Reader

Warning: This work contains explicit NSFW content intended for mature audiences only.

You were here to cheer on a baseball match that your friend, Renji, was playing in. You didn’t think much of it, Renji was cool and all, but baseball had never really caught your interest. You sat in the stands, half-focused on the game and half-watching the clouds drift by overhead.

It wasn’t until you heard the collective gasp of the crowd that you looked up, just in time to see the ball coming right at you. Your reflexes weren’t exactly your strong point, so you froze, bracing for the sting of impact square on your face.

Except… nothing happened. You cracked one eye open to see a shadow blocking the sun. Standing in front of you was a tall guy, built like he was carved from stone, holding the ball securely in his glove. He didn’t even look at you, just tossed the ball back over his shoulder and jogged off without a word. You heard someone behind you scream, “MYDEI!!!!”

Renji’s team ended up losing that day, but you didn’t pay attention to the final score. You couldn’t stop thinking about that one moment.

After that fateful match, you didn’t get to see him again. He was just a fleeting figure in your memory, until you stepped onto your college campus on your first day, and there he was.

After a few years drifting through school without much interest in dating, barely noticing the half-hearted confessions passed your way, you ended up catching feelings for someone anyway. And of course, it had to be Mydei.

Everyone seemed to know him, even people outside the baseball circle. He was in a different class, so it wasn’t like you could accidentally bump into him in the hallway every day. You settled for glimpses: watching him at practice, from behind the fence or from the bleachers if no one else was there. Sometimes you’d lift your phone and take a quick photo, just like a fan would, pretending you were just testing your camera.

You knew it was silly. A one-sided crush. You never planned to do anything about it, until the day he stepped right into your classroom.

It was recess, the door slid open and there he was. He didn’t say much, just walked up to your desk and placed a small box of milk in front of you. Your friends broke into shocked whoops behind him, some whistled, a few teased you under their breath. Mydei just nodded once, eyes meeting yours for half a second, then turned and walked out like he hadn’t just lit your whole face on fire.

But the moment he left, so did the warmth. You heard it immediately “Is he doing a dare?” “Bet he’s playing some challenge again.” You didn’t want to believe it, but you knew how things like this went.

So you didn’t drink the milk. Not because you thought it was tampered with, no, you’d just had one too many run-ins with bad food before, and the last food poisoning had taught you to be careful. Instead, you kept the box tucked in your bag all day. You couldn’t throw it away, either. It felt… weird to do that.

Still, one thing about him stuck with you the most - his scent. Even just passing by, Mydei always left something behind: clean, fresh, a little warm like the sun on your skin.

So when the weekend came, you found yourself at the mall, half convincing yourself you were just window-shopping, but really, you were on a mission. Maybe if you found that cologne, you could have a piece of him for yourself.

You stepped into the fragrance store, the chill air immediately wrapping around you, the shelves lined with glossy bottles. You had no idea where to start, just that you were looking for his smell.

You didn’t expect to spend half your Saturday sniffing little glass bottles. The store clerk had shown you a dozen colognes but nothing felt quite right. In the end, you settled on something close enough. Maybe it was just your imagination anyway. You paid for it, tucked the slim paper bag carefully in your backpack, and told yourself not to think too hard about it.

But then you saw him.

On your way out of the mall, your steps faltered when you spotted Mydei standing near the escalator with a few friends. You ducked your head immediately, pretending to look at your phone. You turned your body slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice you slipping by. It wasn’t like you were ready to face him. What would you even say?

Nothing seemed to go your way that day anyway. You trudged home, finished your homework in half-focus, then lay on your bed scrolling through the school website. No new posts about the baseball team. Nothing that gave you an excuse to linger on his name.

The weekend passed the way they always did, too fast. Monday came, and you trudged to school the same way you always did, bracing for another ordinary day.

Except.. there he was again.

You stopped short when you saw Mydei standing by your classroom door, leaning his shoulder lazily against the wall. Your heart did that stupid thing, fluttering against your ribs as if it didn’t know any better.

He didn’t say anything when you approached. Just pushed himself off the wall, held out another box of milk to you.

“Uh… thanks.” It came out awkward, but it was all you could manage.

Mydei just nodded, same as last time, then turned and walked away before you could say anything else. Your friends immediately surrounded you, teasing smiles and knowing looks you pretended not to notice. You sat down and placed the milk carefully on your desk.

Why does he keep doing this? you wondered, tracing your finger over the corner of the box. Maybe you’d ask him next time, if you could get the words out.

---

You told yourself you’d just stop by the field just to catch a glimpse of him at practice. You’d done it before. It wasn’t like you were the only one watching the baseball team train. But today, the sun felt like it was trying to fry you alive.

You had your cap on, tugged low over your eyes, but sweat still gathered at your hairline and slid down your neck. The stands were empty, the team was practicing, but no other students were lingering around. It made you feel exposed somehow, standing there alone.

You were just about to turn back, muttering under your breath that you’d just look like a weirdo standing there for no reason, when you felt a shadow fall over you.

Before you could turn around, something soft settled over your head and shoulders, blocking the harsh light. You flinched, half-startled, half-aware exactly who it must be even before you looked up.

It was Mydei.

He stood behind you, close enough that you could see the line of sweat on his collarbone, the faint damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead. His eyes flicked down, checking the jacket draped over your head, then back to your face.

“You’ll get heatstroke standing here.” he said, his voice the same calm, low tone that made your chest do that stupid thing. “Go inside.”

You opened your mouth - say it now Y/N, ask him why, ask about the milk- but all that came out was a tiny, awkward, “Oh—okay.”

He didn’t wait for anything else. He just turned, jogging back toward the field.

You ended up taking it home with you. Maybe you could have run after him to give it back, but you didn’t. You told yourself you’d wash it, fold it neatly, return it next time.

But that night, when you hung it up by your bed, you found yourself leaning in closer. The scent was exactly what you’d been searching for in that mall.

You caught yourself before you buried your nose in the collar like some obsessed maniac. You scolded yourself under your breath—get a grip, you creep—and forced yourself to hang it properly on the back of your chair instead. But you kept glancing at it anyway.

After a whole day of pacing around your room, the jacket draped neatly over your chair, you finally decided to do the responsible thing. You checked the pockets, because that’s what you were supposed to do before washing someone else’s clothes, right? Your fingers brushed against a small folded piece of paper tucked into the inside pocket.

You held it between your fingers for a moment, turning it over once, twice. You could have read it. But your chest tightened at the thought of peeking into something that wasn’t yours. Maybe it was just a note for himself, or maybe it was for someone else entirely.

You tucked it right back where you found it and tossed the jacket into the washing machine, ignoring the nagging voice in your head that wanted to know everything.

The next morning, you spotted Mydei near the field, stretching by the benches. You walked over, clutching the now clean and neatly folded jacket. He glanced up at you.

“Um, here.” You held it out awkwardly. “Sorry it took me a while—I washed it. I, uh, checked the pocket too. There was a note but I didn’t read it, so… don’t worry.”

For a split second, you could swear something flickered behind his eyes, something between disbelief and exasperation. He tilted his head at you, like he was trying to figure out what planet you’d come from.

“You’re… unbelievable.” he muttered, taking the jacket from you. He didn’t explain what he meant. He just draped it over his shoulder and walked off to join the rest of the team.

You thought maybe that would be the end of it. But of course, the universe had other ideas.

A couple of days later, the rumors started trickling through the school halls again. Someone behind you whispered about how Mydei had hooked up with this girl behind the bleachers, then someone else swore he’d messed around with a guy from another class too. They made him sound like some cold playboy who collected hearts for sport.

You didn’t buy it. Even if you didn’t know him well, nothing about how he acted with you matched the rumors.

So you let it go.

One afternoon, you were helping your homeroom teacher set up some extra chairs for a meeting. The storage room at the end of the old hallway was dusty and dim, packed with stacks of old desks and broken chalkboards. You pushed the door open, blinking at the strange hush inside.

There was a sound, but when you peeked behind the shelves, no one was there.

You shrugged it off, stacked the chairs you needed, and shuffled them out into the hall. You didn’t see the two figures pressed into the narrow space between the shelves, holding their breath until your footsteps faded away.

The next day, you told yourself you were just passing by the field. You didn’t mean to stop, really. But it was hard not to when the air around the baseball team felt… heavy.

A group of first-years were huddled by the fence, gossiping.

“I heard he punched Lucas in the face—” “No way, seriously? Look at Lucas's eye, though—” “He’s totally scary when he snaps, huh?”

Your eyes flicked over to the bench. One of Mydei’s teammates sat there with an ice pack pressed to a swollen bruise blooming dark under his eye. He kept glancing over at Mydei like he expected another hit.

Your gaze drifted back to the field. Mydei was there, but he looked… off. His swing was sluggish, like he was going through the motions just to get it over with.

When practice finally ended, the rest of the team packed up and drifted off in noisy groups. But Mydei just sat on the low bench by himself, staring at the dirt under his shoes.

You didn’t think much, your feet just moved on their own. You stopped by the vending machine, got a cold drink, and walked over. You stood in front of him until he finally looked up.

“Here.” you said, holding out the bottle. He blinked, then took it without a word.

“Don’t beat anyone else up today.” you said, “You’re cooler when you don’t.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction, your heart thudded too loud for that. You just turned and walked away before you could see whether he was smiling back or not.

After class, you stayed behind to help clean up. The classroom had been a mess from group activities, and the broom was missing again. You trudged back to the same old storage room, muttering about how you should just carry your own broom around at this point.

You stepped inside, flicked the light on. The place smelled the same as always—dust, old wood. You found the broom wedged behind a stack of folding chairs.

But before you could grab it, someone outside must have bumped the door. The latch slipped back into place.

You twisted the knob. Nothing. You didn’t even have your phone on you, you’d left it in your bag back in class.

You knocked once, twice, hoping someone might hear you through the thick door. Then you heard voices outside. The door creaked open, light spilled in.

There was Mydei. His cap was pulled low over his eyes, hair damp with sweat. Next to him stood a girl you didn’t recognize. They both paused when they saw you. You stared back, caught like a deer in headlights.

The girl’s eyes flicked from you to Mydei and back. Then she let out a little scoff and went out. It left just you and Mydei. You clutched the broom, ready to squeeze by him and disappear before this got more awkward. But before you could, he stepped forward, blocking the doorway with one arm.

You could see it then, how tense his shoulders were, the faint flush on his ears, the look in his eyes that wasn’t quite the usual calm.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, so close you could smell him - faint cologne, sweat, the same warmth you’d memorized.

“I need to ask you something.”

You half-laughed. “I’m not gonna tell anyone anything. If that’s what you—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“…Is it really you?” he asked.

You frowned. “What? What does that even—”

You didn’t get to finish. He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, only to bump into the shelves behind you. It was then you caught it, something sharp under his clean scent, something bitter, almost sour. Alcohol?

You barely registered the click as he pushed the door closed behind him. The broom dropped from your hand, clattering to the floor. He crowded the space between you and the door, and then he pulled you in like you’d slip through him if he didn’t.

You could feel the warmth of him through your shirt, his chest pressed to yours, his scent filling your nose until it blurred every reasonable thought. You hated yourself for how your knees went soft for half a second.

Then he tilted your chin up and slammed his lips against yours. No hesitation, just heat and the faint taste of bitterness, and that smell that’d been driving you quietly insane for months.

“It is you...” he breathed against your mouth when he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath hit your cheek. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to do this to you?”

You tried to find words, tried to find air first. “Do what? Get off me first—then we’ll talk—”

But your own voice betrayed you. It shook at the end. His scent tangled with your thoughts, your resolve slipping through your fingers like sand.

But your hands, instead of shoving, clutched weakly at his shirt. And when he leaned in again, your chin tilted up for him before you could stop it.

You hated how much you wanted to lean into the warmth. Every breath you took in smelled like him, tasted like him. And each time you thought you’d twist away, your body betrayed you.

One moment you were telling him get off, the next you were half-pressing your face into his collar, dragging in that smell you’d hunted for in shops, on his jacket.

It was embarrassing, the way you couldn’t stop. Your chest brushed his as you tipped closer, fingertips curling up to hook behind his neck for balance, like your body needed the anchor or you’d just melt right into him.

You felt him grin against your jaw. His hand dropped lower, then he shifted his stance. You didn’t even register what he’d done until you realized he’d nudged one thigh between yours. And you— the idiot that you were—kept leaning in, kept pressing against it like you didn’t even know you were doing it.

His breath hit your ear, hot and sticky. Then his teeth scraped the shell, sharp enough to make you jolt, soft enough to make you shiver instead of push him away. He licked where he’d bitten.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, “You like it that much?”

You tried to answer, to say no, or stop, or what are we doing, but the words tangled up somewhere between your lips and his mouth.

Your thoughts blurred at the edges. Your grip on his neck tightened. Your hips shifted without you realizing, pressing down, wanting more heat, more scent, more him.

Then a wave of dizziness hit. For a split second you felt your knees buckle. The scent that had pulled you in so deep now felt like it was drowning you.

With all the strength you didn’t know you had, you pressed your palms flat to his chest. You shoved. Hard enough that he let go.

Your breath came in ragged pulls. You didn’t wait for him to ask anything. You ducked under his arm, grabbed the broom you’d dropped god-knows-when, and slipped past him so fast the air shifted in your wake.

You didn’t look back. Your heart slammed against your ribs so loud you swore the whole building could hear it. The broom handle rattled against your sweaty palms. You didn’t even dare to think about what you’d almost let happen.

You told yourself you’d forget it. But your lips still tingled with the ghost of his mouth.

You thought about it all night. Actually, all night was an understatement - every hour, every stray second your mind went quiet. Your lips still burned when you touched them. Your face went hot every time you caught a trace of his scent on your sleeves, or in your hair where he’d buried his face so carelessly.

---

You skipped the field. You walked extra rounds to avoid the hallways where he and his friends usually lingered. You spent your lunch breaks hunched over textbooks in the library.

The first few days, it worked. You heard from classmates “Mydei was looking for you.” “Did you talk to him?” But he never showed up at your door again. You let yourself believe maybe he’d drop it.

By Friday, he’d figured out your last trick, your shiny new club. You’d joined it for no other reason than to stay late, to look busy, to have a reason to disappear somewhere he wouldn’t wander near. But even that stupid, flimsy shield cracked like paper the second you heard your name echo in the hall.

You were halfway down the corridor, clutching your notebook to your chest, ready to slip into the clubroom before the door closed behind the last straggler. And then you felt a tug, firm enough that your sneakers scraped the floor.

He barely said a word, just dragged you a few steps back and shouldered open the door of an empty classroom. You stumbled in after him, your notebook nearly falling from your grip as the door closed behind you both.

He was right there. Still in his practice uniform, sweat clinging to his hairline, his collar damp, skin flushed from exertion.

“Why’d you run off?”

“I didn’t—I mean, I have club—” You gestured vaguely to the door, hoping it looked convincing. “I really gotta go.”

He didn’t buy it. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked down, then back up, pinning you in place. He stepped closer.

“You think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”

You wished you could step back, but your back was already against a desk. You gripped your notebook tighter, the paper digging into your palm.

He leaned in, bracing a hand on the desk beside your hip. Close enough you could smell the salt of his sweat under the familiar clean scent. Close enough you’d have to lie to yourself to pretend you didn’t like it.

Your heart jumped in your throat when he leaned in closer, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. You could hear faint chatter from the next room, the club you were supposed to be in right now. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back at you.

“Quiet,” he murmured, voice so close it sent a tremor down your spine. “Or else they’ll hear you.”

Before you could snap something back, he pressed his mouth to yours. The taste of him hit you all over again.

Your teeth found his lower lip. He hissed against your mouth, the metallic tang of blood slipping onto your tongue before you jerked back.

He didn’t flinch. His thumb dragging the blood off his lip before he licked it.

“You’re gonna regret that” Then his mouth was on yours again, rougher, his hand threading into your hair to keep you there.

Your free hand shot up, pushing at his chest, but he caught your wrist mid-motion. He didn’t shove it away. He dragged it down instead, lower than you were ready for. Your breath hitched, your palm trembling where he pressed it against the heat between you.

Your mind screamed stop, but your body locked up. He lowered his mouth to your ear, “If you behave, I’ll stop. Understand?”

You nodded.

“Then kiss me properly.”

Your hands trembled, but you did it. And that scent, god, that scent wrapped around your senses again.

He pulled back just long enough to whisper, “If you like it that much, I’ll share it with you.”

Then he turned you around, your back hitting his chest, the warmth of him pressed flush along your spine. His arm slid around your waist, holding you in place. You felt his nose brush your neck, the drag of his teeth scraping your skin. A sharp bite made you flinch, then he licked the sting away.

You didn’t even realize your hands were clutching at the desk’s edge until his fingers slid up, working at the buttons of your shirt. Each pop of a button sent a tiny shock through you, the fabric parting under his touch as he mouthed at your throat, your shoulder.

Outside the door, you thought you heard voices - your clubmates. But in here, all you could feel was his mouth, his scent, his hand sliding under your shirt, making it impossible to think about anything else.

You bit down hard on your lip when his fingers brushed over your chest, teasing at your sensitive buds through the thin fabric. The ghost of his touch left your skin prickling, a heat crawling up your neck that you tried so desperately to swallow down.

He pinched, rolled, never giving you enough to push you over the edge but just enough to make you feel every nerve under his hand spark alive. You gritted your teeth, your breath ragged in your throat but not daring to make a sound.

Then he stopped. For a heartbeat you thought maybe it was over. Maybe he’d let you go like he promised.

Then you heard it. The soft, unmistakable zip of a fly coming undone behind you. Your breath hitched so hard your shoulders jerked. You tried to turn your head, but his hand shot up, pressing your cheek forward again, forcing you to keep your eyes on the scratched wooden desk in front of you.

You could feel it then, something warm, pressing between your thighs from behind.

“If you endure it,” he murmured against your ear, “I’ll let you go.”

Then he shifted his hips, pushing forward, dragging himself against the soft inside of your thighs. Instinct betrayed you, your legs snapped shut in a panic, trying to block him out. But the press only made it worse, made the heat and friction sharper.

A tiny, broken sound scraped your throat but you swallowed it down. You could hear them, your friends, right outside the door now.

“Did you hear that?” “I swear I heard something in there—” “Is someone in the classroom?”

Panic and heat twisted together under your skin. You barely had time to breathe before the doorknob rattled. He grabbed you, spun you around, and pushed you down behind the old podium at the front of the room just as the door swung open.

You could hear footsteps, voices drifting closer. Your heart slammed so hard you were sure they’d hear that before anything else. He tugged your half-open shirt off your shoulders in the dark, tossing it behind him like it was nothing. Then he draped his own jacket over you.

“Wear it back home,” he whispered, “And don’t even think about taking it off.”

You could only nod. You clutched the jacket tight around yourself.

They didn’t find you. A few more steps, then the door clicked shut again. The voices faded down the hall. The moment they were gone, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

You fool. Little did he know, everything had been your plan from the start.

You wore it home—his jacket, still carrying the heat of his skin. You told yourself you’d just wear it for tonight, just to calm that itch under your ribs. But you didn’t stop there.

You closed your bedroom door, locked it, turned off the lights. You slipped your arms through the sleeves, tugged the collar up to your nose, and breathed in. It didn’t matter that the fabric had begun to cool.

You pressed your face into the collar, lips brushing where his throat must’ve been hours ago. And you filmed it, your phone balanced just far enough away to catch the way your eyes fluttered shut, the soft, breathless sound of you sighing out his name. Over and over.

You sent him an audio - your voice tangled with a few helpless sounds you could barely believe were yours. Mydei… Mydei… please… He opened it in the middle of his club, with his earphones on, surrounded by teammates still half-buzzed from a good win.

After school, he came looking for you, face all calm on the surface but eyes betraying every ounce of restraint he’d been clawing at since he’d heard your voice in his ear.

But you were one step ahead.

You hid near the back exit, waiting until the hallway emptied out, until his teammates were gone, until it was just him left in the club changing room, half-dressed, still wiping sweat off his neck with a towel.

You slipped inside so quietly he didn’t even turn around until you dropped the freshly washed jacket on the bench beside him. His brows twitched when he saw it, faint annoyance flickering in the sharp line of his mouth.

“You washed it? What do you want this time?”

You stepped close enough to catch the new sweat beading on his collarbone.

“Make it smell like you again.”

His eyes widened before you shoved him back, the force catching him off guard so he stumbled. His legs hit the bench and he slid down onto the floor, propped half on his elbows, the towel slipping from his neck.

You straddled him before he could catch his breath, knees bracketing his hips, your hands pushing up his shirt just enough to feel the warmth of his chest under your palm.

Your other hand drifted lower, down his stomach, nails grazing lightly until you felt him tense under your touch. You leaned down, close enough that your mouth brushed his jaw before trailing down to the dip of his collarbone.

You pressed your tongue there, then nipped lightly at his skin. The shudder he gave you was reward enough.

“You like this, don’t you?” Your palm pressed flat to his chest, feeling his heart pound like he was about to break apart. “You want me to have your scent... all of it?”

You dragged your tongue lower, your lips brushing over one nipple through the fabric. You sucked lightly, teeth scraping just enough to make his hips buck. He stifled a sound in his throat. Your free hand traveled further down, brushing at the line of his waistband.

He didn’t stop you. His fingers dug into the floor beside him, head tipped back against the wall as he breathed your name like it was the only thing he knew how to say anymore.

He was so easy to read. His body betrayed him with every twitch, every shudder under your palm.

Whenever he bucked his hips, desperate for more friction, you pulled your hand away, just enough to watch his face twist with frustration.

“Stay still” you’d whisper, “Good boys wait, don’t they?”

And he did. He’d force himself to stay still, fists clenched at his sides, his whole body coiled and trembling with every touch.

When you finally slipped the small, cold metal ring out of your pocket, he stared at it, confused for a moment. Then he realized. His eyes flicked up, something between disbelief and hunger pooling dark in his gaze. You only smiled, snapping the tiny lock shut around him.

“You won’t need this for a while.” you murmured, kissing the corner of his open mouth.

He didn’t have time to protest. You made him stand, made him bend over the bench with his pants pooled at his thighs.

The small, slick egg pressed in easily enough, he gasped, hips twitching as you pushed it deep inside him. You pulled your hand away, tucked the tiny remote into your pocket, and smoothed his hair back like you’d done nothing at all.

“Try not to embarrass yourself.” you whispered at his ear, “Or do. I’ll be watching either way.”

After that, you ignored him. At school, you didn’t even spare him a glance. In the halls, when people called his name, you slipped away. But he, he couldn’t ignore you. He flinched every time you passed. He watched you from the corner of his eye, hoping, waiting.

And whenever he got too close to someone else - some pretty girl giggling at his shoulder, some boy laughing at his jokes - you’d thumb the switch in your pocket. He'd pause, his fingers curl around his bag strap to hide the way his thighs tensed.

They’d stare—Are you okay?—but he’d just swallow it down.

And you? You’d watch from across the hall, your own small, secret - knowing he couldn’t touch himself, couldn’t come, couldn’t do anything about it.

You came over just before the final stretch of practice with a bottle of water pressed into his hand. “You’re working hard” you murmured, fingers brushing his wrist just enough for him to feel it.

He waited, searching your face for more: your hand on his shoulder, your thumb on that remote hidden god knows where. But you only gave him that same polite smile and stepped away.

He drank it anyway because what else could he do? The water was cold, a blessing against the heat soaking through his skin. But halfway through the bottle, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, and he realized it tasted not quite right.

The next pitch he tried to throw went wide by a mile. He felt it then, heat blooming under his skin, sinking down deep into his gut. Every brush of his uniform against that locked, aching length made him shudder.

He pushed through, he tried. But the coach noticed “Take a break, Mydei, get your head on straight.”

He pretended to listen. But the second his phone buzzed [Terrace. Now.] he was halfway up the stairs. He didn’t even know how his legs carried him that fast.

When he stumbled onto the rooftop terrace, the first thing he saw was you. Waiting, the wind tugging at your shirt, eyes on him like you’d been expecting him to crawl.

You didn’t say much. “Strip.”

His throat bobbed around your command. He wanted to obey. He needed to. But when he glanced around, fear flickered in his eyes. What if someone looked up? What if someone saw him?

He hesitated, just long enough for you to sigh, for your eyes to flick past him like you were already bored. You turned like you’d leave him there.

“Wait.” First was the jacket. Then, his fingers trembled at the hem of his shirt. He didn’t meet your eyes when he pulled it over his head. The evening breeze hit his sweat-slick skin, the shame of it prickling down his spine.

Next, his fingers fumbled with his belt, then the zip. The faint clink of the lock inside his pants made him shudder. He glanced at you again, pleading with his eyes, half wanting you to stop him, half begging you to push him further.

He stepped out of his uniform bottoms, the cold air hitting his thighs. He stood there, half-naked under the open sky. If someone looked up now—if they saw—

But worse than being seen was the thought of losing you. He couldn’t stand that. So he stayed still, waiting for your next word.

The wind whipped around you both up there, brushing his bare skin and raising goosebumps along his arms and chest. His breath fanned out in soft, shaky puffs, eyes flicking up to yours for mercy that you never bothered to give.

You clicked your tongue before stepping closer, your shoes echoing softly on the concrete. He flinched when your fingers brushed his caged length, his hips jerked like you’d shocked him, a quiet gasp tearing from his throat before he bit it back down.

“You’ve been good enough for this.” you murmured, your fingers deft as you slipped the tiny lock open. The cage dropped into your palm, warm from his body, slick where he’d strained against it for days.

You stepped back, turning to lean against the cold metal fence that ran along the terrace edge.

“Come here.”

He obeyed. Crawled to you on shaky knees, his flushed skin catching the wind. When you gestured, he sat down, back to the fence, legs spread wide on the cold rooftop. His thighs trembled from the chill, from the heat curling deep in his gut—worse now, with the thing you’d slipped in him still humming, teasing him from the inside.

You stepped between his knees, his eyes locked on you like a starving animal watching its meal. Then you lifted your foot and dragged it down between his spread thighs, brushing the underside of his freed cock.

The moan that tore out of him was raw, ripped free before he could bury it in his throat. The shame bloomed in his cheeks immediately, his hand shot up to cover his mouth, wide eyes darting to the half-open door, terrified someone might hear. But whatever you’d laced his water with had already loosened him up from the inside, his hips bucked helplessly into your touch, chasing the drag of your foot like he’d forgotten how to hold himself back.

You pressed your sole a little harder, enough to feel him twitch under the thin fabric of your sock. “It’s still inside you, isn’t it?”

He nodded. He could feel the toy’s soft hum vibrating through him, teasing him where he was most sensitive.

You crouched down, your face inches from his flushed, sweat-slicked chest. Your fingers slipped up, brushing over the flushed head of his cock just once, enough to make his hips jerk and his lips part in a sound that didn’t quite escape.

“If you can get it out without using your hands—” you murmured, “I’ll reward you.”

You sat back on your heels, eyes locked to his face, waiting. Knowing he’d try—humiliate himself for you.

He tried. Rocking his hips against the cold concrete, thighs trembling as he clenched down to push the vibrator egg out.

You just watched, your foot still brushing him every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine that made his control slip all over again. Every time he thought he had it, his body betrayed him, pulling the toy right back where it buzzed mercilessly inside.

“Tired already?” You flicked the remote’s dial higher. The low hum turned sharp, sudden, making his whole body jerk.

He choked on a whimper. Hips bucked, legs pressed wider, toes curling against the rough floor. You could see the moment it pushed him over that thin edge of control.

A low, helpless sound ripped through him as his body spasmed. The egg slipped free with a wet sound, landing near your shoe. He stared at it, breathing like he’d run a marathon, his whole body quivering with relief.

You crouched, picked the toy up by the cord, and let it swing between two fingers, smirking down at the flushed mess he’d become. Then you hooked a finger under his chin, tilting his dazed face up to meet your eyes.

“Stand up.”

He obeyed on shaking legs, one hand braced on the fence for balance, the other hovering uselessly at his side. You tugged him close enough that the tip of his aching cock pressed between your thighs.

“Go on, do whatever you want.”

He didn’t need more permission than that. He moved, hips rocking, dragging himself between your thighs with a broken, muffled groan. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, hot puffs of breath slipping into the crook of your neck as his cock slid along the heat you let him have.

He lost rhythm fast, every thrust rougher, driven by the raw edge of something he’d been holding back for days.

But you were quicker, your hand slipped down, two fingers pushing inside the still-sensitive warmth he’d just emptied. He gasped, hips jolting forward so hard the final pulse of his orgasm spilled hot and messy between your legs, dripping down your inner thighs and the cold concrete.

You took his jacket and pulled it around your hips, covering the sticky mess he’d left all over your thighs.

“Come to my place tonight.” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his slick lower lip. “I’ll take care of you properly there. Understood?”

He barely managed a nod, his hands clutching your hips like he was still trying to ground himself in the taste of you, the promise in your voice.

----

He’d expected many things when he came to your place that night. Maybe you’d drag him inside by the collar and press him into the nearest wall. Maybe you’d barely let him stand before you claimed him again.

What he hadn’t expected was the warm glow of your apartment lights, the faint smell of food drifting from your kitchen. He stood there watching you stir a pot on the stove like you hadn’t just ruined him on the school rooftop hours before.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching the confusion in his wide, pretty eyes. “Sit down” you said, nodding at the low table by the couch. “I made you something.”

A simple meal made with your hands. He ate slowly, stealing glances at you between mouthfuls.

Then you sat down across from him. You talked about him, how he mattered. How precious he was, even when he didn’t realize it. Every word sank into him like a drug sweeter than the warmth filling his stomach.

So when the edges of his vision started to blur, when his eyelids turned heavy and his limbs sank into the floor, he didn’t fight it. He barely had time to mumble your name before the world tipped sideways and slipped into a deep, soft black.

When he woke again, the warmth was gone, replaced by the sharp bite of cool air. His arms were pulled above his head, wrists bound to the headboard. His ankles were parted wide, tied at each corner.

You were there, your weight a warm pressure near his hips. Your fingers dragged something slick and cold across his chest, tracing small circles that made his muscles jump.

He flinched when you touched a sensitive spot just under his collarbone, his back arching instinctively into your hands. The ointment left a trail of cold fire behind every stroke, making his nipples tighten under your touch.

When he tried to lift his hips, hoping you’d move lower, begging in small broken sounds for your hand to slip where he ached most, you only laughed under your breath. You took your time.

When his quiet, needy sounds turned to soft whimpers, you finally leaned back, rolling two tiny eggs between your fingers. He froze when he saw them.

The first one pressed to his nipple, your fingers pinning it down as you secured the adhesive. He hissed at the shock of contact.

The second one mirrored the first, each low vibration echoing through his chest, deep enough to leave him gasping.

“Sensitive here, aren’t you?”

Then your hand slid lower, slick with warm lotion this time, your palm wrapping around his swollen length. He shuddered, his whole body tensing when your thumb brushed over the head, smearing the faint trace of pre that gathered there.

You stroked him slow. The buzz from the eggs on his nipples synced with the drag of your palm, each low pulse pulling a helpless moan from his parted lips.

He couldn’t think of anything else but you. How your scent filled the room. How your soft voice whispered at his ear.

The next day, the whole school were focused on one thing. Did you hear? Mydei quit. Did something happen? He was so good, why would he just disappear?

You stood among them, lips parted in a perfect mask of surprise, brows furrowed in polite concern. You even asked once, “Do you think he’s okay?”—knowing damn well he wasn’t anywhere near okay. He was exactly where you wanted him.

You went through your day like nothing had happened, let the rumors swirl and knot themselves into messy stories that never got close to the truth. And when the last bell rang, you slipped out. You didn’t need to rush. He’d be waiting.

Your door clicked open. The quiet of your apartment wrapped around you like a warm shroud, one you’d filled with him. His scent still clung faintly to the corners, mixed now with your own, all tangled up in the soft fabric of the pillow he was buried in.

There he was. Right where you left him.

The moment you stepped inside your room, you found him on your bed - knees braced wide, naked skin flushed deep pink under the dim light. He was folded over your body pillow, blindfold tight around his eyes. His hips moved, grinding down again and again, chasing the friction he needed so badly. His lips were parted as he whimpered your name in little gasps between ragged moans.

Two small remotes rested neatly on your nightstand. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop, your pillow damp under his belly, his skin shining where sweat dripped down his sides.

You stepped closer just as his whole body shuddered. He gasped, hips jerking one last time. A soft, hoarse cry slipped from his throat as he came, spilling messily over the sheets and your pillow, trembling so hard the blindfold slipped a little over his cheek.

You watched, the smallest smile curling at the corner of your mouth. He hadn’t even realized you were there, too lost in that mindless edge you’d carved into him.

You bent close, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "I’m home."

And in that warm sound, he knew he’d never belong to anyone else again.

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