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sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

diet pepsi

pairing — brother’s bsf!satoru x fem reader

synopsis : satoru always saw you as suguru’s little sister—until you came back different, and dangerous to want. fighting it should be easy, but summer has a way of breaking rules. and some mistakes feel too good to stop making.

tags — childhood friends au, mutual pining, summer romance, beach setting, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend trope, fluff, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, public sex (car), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy drunk satoru, overstimulation, virgin reader if u squint, unprotected piv sex, pull out method, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use, 13.9k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i tried dialogue heavy writing instead of my usual sensory and internalization on one bit and all i can say is im never doing it again it felt so icky im so sorry TvT art is not mine, i am in the middle of finding the source ><

five years vanish like smoke, curling into nothing.

summer presses heavy on the cracked asphalt, heatwaves shimmering like ghosts rising from the dunes. the pop-up ice cream stand sags under the sun’s relentless weight, its faded awning flapping lazily in the salty breeze.

satoru leans against suguru’s rusted truck, sunglasses slipping down his nose, a greasy bag of fries teetering on his knee. they’re parked beside the shack, the lull in customers letting them sink into idle chatter, cheap food, and the sticky rhythm of a beachside summer.

he’s mid-bite—salt and vinegar stinging his tongue, sweat trickling down his neck—when he hears it.

a laugh.

not just any laugh.

bright and sharp, it cuts through the cicadas’ drone and the surf’s restless crash like a blade through silk.

he looks up, annoyed first—who’s that fucking loud?—then stunned, breath punched out of him like he’s taken a fist to the chest.

you step into view like you’ve walked out of a dream he didn’t know he was having, framed by the blazing sky and the ocean’s glitter. alone, you drag a beat-up duffel bag, its strap slung over your shoulder, sneakers kicking up little clouds of sand. the sundress you wear—white, gauzy, catching the breeze—clings to your thighs, the hem flirting with every step.

a wide-brimmed beach hat sits tilted on your head, casting dappled shadows across your face, and your hair, sun-lightened and wild, spills down your back like it’s daring the wind to tame it.

you’re older. taller. you move with a confidence that scrapes at satoru’s ribs, leaves them raw and aching. you’re gorgeous in a way that feels like a hazard, like a spark too close to dry tinder. you shine, bright and untouchable, and he’s caught, staring, helpless.

his fry drops to the pavement, forgotten.

“yo,” suguru says, elbow jabbing satoru’s side, hard enough to rattle the truck. “you good, or did the sun fry your brain?”

satoru can’t answer. his tongue’s too thick, his heart’s lodged somewhere near his ankles. all he can do is watch you, the way your dress shifts with each step, the way your hat tilts as you turn your head, scanning the beach.

then you see them.

your face splits into a grin so bright it dims the sky, and satoru feels the ground tilt beneath him.

“satoru!” you shout, waving with a reckless joy that cracks the world open.

he pushes off the truck, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free, shoving his sunglasses up to hide the way his eyes are drinking you in. he hopes suguru doesn’t notice, hopes the heat crawling up his neck doesn’t betray him.

he saunters over, all false swagger, pretending his knees aren’t loose, pretending he’s still the same satoru who used to tease you mercilessly. “long time no see, squirt,” he drawls, flicking the brim of your hat. it’s a mistake—the hat makes you look too fucking cute, the way it frames your face, the way it dares him to keep looking.

you laugh, breathless and bright, and before he can brace himself, you throw your arms around his neck.

he freezes, arms caught mid-air, your warmth slamming into him like a wave. your body presses close—soft, real, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. your scent, something sweet and sun-warmed, wraps around him, and he’s drowning, his hands hovering before instinct takes over.

he wraps you up, too tight, too desperate, your curves fitting against him like you were made for it. your fingers fist into the back of his shirt, a brief, greedy clutch, and he feels the tremor in your grip, the way it lingers one second too long.

then you pull away, leaving him blinking, bereft, his skin tingling where you touched.

suguru joins a moment later, his lazy grin in place, oblivious to the storm raging in satoru’s chest. “didn’t know you were back today,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug. “would’ve picked you up from the station.”

he ruffles your hair, that annoying big-brother move, and you swat at him, your hat tilting precariously. “someone needs extra hands at the stand,” suguru continues, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fondness clear in the crinkle of his eyes. “and since you’re back in town with nothing better to do…”

he’s teasing, but there’s warmth there, a quiet pride in having you close again. satoru watches, jaw tight, as you lean into suguru’s side, your ease with him sparking something sharp and ugly in his chest. it’s not jealousy—not of suguru, never that—but something else, something that claws at him, hot and restless.

“figured you’d be perfect,” suguru adds, smirking at satoru now, like he knows something’s off. “plus, toru here was whining about being bored.”

“was not,” satoru mutters, kicking at the sand, heat climbing his neck. he’s lying, and suguru knows it—satoru’s been restless all summer, chasing distractions to fill the hollow in his gut.

you laugh again, sweet and effortless, sweeter than the cotton candy sold at the stand. it’s a sound that hooks into satoru’s ribs, pulls tight, leaves him aching.

“c’mon,” suguru says, already turning toward the road. “my treat. diner time?”

it’s tradition.

that shitty little diner down the road, with its cracked vinyl booths and milkshakes so thick you need a spoon. the three of you used to haunt it every summer, sprawled across a booth, stealing fries, laughing until your sides hurt. nostalgia hits satoru like a fist, sharp and sudden. he’s fourteen again, all knees and elbows, stomach hollow with a hunger he couldn’t name.

“last one there buys dessert,” you chirp, already jogging ahead, duffel bag bouncing against your hip, sneakers flashing white against the sand. your sundress flutters, catching the light, and satoru’s eyes linger too long on the curve of your calves, the sway of your hips.

he tells himself you’re off-limits, a mantra he’s worn thin over the years. you’re suguru’s little sister, untouchable, a line he’d never cross. but the air smells like salt and possibility, and you feel like a second chance he didn’t know he needed.

he’s marching after you before he can stop himself, pretending he’s still just satoru—your brother’s idiot friend, the guy who used to pull your pigtails and sneak you extra ice cream. pretending he’s not burning up inside, pretending the rules still hold when you’re close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

pretending he’s not already, irreversibly, fucked.

the diner sits like a time capsule at the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like a trapped firefly, its pink and blue glow flickering against the dusk. same warped menu boards, same cracked vinyl booths, same sticky linoleum floor that clings to your sneakers.

nothing ever changes here, and satoru both loves and hates it—loves the way it holds you in its amber, hates how it reminds him of everything he’s tried to outrun. it’s the backdrop to a thousand memories, all of them sharp with you and suguru.

you slide into the booth across from him, your sundress whispering against your thighs, beach hat tossed beside you like an afterthought. satoru’s hyperaware of his knees brushing the air just shy of yours under the chipped formica table, the space between you electric, too small.

suguru slips in next to you, casual as ever, but there’s a protective edge in the way his arm drapes across the booth’s back, fingers grazing the vinyl an inch from your shoulder.

“so,” suguru says, sliding a laminated menu your way, its edges curling like old paper, “college treating you okay?”

you shrug, lips curving into a half-smile that catches the diner’s dim light. “it’s just school. nothing as exciting as the beach.”

“she’s being modest,” satoru teases, forcing his voice to stay light while his pulse hammers, your nearness a live wire under his skin. “probably acing everything.”

your eyes flick to his, a hint of pink blooming high on your cheeks, soft and fleeting like a sunset. “hardly. nearly failed calculus last semester.”

“you? fail math?” satoru grins, leaning forward, the memory of you hunched over graph paper, explaining equations to him and suguru, vivid as yesterday. “impossible.”

“college math is different,” you protest, but you’re smiling, holding his gaze a second too long, your lashes casting faint shadows.

suguru glances between you, eyebrow twitching upward before he grabs a menu, oblivious to the way satoru’s heart stumbles. “food’s still exactly the same here. bet they haven’t cleaned the grill since we were kids.”

“that’s what makes it good,” you say, laughing, the sound bright and warm, like the clink of sea glass against the shore. “nothing beats greasy diner food after a day at the beach.”

the waitress appears, pen poised, her gaze lingering on satoru, lips curving in a way that’s too sweet, too practiced. “what can i get for you folks?” she asks, voice syrupy when it lands on him.

you straighten in your seat, fingers tightening on the menu’s edge, a flicker of something sharp in your eyes. “i’ll have a chocolate shake and fries,” you say, voice clear, pulling her attention like you meant to.

“double cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate shake thick enough for a spoon,” satoru orders, not glancing at the menu or the waitress. some things never change—his order, this booth, the way his chest tightens when you’re close.

“you still get the same thing?” you ask, smile soft with nostalgia, like you’re seeing him for the first time in years. “you used to make such a mess with those shakes.”

“remember when he got chocolate all over your new white shirt?” suguru chimes in, grinning, leaning back with an ease satoru envies. “you cried for like an hour.”

“i did not cry for an hour,” you protest, cheeks flushing, a spark of indignation in your eyes. “maybe ten minutes. tops.”

“and then satoru gave you his hoodie,” suguru continues, smirk sharp now, “and suddenly the tears magically stopped.”

“shut up,” you mutter, kicking suguru under the table, your gaze skittering away from satoru’s.

he remembers that day like it’s burned into him—you, twelve, small and devastated, tears streaking your face over a ruined shirt. him, awkward and too tall, draping his oversized hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes lighting up like he’d given you something precious. the memory sits heavy in his chest, warm and aching.

“you kept that hoodie for years,” suguru adds, ignoring your glare, voice teasing but fond. “pretty sure i saw you packing it for college.”

“oh my god, can we talk about anything else?” you plead, face scarlet, fingers twisting the straw wrapper into a knot.

satoru’s heart lurches. you kept his hoodie? all these years? the thought blooms inside him, dangerous and warm, like a spark he can’t smother. he wants to ask, wants to know if it still smells like him, if you ever wore it and thought of him, but he swallows it down, terrified of what his face might give away.

“what brought you back this summer?” he asks, voice steadier than he feels, desperate to shift the focus before he betrays himself. “just break, or…?”

“internship fell through,” you admit, shrugging, the motion small, almost apologetic. “figured i’d come home, make some money at the stand if you guys needed help.”

“always need help,” suguru nods, stealing a sugar packet from the caddy, spinning it between his fingers. “tourist season’s crazy this year.”

“plus satoru’s been whining about needing days off,” he adds, smirking, tossing the packet at satoru.

“i have not been whining,” satoru protests, catching the packet mid-air, his grin masking the way his pulse spikes at your laugh.

“you literally said yesterday that if one more kid dropped their ice cream and cried, you were going to walk straight into the ocean,” suguru deadpans, folding his arms.

you laugh, bright and clear, and satoru’s heart does a stupid, reckless flip. god, he missed that sound—missed it like air, like something vital he didn’t know he’d lost until it’s here again, filling the hollow in his chest.

“sounds like you need me to save you,” you tease, eyes locking with his across the table, a flicker of softness there, warm and unguarded.

“maybe i do,” he says, too honest, voice low, watching the pink deepen on your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly.

the food arrives, breaking the moment like a wave against the shore. you take a bite of a fry, eyes fluttering shut, a small hum of contentment slipping out that has satoru gripping his glass so tight he’s surprised it doesn’t crack. the sound’s innocent, but it lands like a spark, igniting something restless in him.

“god, i missed real food,” you sigh, dipping another fry in ketchup, the motion careless, perfect. “dining hall stuff is awful.”

“that fancy school doesn’t feed you right?” suguru teases, stealing a fry from your plate, dodging your swat with a grin.

“hey!” you protest, brandishing your fork like a weapon. “and no, it’s all kale and quinoa and weird vegan options.”

“poor baby,” satoru mocks, but his voice is soft, and when suguru’s not looking, he slides a few of his fries onto your plate, a quiet offering.

you catch it, eyes warming, lips curving into a private smile that feels like a secret stitched between you. your fingers brush the table’s edge, inches from his, and he wonders what it’d be like to close that gap, to feel your skin against his.

“remember that summer we practically lived here?” you ask, stirring your shake, the spoon clinking softly against the glass. “after suguru got his license?”

“and dad’s old pickup,” suguru adds, nodding, his eyes distant with memory. “we’d come every day after the beach.”

“you two would eat your weight in fries,” you laugh, the sound wrapping around satoru like a tide, pulling him under. “and then race each other back to the water like idiots.”

“while you timed us,” satoru recalls, grin tugging at his lips, the memory vivid—your small hands clutching a cheap stopwatch, shouting times as he and suguru sprinted, sand flying. “always the competitive one.”

“says the guy who insisted on best of three every single time he lost,” you counter, eyebrow raised, a challenge in your gaze.

“which was most times,” suguru adds, smirking.

“i let you win,” satoru protests, clutching his chest like he’s wounded, but his eyes are on you, drinking in the way you laugh.

“sure you did,” you say, not buying it, your eyes bright with that old, familiar spark.

suguru’s phone buzzes, shattering the moment. he checks it, sighs, and pushes his plate aside. “dad needs me to pick up stuff from the hardware store. you two good here? i can come back.”

“we’re fine,” you say quickly, waving him off, your hat slipping slightly as you turn. “i remember the way home.”

suguru hesitates, eyes narrowing as he glances between you, like he senses the shift in the air. “behave yourselves.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, voice too innocent, lips twitching.

“it means don’t let satoru convince you to do something stupid like that time he talked you into jumping off the pier,” suguru says, sliding out of the booth, his sneakers scuffing the floor.

“that was one time,” satoru defends, spreading his hands. “and she wanted to do it!”

“i was twelve and you told me it was totally safe,” you remind him, but you’re smiling, no bite behind it, just warmth.

“and it was safe,” he insists, leaning back. “you just can’t dive.”

suguru rolls his eyes, already halfway to the door. “i’ll be back in twenty. try not to burn the place down.”

the door jingles as he leaves, and the air shifts, charged, heavy with the weight of being alone with you for the first time in five years. the diner feels smaller, the hum of the neon sign louder, the space between you crackling like static.

“so,” you say, twirling your straw in your shake, eyes meeting his through your lashes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the tease. “did you miss me at all while i was gone?”

the question lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through him. he wants to say everything—how the stand felt empty, how summers dragged without your laugh, how he’s been chasing pieces of you in every distraction. but he can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, soft and expectant.

“nah,” he says, breezy, then grins at your mock outrage, the way you puff out your cheeks. “maybe a little. the stand was too quiet without you dropping things.”

“i was not that clumsy!” you protest, laughing, the sound bright enough to drown out the diner’s hum.

“you knocked over an entire display of sunglasses trying to reach the top shelf,” he reminds you, smirking, the memory sharp—you, sixteen, stretching on tiptoes, cursing under your breath as plastic frames clattered to the ground. “twice.”

“because you and suguru kept putting things where i couldn’t reach them,” you counter, pointing a fry at him, your eyes narrowing playfully.

“it was funny watching you try,” he admits, smile softening, remembering the determined set of your jaw, the little huff you’d let out. “you’d get this wrinkle right here.” he taps between his brows, his finger lingering in the air too long.

your cheeks color, and you drop your gaze to your plate, lips twitching. “i can reach the top shelf now,” you say quietly, almost a challenge.

“i noticed,” he replies, the words slipping out, low and warm. too much, he thinks, but your smile—pleased, a little shy—makes it worth the risk.

“college has some perks,” you say, glancing up, your eyes catching his, holding them.

“like sukuna?” he asks, the name sour on his tongue, suguru’s earlier comment gnawing at him. he hates himself for it, for the way it slips out, sharp and unfiltered.

your smile falters, just for a second. “sukuna was just a friend.”

“a persistent friend,” satoru presses, leaning forward, unable to stop the edge in his voice.

“jealous?” you challenge, but there’s a hopeful spark in your eyes, a crack in your teasing that makes his pulse race.

“maybe,” he admits, surprising himself, the honesty raw, reckless. “or just protective. like suguru.”

“you’re not my brother,” you say softly, holding his gaze, the words heavy, deliberate.

“no,” he agrees, throat dry, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free. “i’m not.”

something shifts, a dangerous possibility curling in the air like smoke. you look away first, tucking hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. your smile stays, small and secret, like you’re holding onto something fragile.

“anyway,” you say, voice lighter, “suguru mentioned you’ve been working on games?”

he grabs the lifeline, grateful for the shift. “yeah, indie stuff. nothing major yet, but i’ve got a few things published.”

“that’s amazing!” you say, eyes lighting up, genuine excitement in your voice. “you always were crazy talented with that stuff.”

“says the college girl,” he teases, but your praise sinks into him, warm and heavy, like a touch he can still feel.

“it’s just school,” you shrug, stirring your shake again, the spoon clinking softly. “nothing special.”

“it is special,” he insists, leaning forward, needing you to hear it. “you always were the smart one.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s pleased, soft. “says the guy who helped me pass physics senior year.”

“only because you helped me through lit,” he counters, grinning, the memory of late-night study sessions—your patience, your quiet focus—stirring something tender in him.

you laugh, the sound wrapping around him like the sun’s warmth. “we made a good team.”

“we still could,” he says, the words escaping before he can catch them, heavy with meaning he didn’t intend.

your eyes widen, lips parting, a flicker of hope crossing your face before you mask it with a laugh. “well, we’ll see how we do at the stand first,” you say lightly. “might get sick of me.”

“not possible,” he replies, too quick, too honest, his voice low enough to feel like a confession.

your smile turns shy, fingers fidgeting with your straw, twisting it into a knot. “you might be surprised. i sing in the mornings now,” you admit. “really loud, really off-key.”

“that’s not new,” he teases, leaning back, grateful for the lighter ground. “you used to screech taylor swift at the top of your lungs while restocking.”

“i did not screech,” you protest, laughing, your indignation bright and perfect.

“you absolutely did,” he insists, smirking. “scared away customers.”

“you’re such a liar,” you accuse, grinning, eyes sparkling like the ocean at noon. “you told me i had a nice voice.”

“maybe i lied then,” he suggests, voice dropping, playful but edged with something softer.

“or maybe you’re lying now,” you counter, leaning forward, your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you.

“guess you’ll have to sing for me again so i can decide,” he says, voice low, the words a dare, a pull.

your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, challenge sparking in your eyes. “maybe i will.”

the air crackles, five years of distance collapsing into this moment, this booth, this look. you’re not a kid anymore, and satoru can’t pretend he doesn’t see it—the way you’ve grown into yourself, confident, bright, a fire he can’t look away from.

“we should probably head back,” you say finally, glancing at your phone, your voice softer, like you’re reluctant to break the spell. “before suguru sends out a search party.”

“race you to the truck?” satoru suggests, grinning, a callback to countless summer days, his heart lighter than it’s been in years.

your eyes light up, competitive spark flaring. “loser buys ice cream tomorrow?”

“deal,” he says, already sliding out of the booth, his pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running.

you grab your hat, fingers brushing the brim, eyes gleaming with mischief. “ready?”

and then you’re off, dashing through the diner, sundress fluttering like a sail, laughter trailing behind you like a melody. satoru follows, heart pounding, knowing suguru might kill him for the thoughts burning through his mind—your smile, your voice, the way you feel like home—but right now, watching you run ahead, he thinks it might just be worth it.

summer melts over the beach in thick, sticky waves, clinging to the chipped paint of the pop-up stand, to the sweat-damp curls at the nape of your neck.

you work the stand with suguru and satoru, slinging snow cones that bleed syrup, fries that glisten with grease, and cheap sunglasses that tourists snap up despite their complaints about the prices. they wilt under the sun’s brutal glare, faces flushed and shiny, while you move through the chaos with an ease that twists something in satoru’s chest.

it’s only been a week since you started helping out.

satoru tries to be normal. he swears he does.

but then there’s you, stretching on tiptoes to grab a stack of napkins from the top shelf, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of soft stomach, a tiny mole just above your hip that he’s never seen before. it’s a punch to the gut, that small mark, and he ducks behind the register, fumbling with keychains, pretending to sort them while his pulse hammers.

he’s not staring, he tells himself, but his eyes keep dragging back to you, to the way your skin catches the light, warm and alive.

there’s you, perched on a stool, slurping a cherry popsicle that’s melting faster than you can keep up with, your tongue darting out to catch the drips, lips stained red.

your eyes are half-lidded, lazy with heat, and your sandal taps a restless rhythm against the counter’s edge. every tap is a countdown, every slick of your tongue a slow execution, and satoru’s dying, his hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching out, from doing something stupid.

he’s fucking dying.

“dude,” suguru says one afternoon, lobbing a wadded-up receipt at satoru’s head, the paper bouncing off his temple. “your math is shit today.”

satoru startles, blinking at the till where he’s been staring for god knows how long, a customer’s change still clutched in his fist, coins biting into his palm. the tourist in front of him shifts impatiently, fanning herself with a crumpled map.

“whatever,” he mutters, shoving the coins across the counter, his voice rough. “it’s hot. i’m fried.”

“sure,” suguru drawls, slow and amused, leaning against the freezer, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. not suspicious, thank god, just teasing.

you laugh, swinging your legs where you’re perched on the counter, your denim shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of your thighs, gleaming under the flickering neon “open” sign. you’re flipping through a gossip magazine, the pages crinkling under your fingers, your nails painted a chipped sky blue.

satoru nearly trips over his own feet grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, the cold glass slipping in his sweaty grip.

“earth to satoru,” you tease, crumpling a napkin into a ball and tossing it at his head, your aim perfect.

he catches it one-handed, tosses it back with a grin that feels too tight, too sharp, because you’re a fucking hazard, a loaded gun with your finger brushing the trigger, and you don’t even know it. your smile is lazy, your eyes bright with mischief, and he’s drowning in the heat of you, in the way you’re everywhere—your laugh, your scent, your warmth.

suguru cackles from the back room, sorting straws, oblivious to the storm in satoru’s chest.

“bet you can’t make another shot,” you taunt, grin wicked, leaning forward so your tank top dips just enough to make his throat dry.

“bet you i can,” he fires back, because it’s you, and he’s an idiot who can’t say no to you, not ever.

he grabs a plastic spoon, flicks it with a practiced snap of his wrist—it arcs across the stand, bounces off the freezer’s handle, and lands neatly in the trash can with a soft thud.

you whistle low, impressed, your lips pursing in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “show-off,” you say, but your smile softens, warm around the edges, like you’re proud of him.

later, you’re all sprawled in the sand behind the stand after closing, the air cooler but still thick, heavy with the day’s lingering heat. suguru strums a beat-up guitar he dug out of his garage, the strings twanging softly, his voice humming off-key to some old song.

you and satoru lie side by side, close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift, the contact sending sparks skittering across his skin. the sand is cool under his back, but he’s burning, every nerve attuned to you.

you doodle nonsense shapes into the sand with a stick, biting your lip in concentration, your brows furrowing just slightly. satoru watches from the corner of his eye, heart aching like it’s been bruised, the sight of you so close and so untouchable carving something raw inside him.

“wanna play chicken fights in the water tomorrow?” you ask suddenly, looking up at him, your eyes catching the last of the sunset, bright and alive.

“only if i get to be your ride,” he says without thinking, voice rougher than he means, the words heavy with want he can’t voice.

you grin, wide and blinding, and it’s like the sun never set, like you’re carrying it inside you. he almost blacks out, his breath catching, his world narrowing to the curve of your mouth.

“deal,” you say, offering your pinky, the gesture so familiar it hurts. he hooks his around yours, the brief press of your skin a vow he feels in his bones, sacred and binding.

he starts inventing excuses to stay after closing. restocking chips that don’t need restocking. double-checking the cash register he balanced hours ago. making sure you get home safe, as if the quiet streets of this town could ever hurt you. and you let him, every single time, your presence pulling him like gravity.

you let him linger, let him stand too close when you count the till, your fingers brushing his as you pass a bill, the contact fleeting but electric. you bump shoulders when you sweep sand off the counters, your laughter spilling into the night, loud and easy, hooking into his ribs and tugging until he aches. the string lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft glow over your face, tangling in your hair like a halo.

sometimes suguru’s there, tossing keys, joking about “kids these days” before bailing early to meet some girl at the pier, his footsteps fading into the dark. sometimes it’s just you and satoru, alone under the lights, the salty breeze stirring your hair, the beach stretching out endless and shadowed behind you, waves whispering secrets to the shore.

one night, after suguru ditches early, you and satoru ride home together. you slide into the cab of his truck, knees knocking against his in the cramped space, the scent of your sunscreen—coconut and sea salt—and the faint sweetness of sugar from the snow cones you snuck filling the air.

it’s suffocating, intoxicating, and he grips the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

the windows are down, the radio humming a low, dreamy song, its melody weaving through the warm night. the wind whips your hair across your face, and you laugh, batting it away with a careless hand, your fingers catching the light from passing streetlamps.

he thinks about crashing the truck just to have an excuse to feel your hands on him, to pull you close and never let go.

at a red light, you turn to him, voice soft, lilting, like you’re sharing a secret. “you’re staring.”

he jerks his eyes back to the road, ears burning scarlet, heart thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. “am not,” he says, voice cracking, betraying him.

you hum, unconvinced, leaning your head against the window, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. “liar,” you murmur, so soft it’s almost lost to the music, but it lands like a dart, sharp and precise.

“whatever,” he mutters, flustered, his usual swagger crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

the drive stretches on, every stoplight a torture, every bump in the road vibrating through the cab, tightening the tension until it’s a living thing, thick and heavy.

you hum along to the radio, voice low and sweet, your fingers tapping the dashboard in time, a rhythm that syncs with his pulse. every so often, you sneak glances at him, quick flicks of your eyes that burn, that make him want to pull over and confess everything.

you point out a diner glowing neon against the dark, its sign buzzing faintly. “we should go sometime,” you say, casual, but there’s a thread of hope woven into your voice, delicate and bright.

“yeah,” he says, too fast, too eager. “yeah, totally.”

your smile breaks over him like dawn, warm and inevitable, and he’s helpless, caught in its light.

when he drops you off, you linger by the truck’s door, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. “thanks for the ride,” you say, voice feather-light, your eyes catching the moonlight.

he nods, swallowing hard, his throat tight with everything he can’t say.

you lean in, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusting your nose, smell the sweet trace of your lip balm—strawberry, he thinks, dizzy with it. for one wild, reckless second, he thinks you’re going to kiss him, and his heart stops, his world narrowing to you.

but you just tap his chest with two fingers, right over his racing heart, the touch light but searing, like a brand. “see you tomorrow, toru.”

you bounce up the porch steps, pausing to throw him a wink over your shoulder, quick and playful, before slipping inside. the door clicks shut, and he’s left staring after you, the engine ticking softly in the warm night air, the ghost of your touch burning against his skin.

he slumps back in the seat, groaning into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. “off-limits,” he mutters, thudding his head against the steering wheel, each word a knife. “off. fucking. limits.”

he drives home on autopilot, your laugh echoing in his ears, the memory of your fingers against his chest a pulse he can’t shake. he dreams of you that night—soft, warm, impossibly close, your breath against his skin—and wakes up aching, the line between want and need blurred beyond recognition.

the next evening, satoru offers you a ride home again, his voice casual but his pulse anything but. suguru waves you off, barely glancing up from his phone, thumbs flying as he texts his latest fling about meeting at the bonfire later.

“don’t wait up,” he calls, a smirk in his voice, and satoru nearly stumbles, cheeks flushing despite the evening’s cool bite, the implication landing like a spark in dry grass.

outside, the sky bleeds watercolor—orange and gold streaking into deep lavender, fading to dusky indigo at the horizon. the air carries salt, the smoky tang of distant bonfires, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the dunes.

you slide into the passenger seat, kicking off your flip-flops with a clatter, the soles dusted with sand. you prop your bare feet on the dashboard, toes flexing, a silver anklet glinting in the fading light, and satoru’s chest tightens at how easily you claim the space, like the truck’s always been yours.

“air conditioning’s broken,” he says, wrestling with the crank windows, the handle sticking under his grip.

“who needs it?” you shrug, a carefree grin spreading across your face, bright as the last sliver of sun. you lean your head out the window, letting the sea breeze whip your hair into a wild halo, strands dancing like they’re alive.

the truck rattles down the coastal road, tires kicking up clouds of sand that drift in the orange glow. you fiddle with the radio, twisting the dial past static until a slow, dreamy track hums through the speakers, its bass vibrating deep in satoru’s bones, syncing with the thud of his heart.

your fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your bare thigh, the hem of your shorts frayed and soft, and he’s dangerously distracted, his eyes flicking to you when he should be watching the road.

“pull over,” you say suddenly, sitting bolt upright, pointing to a dirt path half-hidden by seagrass.

“what?” he blinks, hands tightening on the wheel.

“there. pull over. trust me.”

your excitement is a current, electric and contagious, and he’s turning the truck before he can think, tires bumping over the uneven path. the clearing opens to a view that steals his breath—an endless ocean, molten and shimmering, the sun sinking into it like a dying ember. the horizon burns, fierce and fleeting.

before he can ask what’s next, you’re halfway out the door, tugging your tank top over your head, the motion fluid, careless. “swimming, obviously,” you call over your shoulder, voice bright with mischief.

he stares, heart slamming against his ribs, the air in his lungs gone. you shimmy out of your shorts, revealing a plain black bikini—simple, unadorned, but devastating, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you. his throat goes dry, words dissolving on his tongue.

“we don’t have—” he starts, but you cut him off, flashing a cheeky grin.

“i always wear it under my clothes,” you say, winking. “just in case.”

just in case you decide to unravel him, to turn his world inside out with a smile and a strip of fabric.

“well?” you challenge, standing in the sand, barefoot and fearless, like a siren born from the waves. “you coming or what?”

common sense is a faint echo, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. he yanks his shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his hair, and follows you, helpless.

the water is warm, lapping at his skin, the tide playful, salt stinging his lips. you dive under a wave, your body sleek and sure, cutting through the current like you belong to it. you surface with a triumphant laugh, hair plastered to your forehead, water streaming down your face, and satoru’s caught, staring, the world narrowing to you.

“chicken?” you tease, flicking water at him, your grin sharp and daring.

he pushes deeper into the surf, muscles burning, fighting the urge to just float there, to watch you move. “race you to the buoy,” you say, pointing to a marker bobbing in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.

“you’re on,” he grins, teeth flashing, adrenaline spiking.

you take off, a blur of motion, and he has to push to keep up, slicing through the water with long, powerful strokes, the ocean dragging at his limbs. by the time he reaches the buoy, you’re there, clinging to it, laughing breathless, your chest heaving. “not bad,” you concede, splashing water in his face, the droplets cool against his flushed skin. “for an old man.”

“old?” he splutters, feigning outrage, lunging for you.

you shriek, twisting away, but he’s faster, catching you around the waist, his fingers slipping against your slick skin. he dunks you under, the water swallowing your laughter, and you surface, sputtering, eyes blazing with mock fury.

you launch yourself at him, crashing into his chest, and the momentum sends you both tumbling under the next wave, limbs tangling, breathless and weightless.

when you surface, you’re wrapped around him, legs locked at his hips, arms looped around his neck, your body pressed so close he can feel the heat of you through the water. the ocean rocks you gently, the sunset bathing you in fire and velvet, your faces inches apart. he can see the flecks in your eyes, the faint salt clinging to your lashes, and his heart stutters, a painful, desperate thing.

“i win,” you murmur, voice low, triumphant, your breath warm against his lips.

his hands steady you at your waist, fingers splaying over your skin, slick and warm, and he’s drowning, every nerve alight. “cheater,” he rasps, the word barely audible, his throat tight.

your smile is slow, dangerous, your eyes flickering to his mouth for a heartbeat, and satoru feels the world tilt, gravity slipping away. he leans in, instinct overriding reason, drawn to you like a tide to the shore—

a wave crashes over you, tearing you apart with a roar of laughter and salt spray. you’re both gasping, grinning, the moment shattered but still humming between you.

you beat him back to shore, stumbling through the shallows, your laughter ringing like bells. by the time he catches up, you’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, the first stars blinking awake overhead, faint against the deepening indigo.

without a word, he grabs his hoodie from the truck, the fabric soft and worn, and drapes it over your shoulders. it swallows you, sleeves dangling past your hands, but you tug it tight, burying your face in the collar, and the sight of you in his clothes does something vicious to his chest.

“thanks,” you whisper, voice soft, nearly lost to the wind, your eyes catching his, warm and unguarded.

neither of you moves. the moment stretches, fragile as glass, strung between the stars and the restless waves, the air thick with salt and unspoken things. satoru’s heart hammers, every beat a confession he can’t voice.

“suguru would kill me,” he blurts, the words rough, desperate, a lifeline to keep him grounded.

you tilt your head, studying him, the wind tugging at your hair. “for what?”

for wanting you. for almost kissing you. for dreaming of you every night since you came back.

“for keeping you out too late,” he lies, voice scraping, hating how weak it sounds.

you laugh, soft and knowing, like you see through him, like you always have. “i’m not a kid, toru.”

he swallows, throat burning. “you’ve always been… different. special.” the words slip out, raw and unguarded, and he regrets them instantly, but your eyes soften, something tender flickering there.

you step closer, close enough that he can smell the salt on your skin, the faint coconut of your sunscreen lingering. “maybe i’m tougher than you think,” you say, brushing sand off his shoulder with fingers so light they feel like a dream, your touch lingering a second too long.

“maybe,” he croaks, voice breaking, his hands twitching to pull you closer.

you hold his gaze, long and steady, then sigh, stepping back, the space between you cold and sudden. “we should go,” you murmur, voice laced with something heavy, something he can’t name.

he drives you home slowly, windows down, the radio murmuring a low, slow song that weaves through the night. you curl up in the passenger seat, still in his hoodie, humming softly, your voice a thread he wants to chase forever. the road stretches, quiet and dark, the ocean a shadow to your left, its rhythm steady against the chaos in his chest.

at your house, the porch light glows, a soft amber pool, but suguru’s truck is gone, the driveway empty. “thanks for the swim,” you say, lingering with your hand on the door, your fingers brushing the handle like you’re reluctant to leave.

“anytime,” he says, meaning it too much, his voice low, heavy with everything he’s holding back.

you lean across the console, and his breath catches, time slowing as you press a kiss to his cheek—soft, quick, a fleeting devastation. your lips are warm, barely there, but they burn, a spark that could set him ablaze. then you’re gone, darting up the steps, pausing to throw him a wink, bright and teasing, before slipping inside.

he sits there, hand pressed to his cheek, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. the engine ticks, the night presses in, and he’s alone with the ghost of your kiss, the weight of it heavier than the ocean.

“you’re fucked,” he tells his reflection in the rearview mirror, voice rough, eyes wide and stunned.

his reflection doesn’t argue, just stares back, helpless.

the next morning at the stand, suguru’s quiet, frowning over inventory lists, his pen scratching too hard against the clipboard. “you okay?” satoru asks, dread curling in his gut, the memory of last night still burning.

“late night,” suguru mutters, scribbling a note, his voice clipped.

relief floods satoru, sharp and dizzying, nearly knocking him off balance. “the bonfire girl?” he asks, forcing a grin.

suguru smirks, a glint in his eyes. “very flexible.”

normal. it’s normal. nothing’s changed.

then you appear, hair twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, wearing cutoff shorts and—satoru’s breath catches, a punch to the chest—his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the fabric loose but claiming you in a way that makes his head spin. “morning!” you chirp, dropping your bag behind the counter, the zipper jingling softly.

“you’re late,” suguru grumbles, mock stern, tossing you an apron.

“by like, five minutes,” you protest, rolling your eyes, your lips twitching with a smile.

“still late,” he insists, but there’s no heat in it, just the easy rhythm of family.

you catch the apron one-handed, sticking your tongue out at him when he turns away. satoru pretends to fiddle with the register, fingers clumsy on the keys, trying not to stare at you, at the way his hoodie looks on you, at the way it feels like a claim he didn’t mean to make.

but when you catch his eye across the stand, your smile slows, turns secret, full of promises he’s not sure he can survive. it’s a look that says you remember last night—the swim, the almost-kiss, the kiss that was—and his heart lurches, knowing he’s lost, knowing he doesn’t want to fight it, not with the annual bonfire party looming, its heat and chaos waiting to pull him under.

the bonfire party pulses against the darkening sky, flames clawing upward, casting amber and gold across faces slick with sweat and laughter. satoru nurses a beer, the bottle cool and slick in his palm, half-listening to a friend drone on about swell patterns and reef breaks. his attention frays, eyes slicing through the crowd, searching for you, a reflex he can’t tame.

when you appear, the world collapses to a single, searing point.

you step from the beach path, a peach sundress clinging to your curves, thin straps shimmering like liquid firelight, the hem teasing high on your thighs. your hair’s loose, wild from the salt air, curling against your shoulders like it’s daring the wind to try harder. you look shy at first, eyes darting through the chaos of bodies, searching for an anchor.

then you find him.

your eyes lock across the fire, and your smile—small, devastating, a curve of lips that’s both invitation and blade—cuts through him. it steals his breath, roots him to the sand, the beer bottle nearly slipping from his grip. his heart’s a traitor, pounding loud enough to drown out the music, and he’s terrified suguru’s nearby, that his best friend’s sharp eyes will catch the way satoru’s unraveling.

“dude, you even listening?” his friend asks, waving a hand in front of his face, voice tinged with annoyance.

“what? yeah,” satoru mumbles, not hearing a damn thing, unable to tear himself from you, from the way the firelight dances across your face.

a shadow moves beside him, and suguru’s there, beer in hand, leaning back against a driftwood log. “you’re zoning out,” he says, voice neutral, taking a slow sip. his eyes flick to the crowd, casual, but satoru’s stomach lurches—suguru knows him too well, reads him like a book, and satoru’s been anything but subtle tonight.

“just hot,” satoru mutters, tipping his beer back, the bitter fizz doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck. he forces his gaze to the fire, to the sparks spiraling into the night, praying suguru doesn’t push.

suguru hums, noncommittal, and says nothing more, but the silence feels heavy, like he’s waiting for satoru to crack. satoru tries to play it cool—laughs at a half-heard joke, tosses a stick into the flames, watches it catch and burn. but you’re a tide, pulling at him, relentless.

the way your dress shifts with the breeze, tracing the dip of your waist; the bare slope of your shoulders, kissed by firelight; the glint of your anklet, a silver thread against your ankle. it’s torture, and he’s burning, every nerve alight with want he’s desperate to hide.

you drift through the party, a fleeting spark, never staying long. you laugh with girls from the rival stand, their voices sharp and bright, then pause to chat with a guy satoru half-remembers from high school—tanned, smug, standing too close.

you tilt your head back, laughing, throat bared, and satoru’s grip dents his beer can, the metal creaking under his fingers. the urge to cross the sand, to shove the guy back, is a live wire in his veins, but he stays put, jaw tight, because suguru’s right there, watching the fire, and one wrong move could betray him.

“you’re gonna break that,” suguru says, voice low, nodding at the can, his tone too even to be safe.

satoru sets it down, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “i’m fine,” he says, too sharp, and regrets it instantly, the words too defensive.

suguru raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push, just takes another sip, his gaze drifting to the crowd. satoru follows it, and there you are, catching his eye again, your stare steady, unflinching. you take a slow sip of your beer, tongue flicking out to catch a drop on your bottom lip, and desire coils in satoru’s stomach, hot and heavy, his mouth dry as the ash at his feet.

he shifts, crossing his arms, trying to ground himself, to look anywhere but at you. suguru’s too close, too perceptive, and satoru’s walking a tightrope, every glance a risk. he forces a laugh at something his friend says, but it’s hollow, his focus fractured by the way you move, the way you exist, like you’re pulling the air from his lungs.

you’re there suddenly, standing before them, your sundress glowing orange in the firelight, sand dusting your bare ankles, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone. “hey,” you say, voice soft, a little breathless, like the crowd’s worn you thin, like you’re seeking refuge.

suguru shifts, patting the space on the log between them. “plenty of room,” he says, easy, tossing you a chip from the bag at his feet. “hungry?”

“i’m your only sister,” you point out, rolling your eyes as you settle onto the log, careful with the short hem of your dress, thighs brushing the rough wood.

you’re too close—satoru can smell your shampoo, coconut and sweet, weaving through the smoky air. your knee presses against his, a steady heat through his jeans, and he shifts, angling away, terrified of leaning into it, of suguru noticing the way his hands twitch.

you slip into easy talk, the three of you passing the chip bag, laughing at suguru’s tales of tourists losing sunglasses to the waves. but there’s a charge humming under it all, a current satoru can’t ignore.

he’s hyperaware of you—the way your fingers tuck a stray curl behind your ear, the soft hitch of your breath when you laugh, the way your eyes find his in the firelight, each glance a spark that could ignite him. suguru’s right there, sprawled and relaxed, but satoru’s nerves are a live wire, every moment a test of his restraint.

the speaker blasts a new song, bass thumping across the sand, and couples start dancing near the fire, shadows twisting against the flames. a guy approaches you—tall, cocky, hand outstretched, all easy charm. “dance with me?” he asks, grinning like he’s already won.

satoru’s jaw clenches, a spike of something hot and reckless surging in his chest, but you just smile, polite, shaking your head. “maybe later,” you say, voice light, and relief crashes through satoru, sharp and unearned, loosening the knot in his gut.

the guy shrugs, moving on, and suguru watches, finishing his beer in a long gulp, the bottle glinting in the firelight. he stands, stretching, his shadow long across the sand. “gonna grab another,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes linger on you for a beat, then flick to satoru, unreadable. “you two want anything?”

“i’m good,” satoru says, too fast, his pulse still settling, his hands gripping his knees to keep still.

“i’ll take another,” you say, holding up your empty can, fingers brushing the rim, a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge.

suguru nods, then heads off, weaving through the crowd, his absence leaving a void that hums with possibility. the fire crackles, music pulses low, and the silence between you and satoru stretches, thick with smoke and want, the air heavy with everything he’s fighting to hide.

“having fun?” he asks, voice rougher than he means, cringing at how weak it sounds, like a kid fumbling for words.

you smile, eyes on the fire, flames dancing in your gaze like they’re part of you. “yeah. it’s nice being back for the summer.” you turn to him, face half-shadowed, half-glowing, your expression soft, open. “better than i expected.”

“yeah?” he asks, heart hammering, the sound too loud in his ears, terrified suguru’s watching from the drink table, catching every slip.

you nod, holding his gaze, steady, unflinching. “yeah.”

the silence deepens, heavy as the tide, pulling at him. you take a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress, tugging it down, and he can’t look away from the nervous bite of your lip, the way it shines, wet with beer and firelight. he’s drowning, and suguru’s absence is a dangerous freedom, every second a chance to break.

“actually, i’m feeling a little…” you trail off, glancing at the crowd, the laughter and chaos swelling around you. “it’s kinda loud. kinda crowded.”

“we can move down the beach,” satoru offers, instant, eager, desperate to keep this moment. “if you want quiet.”

you shake your head, lip caught between your teeth, a gesture that’s a fucking dart to his chest. “i was thinking… maybe you could drive me home?”

his brain stutters, blanks. “home?” he echoes, keys already burning in his pocket, his hands itching to move.

“if you don’t mind,” you add, quick, a blush blooming across your cheeks, soft and real, like you’re offering more than you’re saying. “i’m just… tired.”

he knows you’re not tired. knows it like he knows the pull of the ocean, the sting of salt. your eyes are too bright, too awake, the lie a fragile veil over something bolder. he’s nodding, fumbling for his keys, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the fire’s crackle. “yeah, of course. let me just tell suguru—”

“already texted him,” you say, holding up your phone, a shy smile curving your lips. “he says it’s fine.”

satoru’s pulse spikes, panic and want twisting together. suguru’s out there, somewhere, and satoru’s terrified he’s watching, that he’ll see the truth in his face, the way he’s crumbling under your gaze. but he stands, offering his hand, voice rough. “let’s go.”

you take it, fingers warm, slightly sticky from the beer, letting him pull you up. you sway, bumping his chest, and he steadies you, hands on your waist, the thin fabric of your dress no barrier to the heat of your skin. “sorry,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes, not stepping back, your breath a soft tease against his jaw.

“that’s okay,” he says, voice raw, barely holding it together. “i’ve got you.”

you weave through the crowd to the parking lot, your hand still in his, a tether he’s terrified to break. satoru spots suguru by the drink table, their eyes meeting across the sand. suguru’s gaze is steady, a small nod passing between them, no words, just an acknowledgment that feels like a warning: don’t cross the line.

satoru nods back, a silent promise he’s not sure he can keep, and guides you to his truck.

the drive’s quiet at first, just the engine’s low growl and the distant rhythm of waves. satoru grips the wheel, knuckles white, hyperaware of you in the passenger seat—your bare legs catching moonlight, the way your dress rides up, revealing the soft curve of your thigh.

you turn the radio on low, a sultry summer song with a bassline that matches his pulse, heavy and slow. your knee brushes his, stays there, a deliberate heat that sets him ablaze, and he’s fighting every instinct to keep his hands where they belong, to keep suguru’s trust intact.

“thank you,” you say, voice soft, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse beam. “for the ride.”

“anytime,” he says, and it’s a vow, heavy with everything he’s burying, everything he’s too afraid to let suguru see.

another mile hums by, the radio crackling low, a sultry bassline weaving through the dark. tires whisper against cracked asphalt, a secret shared between the truck and the night. the windows are cracked, letting in slivers of humid, salt-heavy air, thick with the scent of seaweed and distant bonfires. it does nothing to ease the heat coiling inside the cab, a fever that clings to your skin, makes every breath feel flushed, electric, like the world’s poised on a knife’s edge.

satoru feels it before he sees it—your gaze, molten and heavy, searing into the side of his face. the air shifts, sharp, trembling, a wire stretched to snapping. weeks of want, maybe years, spill over, uncontainable, a tide breaking against a crumbling dam.

“satoru,” you whisper, voice catching, raw with a need that slices through him. “pull over. please.”

he glances at you, and it’s a fucking mistake. your eyes glitter in the dashboard’s dim glow, wild and wide, lips parted, hands fisting the hem of your peach sundress, knuckles pale like you’re clinging to sanity. “what?” he asks, voice fraying, teetering on wrecked.

“please,” you say again, lip quivering, voice splintering under the weight of desperation. “i can’t hold it anymore.”

he doesn’t hesitate. the blinker clicks, sharp and urgent, the truck veering onto the sandy shoulder, ocean roaring below the cliffs, a primal pulse in the dark. he shifts into park, and the world catches fire.

“i can’t,” you whisper, eyes wide, pleading, like you’re unraveling. “i can’t pretend like you’re not everything anymore.”

he freezes, waiting for you to laugh, to take it back, but your hands are on him, yanking him across the console, your mouth crashing into his. you taste like desperation, strawberry lip gloss, and something achingly sweet, a heartbreak he can’t name. he moans, low and stunned, hands flying to your hips as you pour into him, a wave finally breaking, relentless and all-consuming.

your kiss is frantic, messy, teeth catching his lip, tongue sliding against his in a clumsy, starving dance. he’s drowning, your body pressing closer, like you could meld into him, erase every inch of space. “wait,” he gasps, pulling back, forehead knocking against yours, breath jagged, the air between you steaming. “baby, you’ve been drinking. i can’t—”

“satoru,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shirt, nails biting through cotton, dragging him back. “i know what i’m doing. i’ve wanted you since i was sixteen. please. just tonight. let me have you.”

the raw truth in your voice shatters him, every defense crumbling like sand. “oh, sweetheart,” he coos, teasing but hungry, kissing you again, deep and reckless, tongue chasing yours like he’s been starved for you. “we should—shit, we should find a bed, somewhere better—”

“no,” you cut him off, voice fierce, climbing over the console, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. your dress rides up, thighs bare and warm against his jeans, and he chokes, breath hitching at the heat of you. “here. now. i can’t wait.”

he’s trying to be good, trying to think of suguru, of the lines he shouldn’t cross, but you’re too much—too pretty, too desperate, grinding against him, the friction making his vision blur. “backseat,” he murmurs, voice low, fraying with impatience, hands gripping your waist to lift you. “more room, pretty girl.”

you nod, frantic, and you both tumble out into the humid dark, clumsy with need, the night thick with the buzz of cicadas and the ocean’s restless crash. he catches you when your sandal snags on the doorframe, your laugh breathless, a sound that hooks into his ribs and pulls tight.

he shoves open the back door, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, firm but gentle, the leather seats gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

the backseat’s a tight cocoon, windows fogging, the air steaming with heat and lust. you climb in, pulling him after you, straddling him again, knees bracketing his hips, the seat creaking under your weight. your sundress is a crumpled mess, straps slipping off your shoulders, and he’s lost, staring at you like you’re a fucking vision, eyes glinting with want, skin flushed and alive.

“c’mere, gorgeous,” he coos, voice dripping with tease, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a hunger he can’t hide. he drags you closer, hands sliding under your dress, palms worshipping the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft dip of your waist.

you gasp, grinding against him, and he feels himself, thick and aching, pressed against your core through his jeans, every roll of your hips a sweet kind of torture.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he murmurs, breath hitching, hands trembling as he pushes your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate lace of your panties. his voice is all tease, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown, betraying the impatience clawing at him.

you giggle, wrecked and sweet, and he grits his teeth, your laugh a spark to his fraying control. “lemme touch you,” he pleads, voice low, edged with a need that’s almost painful, fingers itching to claim every inch of you.

“yes,” you breathe, thighs parting, a flower opening to the sun, offering him everything.

he traces slow, maddening patterns up your inner thighs, savoring every twitch, every shiver, the way your breath catches when his knuckles graze too close. his fingers brush the damp lace of your panties, and he curses, soft and reverent, the heat of you undoing him.

“soaked already,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear, voice thick with awe, a teasing lilt masking the way his hands shake. “such a good girl for me.”

he slips beneath the lace, and you choke on a cry, biting your knuckles, head falling back against the seat. “nuh-uh,” he teases, nipping your neck, a playful bite that stings just enough to make you gasp. “no hiding, baby. i want every sound. lemme hear you.”

he tugs your hand away, pinning it against the seat, his other hand working slow, deliberate circles over your clit, featherlight and cruel.

you whimper, high and broken, hips bucking into his touch, chasing the friction. he’s methodical, a tease—circling your clit with barely-there pressure, dipping lower to trace your entrance, then back up, dragging out every sensation until you’re writhing, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

“satoru,” you pant, nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt, leaving crescent marks he’ll trace later, proof of you.

“patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips dragging wet down your throat, teeth grazing the frantic pulse at your neck. “gonna savor you. make you forget anyone else ever touched you.” his voice is a promise, teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his own impatience, and you shudder, thighs trembling under his hands.

he shoves your panties aside, tossing them into the backseat’s shadows, and spreads you open, pressing you back against the seat, the leather sticking to your sweat-slick skin. the angle’s awkward, the space cramped, but he makes it work, one knee braced against the floorboard, shoulders hunching to fit, his breath hot against your core.

“prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” he murmurs, eyes dark, pupils swallowing the blue, staring at you like you’re a banquet and he’s been starving for years.

he kisses up your thigh, slow, messy, lips smearing wet trails, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, the faint musk of you driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, holding you still as he edges closer, breath fanning hot over your core, making you squirm. when his tongue drags a long, languid stripe up your folds, you sob, arching off the seat, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard enough to sting.

he moans, the sound eager, vibrating through you, and dives in, ravenous. he’s messy, relentless—tongue lapping broad, greedy strokes, then sharp, teasing flicks against your clit, nose nudging you with every movement.

his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly, and you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, a vise he welcomes. he pries your legs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and keeps going, tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive inch, like he’s mapping you.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mumbles, words slurred, muffled against your core, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance, and he slides a finger inside, curling it slow, deliberate, searching for that spot that makes your breath hitch. you keen, high and desperate, and he adds another finger, stretching you, pumping in time with the sharp flicks of his tongue, the rhythm maddening.

“satoru,” you wail, overwhelmed, hips bucking, chasing the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. his eyes flick up, meeting yours, and they’re wild—lids heavy, face flushed, glistening with your slick, utterly lost in you.

he’s trying to hold back, to keep some control, because you’re suguru’s sister, because he shouldn’t, but you’re too fucking perfect, grinding against his face, and he’s unraveling, impatient for more.

he shifts, the backseat too small, his shoulder bumping the fogged window, smearing the condensation. one hand braces against the door, keeping him steady, the other working you deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs shake.

his tongue traces patterns—lazy circles, sharp figure-eights, quick flicks that have you gasping, trembling. he pulls back for a moment, just to spit on you, the wet heat mixing with your slick, making everything filthier, then dives back in, lapping it up, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, the wet sounds lewd and intoxicating.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he coos, voice teasing, lips brushing your clit, but the undercurrent of hunger is undeniable, his patience fraying. “dripping all over me, baby. gonna scream for me soon.” he dives back in, tongue relentless, fingers twisting, and you’re a mess, thighs quivering, chest heaving, the leather creaking under your restless movements.

“please,” you whimper, voice breaking, hands yanking his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. “faster, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, but he obliges, tongue flicking quicker, fingers pumping deeper, curling sharper. “love it when you beg. makes me wanna tie you up, keep you like this all night.” his voice is playful, but the idea’s a spark, and you shudder, the image of you bound and spread for him making you clench around his fingers.

he groans, feeling it, and sucks your clit hard, tongue swirling, fingers relentless. you’re close, he knows it—the way you tighten around him, the way your hips stutter, the way your cries turn hoarse, desperate. he doubles down, tongue sloppy, lips smacking wetly, fingers driving into you, chasing every gasp, every shudder. “c’mon, pretty girl,” he coos, words muffled, dripping with want. “cum for me. let me taste it. fuckin’ paint me.”

you shatter, a hoarse, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as you come undone, convulsing under him, waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body arching off the seat. he doesn’t stop, lips moving, tongue lapping, fingers pumping, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, greedy for every drop.

you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders, but he’s too far gone, chasing the last of your release, his mouth slick and shining.

“satoru, fuck,” you gasp, voice broken, hands shoving at him, but there’s no strength, just a plea he ignores. he grins against you, sloppy and drunk, and licks another slow, deliberate stripe, making you jolt, a fresh whimper spilling out.

“one more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost pleading, lips brushing your clit, teasing and soft. “you’ve got another for me, don’t you? know you do.” his fingers slide deeper, curling slow, coaxing, tongue flicking light, playful, drawing you back to the edge with a patience that’s more about his hunger than your comfort.

you’re a wreck, thighs trembling, breath hitching, but you can’t resist him, not when he’s like this—teasing, hungry, cooing like you’re his to unravel.

he adjusts, cramped knees creaking, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread, hooking your leg over his shoulder to open you wider. his tongue circles your clit, soft and teasing, fingers pumping slow, deep, dragging out every sensation until you’re whining, high and needy, hands tugging his hair again.

“look at you,” he purrs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his face a mess—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, chin dripping with you. “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me. bet you’d let me do anything, huh?” he nips your inner thigh, a quick, sharp bite, and you gasp, hips jerking.

“satoru,” you plead, voice fraying, “too much.”

“too much?” he teases, tongue flicking your clit, light and quick, making you twitch. “thought you wanted me, baby. thought you couldn’t wait.” his fingers curl, slow and wicked, and you arch, a fresh cry spilling out. “that’s it, give me everything. love watching you break.”

he dives back in, tongue tracing lazy patterns, lips sucking soft, then hard, alternating to keep you guessing, keep you trembling. his fingers work deeper, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur, the wet sounds filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

he’s relentless, messy, eating you like he’s been denied for years, like every lick is a claim. his free hand slides up, cupping your breast through your dress, thumb circling your nipple, teasing until it’s hard, until you’re gasping, overwhelmed.

“wanna see you ride my face,” he murmurs, voice slurred, drunk on you, pulling back to catch his breath, his lips slick and shining. “wanna feel you grind, baby. c’mon, use me.” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just shifts, lying back on the seat, pulling you up, guiding your hips over his face, his hands firm but coaxing.

you hesitate, oversensitive, but he’s insistent, tugging you down, and when his tongue flicks your clit again, you’re gone, grinding against him, chasing the heat.

he groans, eager, hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements, his tongue relentless, flicking, circling, sucking. you’re a vision, dress hiked up, straps falling, hair a wild mess, and he’s lost, watching you use him, watching you fall apart again.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, voice muffled, vibrating through you. “fuck my face, c’mon, give it to me.” his words are filthy, teasing, but the hunger’s raw, impatient, and you’re too far gone to care, hips rolling, chasing the edge again.

he sucks hard, fingers digging into your hips, and you shatter a second time, weaker but sharper, a cry ripping from you as you convulse, thighs shaking, his tongue still moving, still greedy.

he laps you through it, slow, deliberate, not stopping until you’re limp, gasping, hands falling loose in his hair. his lips are swollen, face glistening, eyes hazy, utterly wrecked. he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft, almost worshipful, before pulling back, panting, staring at you like you’ve rewritten his world.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice raw, teasing but frayed with want, his hands still roaming your thighs, like he can’t let go. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“want you,” you whisper, dragging satoru up from where he’s still panting between your thighs, lips slick and swollen, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as you crash into him.

the kiss is filthy, all teeth and hunger, a clash of desperation and need. your hands claw at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt, pulling him so close it’s like you’re trying to carve yourself into him.

he moans, a low, wrecked sound, hands frantic as he helps you tear his shirt off. the fabric snags, rips at the seam, and you both laugh—breathless, wild, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the backseat.

you pause, hands splaying over his chest, fingers tracing the lean muscle under flushed skin, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone like stars he never noticed. he’s beautiful, carved but human, chest heaving under your touch, eyes dark with a want that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, you’re staring,” he teases, voice rough but laced with a shy edge, a flush creeping up his neck that’s got nothing to do with the heat.

“can’t help it,” you murmur, tracing the sharp line of his abs, feeling the shudder that ripples through him. “you’re too damn pretty, toru.”

he curses, soft and reverent, a quiet “shit” that’s more prayer than profanity, and shoves his jeans down, kicking them into the backseat’s shadows with a clumsy thud.

his cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and you whimper, thighs clenching, a fresh wave of heat pooling low. he’s big, bigger than you’d imagined in your wildest, most reckless dreams, and the sight of him sends a thrill through you, sharp and electric.

he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, the air between you steaming with sweat and want. “baby, i don’t have a condom,” he says, voice tight, the words dragged out like they’re killing him, his hands trembling on your hips.

“don’t care,” you whisper, desperate, hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer until his cock brushes your thigh, hot and heavy. “want you. all of you. please, satoru.”

he curses again, louder, a broken “fuck” as he drags his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit and making you gasp, hips jerking.

“last chance, sweetheart,” he coos, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide the blue’s a thin ring, a man teetering on the edge of control. “you sure?”

“please,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. “need you inside me. now.”

he groans, a sound that’s all need, and pushes in slow, careful, watching your face with a focus that makes your heart stutter. the stretch is intense, a delicious burn that has you clutching his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, leaving marks he’ll trace later with a grin. he buries his face in your shoulder, moaning, the sound low and frayed, like he’s coming apart.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he whimpers, voice shaking, a teasing lilt undercut by raw hunger. “squeezin’ me so good, pretty girl.”

he moves slow, rocking into you, letting you adjust to the fullness, each shallow thrust stealing your breath. it stings, but it’s perfect—the way he fills you, the way he’s careful but desperate, holding back just enough to keep from breaking you. “more,” you beg, rolling your hips, greedy, chasing the friction, the pressure. “harder, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, a chuckle that’s all heat, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise, a possessive edge to his touch as he pulls back, then fucks into you deeper, harder, the truck creaking with the force. you gasp, head falling back, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like a trophy.

“satoru,” you sob, overwhelmed by the fullness, the way he hits every spot, splitting you open in the best way. the backseat’s too small, his knees bumping the door, your elbow grazing the fogged window, but it’s raw, filthy—the cramped space forcing you closer, bodies tangled, slick with sweat.

the air’s thick, heavy with the scent of sex, salt, and the faint coconut of your skin, windows fogged so tight you’re a secret hidden from the world.

“feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he pants, finding a rhythm, deep and steady, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, the wet sounds obscene, filling the cab.

the distant crash of waves below weaves through your gasps, his groans, the leather creaking under you. his hands roam, possessive, one sliding up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb teasing your nipple until it’s hard, making you whimper.

“look at you, baby,” he coos, voice teasing but frayed with impatience, “taking me so well.”

“let me ride you,” you gasp, pushing at his chest, desperate to feel him deeper, to take control, to make him unravel. your voice is a plea, high and needy, and his eyes flash, something feral sparking in them.

“fuck yes,” he murmurs, wild and breathless, a grin splitting his face. “come take it, gorgeous.” he flips you in one fluid motion, maneuvering in the tight space with a grace that’s almost unfair, pulling you on top as he settles back against the seat, the leather sticking to his sweat-slick back. his hands tug at your dress, impatient, a low growl in his throat. “off. now. wanna see every inch of you.”

you nod, frantic, yanking the sundress over your head, the fabric catching in your hair before you toss it aside. your breasts spill free, no bra—because of course, you fucking minx—and satoru moans, loud and broken, hands flying to cup them, thumbs brushing your nipples, sending jolts through you.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arch, grinding against him, a whine slipping from your lips. he leans up, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with wet, messy attention, his lips leaving a trail of heat. his hands roam—one squeezing your ass, urging you to move, the other pinching your nipple, making you shudder, your core clenching around nothing.

“ride me, baby,” he pants, pulling back, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark and hazy, pupils swallowing the blue. “take what’s yours. lemme see you fall apart.”

you sink down on him, trembling, the stretch deeper at this angle, a sharp, perfect ache that has you whimpering, pausing to adjust, your breath hitching. he fills you completely, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding yourself.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, hands steadying your hips, guiding you gently, his voice teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his impatience. “fuck, you feel so good. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you move, hips rolling, clumsy at first, finding a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. the leather sticks to your thighs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the windows fogged so tight you’re a world unto yourselves. his hands help, guiding your hips, but his eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear into you, slick and glistening, a low groan spilling from his lips.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, a teasing edge fraying with need. “so fuckin’ gorgeous, taking me like that.”

every roll of your hips is electric, your thighs quivering, the effort making your muscles burn, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at you—like you’re a goddess, like he’s worshiping you with every thrust.

he meets you halfway, thrusting up, matching your pace, the truck rocking with the force, creaking and swaying like it’s barely holding together. his hands slide to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs teasing your nipples until you’re moaning, loud and shameless, lost in the heat of him.

“mine,” he murmurs, pulling you down for a rough kiss, teeth catching your lip, biting just enough to make you gasp. “fuck, you’re mine, baby. always have been.”

“yours,” you sob, collapsing against his chest, hips still grinding, chasing the pressure building inside you, a coil winding tighter with every move. his hands are everywhere—gripping your ass, cupping your breasts, sliding to your clit, rubbing messy, desperate circles that have you shaking, so close you can taste it.

he shifts, adjusting the angle, one hand braced against the door to keep his balance, the other guiding your hips faster, harder.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on yours, a teasing grin fading into raw hunger. “gimme another. wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

his thrusts turn brutal, deep, hitting that spot over and over, and you’re gone, shattering around him, walls clenching tight, dragging a low, desperate moan from his throat as he feels you pulse, hot and wet. but he’s not done. you’re still trembling, riding out the aftershocks, when he grows impatient, his cock throbbing, the need to cum clawing at him.

“fuck, baby, you’re too slow,” he teases, but his voice is strained, fraying with lust, a man on the edge. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he lifts you, bouncing you on his lap with a strength that makes you gasp, the truck shaking with every movement.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he sets a relentless pace, thrusting up into you, each slam of your hips against his sending shocks through you. the angle’s deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every bounce, and you’re helpless, a ragdoll in his hands, your breasts bouncing, your moans spilling out, loud and broken.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, but it’s dark, impatient, his eyes wild as he watches you, watches himself disappear into you, slick and messy. “fuck, you feel so good. gonna—shit, gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like that.” his hands tighten, bouncing you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

“please,” you beg, voice fracturing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the way he’s taking you apart again. “want it, satoru. want you.”

“fuck, say that again,” he groans, thrusting up harder, his voice teetering on desperate, the teasing gone, replaced by raw need. “tell me you want me.”

“want you,” you gasp, clinging to him, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, as he bounces you, the friction driving you to the edge again. “want you so bad, toru. always have.”

he’s unraveling, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his breath hitching as he chases his release. “fuck, baby, you’re too much,” he pants, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you down onto him one last time. “gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

he pulls out just in time, groaning loud and broken, spilling across your thighs, hot and thick, painting your skin as he slumps against you, panting into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling, spent.

for a long moment, it’s just the ocean’s roar below, the frantic thud of your hearts, the sticky heat wrapping you tight, the air heavy with the scent of sex and salt. he grabs his discarded shirt, cleaning you up with slow, careful swipes, his touch soft now, almost reverent, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“you okay, pretty girl?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, his lips warm, lingering, like he’s memorizing you.

“perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling into him, your body loose, sated, still buzzing with aftershocks, the leather creaking under you as you shift closer.

he helps you tug your dress back on, hands trailing soft, teasing paths over your shoulders, your collarbone, stealing kisses between every adjustment, his lips brushing your skin like he can’t bear to stop.

you’re curled together in the sticky heat, limbs tangled, the backseat too small but perfect for this—pressed close, hearts still racing, the fogged windows shielding you from the world. he checks his phone, and there’s one message from suguru:

you suck at hiding it. don’t get her pregnant, dumbass.

satoru groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, a laugh bubbling up despite the mortification. “busted,” he mutters, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable lecture.

“worth it,” you giggle, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, your lips brushing his temple, soft and warm, a promise in the touch.

tangled together under the heavy night, the world slipping out of focus—it’s just you and him, caught up in something quiet and reckless, something that feels too big to name.

a/n : ew i cant believe i had to mention sukuna but dw he got hit by a ten wheeler truck while the ending was happening. i scrapped the sorta aftermath of this which is one week later because it included risky beach sex.. lmk if y'all would want to see it ^_^

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dark-and-kawaii · 8 months ago

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⋆｡˚୨୧˚｡⋆ — Big Dick Choso~ ♡ ♡ ♡

“Ch-Cho~Choso~ m-my tummy!” You whimper as the curses cock destroys your guts, your poor overworked womb bloated with his seed, “I-y-you’re s’too big~! nnnnhhh~”

He only smiles at your cute noises, you were such a gorgeous mess, his gorgeous mess. The fact it was him doing this to you made him feel so proud. Never did he think he would end up in a relationship. Especially one with such a beautiful, sweet soul- breaking someone like you, splitting you open with his cock made it that much better.

His hands were gentle on your hips despite his brutal pace, his teeth nipping at your neck in a way that made your knees tremble, “Poor thing. I should slow down, shouldn’t I?“

You moan at the sound of his voice, your body trembling beneath him at his teasing tone and the feeling of his hot breath on your neck, “N-no~! Don't stop~ Pl-please Choso~ mn’need you ~”

Every snap of his hips drives his cock deeper into your sloppy depths, his cock rubbing perfectly against your gummy walls until you see stars… making your eyes roll back into your head. Each time those thick veins of his rub over the over sensitive bundle of nerves within you, a wave of pleasure clouded your mind, wiping out any coherent thoughts, turning you into a babbling mess for Choso. It felt like he was stirring up your insides, making a mess of your guts and marking you as his, molding your insides to the shape of his cock.

“M-my insides! Y-your c-cock~ -your cu-cum~! I can feel it sloshing in me, o-ohhh~ H’ah~!!”

You unravel like a cheap sweat- coming undone for what feels like the thousandth time, every part of you aching and exhausted… and still, Choso continues pounding away- relentlessly fucking your delicate cunt. His cock so massive that it feels like he’ll tear the rim of your asshole. The thought of being split by his cock had you cumming again, a strangled cry forced from your throat.

The way he groans as he blows his load once more makes your toes curl, and when you sense the rush of heat that comes with his climax, you're left writhing, his cock buried so damn deep inside you that it feels like it's piercing your stomach... The shape of his cock bulging in your lower tummy the final thing you see before your vision blurs and everything fades to black...

#jjk #choso #choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk choso #choso smut #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #x reader #jujutsu choso #kamo choso #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

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I’m On Fire

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: The heating unit in the compound breaks during the peak of winter, leaving everyone in the tower freezing cold and grumpy, except for Bob–who’s a walking furnace. So you decide to get a taste of the warmth.

Warnings: No explicit warnings, just fluff! Bob and you are friends…With feelings…Friends with feelings I say.

Author’s Note: I really enjoyed writing this request anon, but I kept laughing when writing this because all I was picturing was this Tik Tok. Anyways, I absolutely loved writing this one! Very fun fluff for a Saturday, and thank you @receedingdawn for the cute ass banner.

Word Count: 4,034

The cold came in like a wave. It didn’t crash through the windows or blow in through the doors. It seeped through the cracks, and invaded.

It started sometime before dawn–quiet and unnoticed–at the base of the Tower, where a blinking red light pulsed steadily on the diagnostics board in the lower mechanical level. It was just a minor system alert. One line of code trying to tell someone to check the heating core. A low-priority flag. The kind of warning that gets buried under a dozen other maintenance requests, and a digital blanket.

Nobody noticed it, or bothered to check, so the cold just continued to climb. It crept floor by floor, rising like tidewater. Slow. Patient, and semi-forgiving it the alert got caught–which didn’t happen.

By midday, the lower levels had cooled to a mild chill–noticeable, but nothing out of the ordinary for winter in New York City. It was the kind that made you rub your hands together and blow against your palms to give you a little relief from the cold, before moving on with your day. But by the time the sun dipped below the skyline, the eightieth floor–the Thunderbolts living quarters–was freezing.

High above the city, the wind screamed against the glass walls like it was a living thing. The steel bones of the Tower groaned softly in response to each gust, and you could’ve sworn you could feel the floors shaking at some point. The vents blew nothing but a mechanical sighº–like it had risen a white flag in surrender to the harsh winter–and the lights that lined the ceilings flickered every so often as if they were shivering with you. The floor tiles had the bitter feel of ice cold concerte, mugs of hot coffee and tea went lukewarm within minutes of being poured, and your breath had turned visible even within the confines of the living quarters–puffing out in little clouds that hovered and curled like ghosts before fading into the stillness.

The air had a sharpness that bit at fingertips, slid down collarbones, and made people quiet, and frustrated all at the same time.

”I’m telling you,” Yelena muttered, pacing in thick socks, and two layers of sweatpants, “We are one bad power surge away from an ice age in this damn place.” She fixed her gloves on her hands, as she huddled into the collar of her sweater.

”Pretty sure my blood is trying to congeal in itself…I think I’m on the brink of death.” Walker added, hunched over on the common room couch with a blanket draped over his shoulders like a funeral shroud.

Across the room, Ava was bundled in a military-grade parka she must’ve pulled from storage. Only the sharp glint of her eyes were visible above the thick wool scarf that she had wrapped around her head. She hadn’t said a word in fifteen minutes, she just stared into her mug, watching as little frost specks floated on top of her coffee.

Nobody was handling the cold well.

Except Bob.

He looked like he had wandered in from a completely different climate–like he had gone on a beach vacation in the tropics and brought the heat with him.

Perched at the far end of the sectional, he sat cross-legged with a worn paperback in his lap, a bowl of salt and vinegar chips balanced on the armrest beside him, and a cold Coke Zero sweating quietly on the coffee table in front of him from the warmth of his hand touching it every so often.

He didn’t have a blanket or socks, just a pair of soft grey sweatpants and an old, slightly threadbare long sleeve shirt that clung gently to the shape of his chest and shoulders–damp in spots where the heat radiating off him had started to collect.

In comparison to the rest of the team–who looked like they were preparing to trek across the Arctic–Bob looked like he was five minutes away from cracking open a window. It also wasn’t just the fact he looked comfortable–it was that he was radiating heat.

It was rising from his skin in slow steady waves if you paid close attention to him. The faint shimmer was lifting off his forearms, and a soft flush clung to the tops of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, like he had just come in from a run rather than being sat unmoving in the meat locker common room for the last forty minutes. There was even a sheen of sweat glistening at his temples, catching the light every time he turned a page and tilted his head.

Yelena froze mid-pace and squinted at him.

”Bob…” Her voice was flat, bordering on accusatory, “Are you–are you sweating right now?!” Bob blinked up from his book, pushing his light brown hair out of his face.

”Uhm…” He lifted a hand to wipe at his forehead, as if he was surprised to find it damp, “Y-Yeah? A little. I–I mean, I told you guys I run warm…A-And I’ve got the Sentry in me, so–uh–of course I’m kind of…Y’know…Hot.” There was a beat of silence, then Yelena turned to the others.

”And he has the audacity to joke about it.” Walker let out a dramatic groan from beneath his blanket.

”He‘s not joking, he is hot. Like tropical-level hot. Bob…You’re a walking space heater.” Bob went pink immediately. Not just his face–his ears, too. He ducked his head with a bashful shrug and tried to laugh it off, but it came out awkward, then he reached out for his Coke Zero and took a long sip.

From the kitchenette, where a bottle of whiskey was being passed like emergency rations, Alexei glanced up from his glass.

”We should wrap Bob in blanket burrito, then take turns crawling in like it’s sauna.” He stated, and Bucky, who had been silent until now, raised his glass slightly, unbothered by the cold.

”I’d pay to watch that happen.” Bob choked on his drink. Not a little, polite cough–a real sputter. He turned his head and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to keep it quiet, but he could feel the heat continuing to rise beneath his skin. Alexei, of course, was completely unbothered.

”Just saying,” He shrugged, pouring himself another half-glass, “You get three people in there with you, rotate every thirty minutes…Efficient heat source I say.” Walker snorted.

”We could even install a zipper on the blanket, then call it the Bob Bag.”

“Worst part is I would definitely be the first person to try it…It’s freezing.” Bob hunched slightly where he sat, trying to disappear into the cushions. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the idea of someone cuddling up next to him–it was the idea of the entire team looking at him like he was the last functioning radiator in New York City that was making his skin prickle.

”G-Guys, “ He stammered, lifting his palms in surrender, “I’ll probably end up combusting if you all t-try to–if anyone–I–I mean…” He fumbled for a save.

”H-How about we just–uh–call m-maintenance again, yeah? I’m sure they’ll help…R-Right?” No one responded. Instead, they all turned toward him slowly. Creeping forward. Ava didn’t even stand–just started sliding across the armchair like a sleep-deprived slug with one goal: heat. Yelena grinned.

”You’ve been outvoted, human furnace.” Walker stood.

”Don’t resist Bob…Embrace your destiny.” Bob’s shoulders hit the back cushion as the group began to close in.

“G-Guys, I’m being serious–”

His voice cracked at the end–not from fear, but from that thing under his skin, the one that didn’t like being crowded. Not when he didn’t want it. Not when he wasn’t ready. Then his eyes glowed. Just a soft, flickering glint beneath his lashes. It was enough to make everyone freeze. Walker stepped back instinctively. Ava’s mug lowered a fraction. Even Yelena lifted her brows and let out a soft scoff as she retreated a step.

“Ugh…The sunshine god always has to ruin the fun and scare us off,” She commented, letting out a long sigh, “I guess I’ll call maintenance again and see what the hell they’re doing. Probably still trying to figure out how to reset a server without breaking a nail.” She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and turned her back on the couch. Bob exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“S-Sorry guys…Didn’t mean to uh–to flare.” He hated that part. That undercurrent of otherness. The way people joked until something flickered in his eyes, and then everything stopped being funny. How he went from Bob to the Sentry in a heartbeat without meaning to. Even here, in this mismatched pile of sarcasm and trauma and second chances–they still backed off when the light showed.

Bob was still hunched over, fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to will the faint glow in his eyes away when the sound of teeth chattering echoed down the hallway.

Everyone turned toward it.

The sound grew louder–soft footsteps over the cold floor, the rustle of layered blankets, the stifled clatter of a mug being carried between violently trembling hands. And then you appeared in the doorway, wrapped in two fleece throws like a cocoon, shoulders hunched, cheeks flushed with windburn, and face pulled into a miserable grimace.

You looked like you were on the verge of dying. Or committing murder. Possibly both.

“The hell…” You croaked through your chattering teeth, breath curling in front of your lips, “How did this happen without anyone catching it on time?”

Your voice wavered on the last word–not just from frustration, but from the way your whole body was trembling. You were shaking, jaw clenched, knees knocking together slightly under the blankets as you shuffled forward like someone trying to survive a blizzard in a hoodie.

Bob’s heart slammed in his chest. Not from panic, or from Sentry wanting to see you, but just from pure instinct. He felt it burn inside him–this pull toward you, this immediate, deep, animalistic need to wrap you up and make you warm. Not just because you were cold. But because you were you–someone that had connected and tethered to him on more than just a baseline friendship level. Though it was hard for Bob to really contain himself, and the desire to take care of you in general because he knew you probably didn’t see him in the manner he saw you in.

“They probably missed it. That’s the only reason this could’ve happened. Nobody flagged it in time.” Ava responded first, her voice muffled behind her scarf. You exhaled hard through your nose, steam huffing from your lips. Your eyes flicked to the sectional–to the wide, open space beside Bob. You took one step toward it, then paused.

Your eyes landed on him.

You blinked slowly, your gaze dragging from his flushed face to the damp edge of his collar to the Coke can on the table still sweating with heat.

Then it clicked.

“Oh, right,” You rasped, eyebrows lifting. “I forgot about you running hot, you’re gonna be my life saver!”

Before Bob could respond–before he could stammer out anything–you moved.

You dropped onto the couch beside him with the exhausted weight of someone who had given up on survival. You let your blankets slide open just enough to let the heat in, curled your toes beneath you, and leaned into his side with a soft, contented groan.

Bob stopped breathing.

He felt you. Every inch of you. Your icy fingers brushing his thigh. The chilled edge of your arm nudging his ribs. Your cheek settling lightly into the curve of his shoulder. And then–God help him–the tiny, blissful sound that slipped from your lips when the warmth of his body hit you full-force.

It was quiet. Barely audible. Just a hum of deep, unconscious relief.

“Mmm…”

But to Bob, it was devastating.

His entire body tensed like he was preparing for impact. His breath caught in his throat. His hands twitched on his thighs, and the heat under his skin flared so suddenly he had to will it back down before his shirt started to steam.

You didn’t even notice.

You were too cold. Too relieved. Too focused on not crying from the sheer comfort of finally, finally finding warmth after what felt like an hour and a half of your limbs feeling like they were going to shatter.

“Oh my god,” You whispered, pressing your face against the side of his arm like you were trying to melt into him. “You’re boiling. This is perfect.” You breathed in deeply, smelling the cool mint scent of his body wash, letting it invade your lungs, as you nuzzled even closer to him.

Bob swallowed hard. “I-I…Uh…”

You sighed again. And this one was worse. Better. More dangerous. It wasn’t just relief–it was pleasure. The kind that only came from thawing out after a deep freeze. A sound that vibrated low in your chest and hummed right against his ribs.

He couldn’t look at you.

If he did, he’d die. Spontaneously combust on the spot. Sentry and all.

You tugged the top blanket around the both of you, like it was natural–like sharing heat was second nature. Like you weren’t undoing him with every breath that ghosted across his neck.

A long silence settled over the room.

Not awkward. Not exactly. But heavy with something unspoken.

You didn’t notice the way everyone else had gone quiet. You didn’t see the way Yelena lowered her phone without pressing call, or how Walker and Ava slowly exchanged looks, eyebrows raised. You didn’t catch Bucky’s subtle nod from the kitchen, or Alexei’s low whistle as he leaned back in his chair like he was watching the beginning of a very good movie.

Because you were too busy melting.

Literally and figuratively.

Your arm moved slowly. Almost imperceptibly. It slipped from beneath your blanket, slid across Bob’s damp shirt, and curled around his torso–fingers splaying wide across his side. Not in a flirtatious way. Not in a way that begged attention. Just an unconscious, instinctual kind of closeness.

A gesture that said: you’re warm, and I need all of it.

Bob’s heart skipped.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His spine had gone rigid, and his breath had stalled somewhere between his throat and lungs. You were touching him. Really touching him. Not in passing, not in jest, not in the familiar bump of shoulders during a mission or a sarcastic pat on the back.

But this. A full-body lean. An arm around his waist. Your chilled hand flattening over his ribs, tugging him–gently–closer to you.

And he let you.

Because he would’ve let you do anything.

Your fingers brushed a damp spot on his shirt. He was sweating. Badly. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment. You just let out another of those sighs–low, content, sinful in its softness–and nestled closer until your forehead touched the curve of his neck.

“God…” You mumbled into his skin, breath curling warm under his jaw, “You’re saving my life right now.” Bob let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a whimper.

His hands were still on his thighs, white-knuckled, as if he were holding himself down. As if one move would tip this entire fragile balance into something he couldn’t pull back from. Because it wasn’t just warmth he was giving you–it was everything.

Every part of him was screaming for more.

More of your voice. More of your weight leaning into him. More of your fingers splayed against his side and the way your leg was now casually draped over his calf under the blanket.

And yet–somehow–you still didn’t seem to notice what you were doing to him.

From across the room, Yelena’s voice broke the silence.

Soft. Distant. A whisper clearly not meant to be heard.

“Oh no…She’s gonna kill him.”

Walker coughed into his sleeve. “He’s not gonna survive the next ten minutes.”

“I give him five.”

“Three, if she sighs again.”

Ava hummed in agreement. “He’s gonna short-circuit.”

Bob could hear them. He could hear everything–every shifting blanket, every laugh being swallowed behind a cup, every knowing glance being passed around like popcorn.

But all he could feel was you.

The weight of your body against his.

The cold that finally eased from your limbs.

The way your breathing slowed, softened.

And the way you whispered–barely audible, but so close he could feel the words against his skin:

“…Think I could stay here all night.” The words left your lips like a sigh—half asleep, half joking—but Bob felt them hit.

They lodged somewhere between his ribs, soft and brutal, and echoed in his chest long after the sound had faded into the blanket-wrapped stillness.

He didn’t respond right away.

Couldn’t.

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came. His throat was dry. His breath was shaky. The heat he’d been radiating all evening was nothing compared to what flared through him now–less like warmth and more like a furnace igniting from the inside out.

You shifted again. Just a little. Your fingers flexed slightly against his ribs. You were settling in deeper.

Bob’s voice, when it finally broke free, was small and trembling.

“Y-You can. I-I mean–if you…If you want. I-I wouldn’t–I wouldn’t mind.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

But after a beat, you tilted your head and looked up at him.

And that was it.

The end of him.

Because you weren’t even trying to do anything. You just looked up–sleepy and flushed, lips parted, eyes soft–and you saw him.

The way his jaw was clenched. The way his shoulders were locked up. The way his fingers curled into his thighs like they were holding on for dear life. The way his shirt was soaked from heat and nervous sweat and yet he hadn’t dared move.

And then your eyes met his.

And you saw it.

The wreckage.

His face was flushed–burned red at the ears, his lips slightly parted like he was afraid to exhale too hard. His eyes were wide, glassy, stunned. Not from embarrassment. Not from discomfort.

From everything.

From being touched, and wanted, and needed.

From your breath on his skin, your arm around his waist, your words curling like ribbons into his ear and tying knots he didn’t know how to undo.

You blinked once, slowly.

“…Bob?”

His breath hitched.

“I-I’m f-fine,” He stammered, the lie so thin you could hear the tremble beneath it. “J-just…Y-You’re really close, and I-I’m trying not to–uh–I mean, I d-don’t wanna–”

He stopped himself.

But the damage was done.

You stared up at him for another long moment, blinking against the golden flush of his cheeks and the sweat dotting his brow, and the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes now.

And something shifted in your chest.

You loosened your grip around his waist–but not to move away. Just enough to smooth your hand against the curve of his side. Gentle. Careful. Tender in a way that quieted everything else.

“…Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Bob shook his head before you’d even finished the question.

“N-No. G-God, no,” He said quickly, too quickly. “Y-You’re not. I-I like it. I–”

He swallowed hard.

His eyes finally flicked toward you, just briefly.

“I-I just…Don’t k-know how I’m doing this w-without Sentry going o-off the rails…” Your lips curved into a quiet smile against his skin.

“Maybe he’s used to me pestering you by now,” You murmured, voice low and teasing, “Maybe he knows not to get in the way of things.”

Bob blinked.

His chest lifted with a deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and the glow in his eyes flickered briefly behind his lashes.

“Y-Yeah,” he said softly, with a quiet sort of wonder. “M-Maybe.”

He didn’t add that Sentry was right there. Listening. Not pushing forward, not flaring to the surface like he so often did when Bob felt overwhelmed.

He was just…Calm.

Not silent, exactly. But watching through Bob’s eyes with something that felt like reverence. A kind of awestruck stillness that made Bob feel like his ribs were filled with golden thread instead of bone.

You were still watching him. Still close enough that every breath he took shifted you slightly. And even in the dim light of the living room, he could see the soft twitch of your lips and the calm around your eyes–like your nervous system had finally unclenched for the first time all day.

“Sorry I’m so clingy,” You added after a moment, eyes fluttering shut, “I know this probably feels like being tackled by a human-shaped block of ice.”

Bob’s voice cracked again.

“Y-You could tackle me any time.”

Your eyes opened slowly.

“What?”

His ears turned bright pink. “N-Nothing. N-Never mind.”

You snorted–this breathy, fond little sound–and let your hand trail lightly across the shape of his ribs, fingers drawing lazy circles through the soft fabric of his shirt.

“I think I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that,” You said, lips curving into a slow smile. “For your dignity’s sake.”

Bob swallowed hard. You shifted a little closer until your forehead was tucked under his jaw and your fingers were curled in the hem of his shirt like you didn’t want to let go.

He could feel your eyelashes brushing against his skin.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Give me a few more minutes with you…And then I’ll untangle and let you recover.”

That almost made him laugh.

But it caught in his throat because something about the way you said it–something about the gentleness behind the tease–made it feel bigger than just cuddling on a cold night.

It felt like you knew.

Maybe not everything.

Maybe not how often he thought about you. Or how many times he caught himself daydreaming about a moment like this–exactly like this. The weight of you against him. Your breath slowing. Your body folding into his like it belonged there.

Maybe you didn’t know how much he ached when you brushed against him on missions or leaned on him when you were too tired to stand. Or how long he’d been pretending it was nothing when every second of contact burned through him like a star being born.

Maybe you didn’t know that every part of him had been waiting for you.

But maybe you felt it. Just a little.

Because you didn’t pull away. You didn’t tease too much. You just settled in, calm and warm and real, and gave him the one thing no one had offered in a while.

Time and gentle touch.

A few more minutes. A few more inches of closeness. A few more breaths shared between them. Bob turned his face slightly toward your hair, just enough to breathe you in. Your scent was cold, but there was a depth of warmth beneath it, something fruity–like jammy blueberries and blackberries, maybe a field that had ripening strawberries. It was like you were bathing yourself in something that was tropical to emote the sense that you were someplace warm instead of a cold compound.

Finally Bob lifted his hand, and let it rest over your back. It was tentative at first, then more solid, like a soft protective weight. His thumb stroked gently across your spine, and he whispered:

”Take as long as you want.” You didn’t respond, you just let out a slow, steady breath that warmed his neck and a soft hum of contentment as you curled into his chest and closed your eyes again.

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shortnspidey · 2 months ago

Text

CONTAINMENT BREACH

Bob Reynolds X female!reader || WC: 6.6K

SUMMARY: Ever since the day he accidentally voided all of New York City, Bob’s kept his circle tight, trust was a luxury he can’t afford. His teammates were the only ones who get close. That is, until Bucky’s cat sitter shows up. Charming, unshakable, completely unexpected, and completely slipping past Bob’s defenses with alarming ease. Now he’s questioning everything he thought he knew about trust, about himself, and maybe even about second chances.

WARNINGS: Slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Talks of mental health, depression, self-depreciating thoughts, character death (not reader or Bob) platonic Bucky x reader, Alpine being a little menace and matchmaker, lots of time skips, angsty fic but fluffy ending!

A/N: Just like everyone else, Bob Reynolds has had such a hold on me ever since I watched Thunderbolts, which is how this came to be written! I love that Marvel gave us such a relatable and real character. Enjoy! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

It wasn’t often that the Watchtower had visitors. From time to time, Valentina or Mel would swing by, typically armed with sharp suits and sharper words, checking to make sure the New Avengers hadn’t shattered another city block or, God forbid, triggered another diplomatic incident. But personal guests? Those were rare. Especially for Bucky Barnes.

Lately, even Sam didn’t visit much, tensions still stretching between them. Which is why the silence in the Watchtower’s main floor was deafening when the elevator chimed and opened with a soft hiss… and Bucky smiled. Not just the tight-lipped, guarded smirk that passed for a grin these days. A real smile. The kind that started in the eyes and softened his whole face, made him look like someone who’d once known peace.

He stepped forward before the doors had even fully opened and wrapped the woman inside in a firm, familiar embrace. She returned it just as easily, arms winding around his shoulders like this was far from the first time. “Thank you for doing this.” Bucky murmured. You pulled back slightly, but not before affectionately squeezing his forearm, flesh, not metal, and giving him a look full of warmth.

“Just add it to the tab of favors you owe me, Barnes.” You teased. The sound of someone clearing their throat behind you broke the moment. You turned, finding a semi-circle of curious, and clearly surprised faces staring back at you. These were the teammates Bucky had told you about over late-night calls. John with the cautious eyes, Ava standing slightly apart from the group, Yelena who assessed you from head to toe, Alexi wearing that unmistakable grin, and then—

Bob.

He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. You gave a small, sheepish wave. “I’ve heard a lot about all of you.” There was a beat of silence. John and Ava exchanged a look that said we’ll be talking about this later. Alexi nodded approvingly, his grin widening like this was the most entertainment he'd had in weeks. And Bob… Bob tilted his head slightly, something unreadable passing through his expression.

You were pretty, he thought, objectively so, but more than that, you seemed to carry an energy that didn’t belong in a place like this. You radiated optimism like it was your default setting. No armor, no edge, no practiced emotional detachment like the rest of them had learned to wear like skin. It unsettled him and intrigued him at the same time. Because in a tower full of jaded heroes and haunted soldiers, you stood out like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Wish we could say the same,” Yelena drawled, her Russian accent curling around the words. She leaned casually against the edge of the table, eyes glinting with mischief as they flicked to Bucky. “But Bucky here hasn’t told us anything about you.” Alexi’s laugh followed a beat later, loud and delighted. “About time you brought your lady over and introduced her to us!” You and Bucky exchanged an immediate, mutual grimace.

“Oh, we’re not—” You said at the same time he blurted, “No, she’s—” You motioned vaguely between the two of you, stepping slightly away from Bucky’s side for emphasis. “We’re not together like that. He’s like the overprotective big brother I never had. Annoying, broody, and occasionally helpful.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. At your words, Bob felt something inside him unclench, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

His shoulders eased slightly, tension leaking out like air from a valve. But just as quickly, his own mind betrayed him. Stop it. She would never look at you like that. The thought hit like a sucker punch to the gut. A harsh voice, well-rehearsed and heavy with truth. His posture shifted again, the weight of it all settling across his shoulders. He ducked his head slightly, eyes lowering as he avoided looking in your direction altogether. Across the room, Ava’s sharp gaze never wavered.

She tilted her head, brows drawn together ever so slightly. “Then what are you doing here?” You met her scrutiny without flinching. “Cat-sitting,” You replied simply, lips curving upward into an easy smile. As if on cue, the cat in question trotted into the room. Her white fur gleamed under the overhead lights, tail held high and confident as she padded across the floor. A single approving meow escaped her as she reached you, rubbing against your leg with practiced affection.

“There she is!” Your voice softened immediately. “Hi sweet girl.” You crouched, scooping her into your arms and pressing her against your chest. She purred, loud and satisfied, immediately tucking her face into your neck like she'd missed you for days. Bob’s eyes lifted without permission, drawn to the scene despite himself. Something about it, the calm in your touch, the quiet joy you didn’t bother hiding.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he got anymore. But here you were, in a tower full of ghosts and ex-assassins, holding a damn cat like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to look away. And also made it impossible to. “That monstrous feline is not sweet.” John Walker’s voice cut in like a sawblade, his words practically dripping with contempt as he stared Alpine down like she’d personally offended him. You gasped, clutching the cat closer.

Alpine blinked at John with the casual disdain of someone absolutely unbothered. “Monstrous?” You echoed his words with exaggerated disbelief, gently scratching her under the chin. “I think you’re talking about a different cat. Alpine wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She responded with a low, delighted purr that vibrated against your chest.“Alpine is selective,” Bucky clarified, dry as ever, stepping in like the overprotective big brother he was determined to be.

“Only likes very specific people. Don’t disrespect my cat just because she doesn’t like you.” John scoffed and crossed his arms, muttering something under his breath that you were pretty sure included “spawn of Satan.” Alpine simply blinked again completely unbothered. You bit back a grin and looked down at her. “She’s definitely a good judge of character.” Before John could retaliate, Bucky shifted the conversation. “We should be back in a few days,” He interjected, tone casual.

At those words, Bob, silent, still as ever in the background, tensed so subtly only someone who really knew how to look would have noticed. But it was there. That flicker of alarm. Of dread. Because if everyone was leaving… then it would be just you. And him. In this tower. Alone. “I even got you that god-awful grass drink you like,” Bucky added, smirking slightly. “It’s in the fridge.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, reaching out to smack his arm. Which, predictably, felt like smacking concrete wrapped in tactical gear. “Disrespect matcha one more time, Bucky,” You warned, faux-serious. “And you’ll see what happens.” The super-soldier simply laughed even when you narrowed your eyes. “This is so weird,” Yelena muttered, arms folded as she eyed the scene.

“You being soft. It’s unnatural.” She gestured vaguely to Bucky, making everyone else in the room nod in agreement. With one final check of their gear and Bucky thanking you for the tenth, or maybe hundredth time, and pulling you into one more hug, the team moved out. The elevator doors hadn’t even fully closed before you heard a chorus of muffled voices instantly bombarding him with a flurry of questions:

“Who is she, Barnes?”

“How long have you been hiding her?”

“Why did the demon cat cuddle her and hiss at me?”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. Then the quiet settled. Just you, Alpine… and Bob. You cradled Alpine as she adjusted herself like a baby, utterly at peace. You crossed the room, shoes soft against the polished floor, and stopped a few feet in front of him. “Hi,” You offered, voice warm but not too pushy. “I’m Y/N.” Your hand extended between you. Bob glanced at your hand, then at your face, then down at his own sleeves, pale knuckles twisting the hem of his oversized hoodie.

His posture was withdrawn, hunched in a way that felt almost apologetic, like he was constantly trying to make himself smaller. “Bob,” He whispered back quietly, avoiding your eyes, your hand, and pretty much all signs of contact. Then, without another word, he turned and slipped out of the room like a shadow trying not to be noticed. You didn’t take it personally. Bucky had warned you he was quiet.

But still, your smile faltered as your hand dropped, a soft exhale slipping through your lips. You glanced down at Alpine, who pawed at your shirt and yawned dramatically, as if she were unimpressed by the exchange. “That went well." You muttered under your breath. But you didn’t give up. You never really had that in you. You turned the lights down low and settled on the plush couch with Alpine nestled into your side.

You flipped through the Watchtower’s extensive movie archive until you found something comforting, a favorite you’d seen a dozen times, familiar enough to be background noise, comforting enough to combat the eerie silence that blanketed the place once the others left. The quiet was different now. Less filled with activity. You curled up under the soft throw blanket Bucky had left out for you, Alpine’s warmth keeping your chest grounded even as your thoughts began to spiral.

Eventually, the low murmur of the film and the rhythmic rise and fall of the Alpine’s breathing lulled you toward sleep. But even as you drifted off, one image kept slipping into your mind: Doe eyes. A slouched frame in too-big sleeves. A boy trying to be invisible in a room full of larger-than-life heroes. And the ache behind his silence that you couldn’t quite stop thinking about for the rest of the foreseeable future.

The next morning, the Watchtower was nearly silent, save for the occasional soft thud of Alpine jumping from one surface to another. Sunlight poured through the expansive windows of the kitchen, casting long golden rays across the sleek countertops and polished floors. You moved through the space quietly, barefoot, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of Bucky’s old henley's over your pajamas.

Alpine trailed behind you, tail flicking with approval. You hadn’t expected Bob to be awake yet, which is why you froze for just a second when you saw him. He was sitting on the far end of the kitchen island, hunched over a mug of tea like it might anchor him to the world. His hoodie was the same as yesterday, slightly too big, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles, hair a little mussed like he hadn’t slept much, if at all.

He looked up as you entered. For a brief moment, your eyes met. Then he quickly looked back down, as if the connection had startled him. “Morning.” You greeted gently, not wanting to startle him further. He gave the slightest nod. “Morning.” Progress. You moved with quiet purpose, grabbing a pan and a few things from the fridge. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d make something.” No reply.

“Can’t live off matcha and croissants the whole time I’m here.” He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. That had to count for something. You worked efficiently, the smell of browning butter and cinnamon soon filling the air as you began prepping a small stack of French toast, humming softly to yourself. You noticed the way Bob’s posture shifted slightly, still guarded, but curious.

Alpine perched herself on the windowsill nearby, watching like a supervisor. Occasionally, she meowed at Bob, almost like she was trying to coax him into joining the moment. “I don’t bite,” You smiled softly, keeping your tone light as you slid a plate across the island toward him. “Unless someone badmouths my emotional support drink.” That got a soft huff of air from him. Almost a laugh. He didn’t touch the plate yet, but he looked at it, and that was a start.

You grabbed your own plate and settled onto a stool nearby, not too close, just within conversation range. You didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch comfortably between you as you both started to eat. Eventually, you spoke again. "Do you like the quiet?" His fork paused. For a moment, you thought he might shut down again, but then, his voice, low and unsure whispered. "It's comforting," He paused swallowing the lump in his throat.

“But not always, I-I get too lost in thought, spiral." You looked up, heart catching on the simple truth in his voice. “That’s fair,” You murmured. “Sometimes quiet with the right person is… kind of perfect, makes the voices go away.” His fork didn’t move. You could feel it in the air, the shift, the wall going up behind his eyes even though he hadn’t physically moved a muscle. That one word, voices had tapped something deep, something raw. You didn’t need to ask to know where his mind had gone.

You saw it in the sudden tightness of his jaw. The way his gaze didn’t land on you, but somewhere around you, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to recoil. Waiting for the disgust or fear he was sure would come. He didn’t speak, but his body did, stiff, guarded, breath shallow. Then finally, with your voice quiet and even, you spoke again. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” His eyes flicked to yours, fast, searching. “I just know sometimes… the quiet can feel more like a trap than a comfort,”

“Especially when your thoughts won’t turn off.” His posture eased. Barely. But it was enough for you to notice. “I didn’t mean your voices,” You clarified, almost a whisper. “I meant mine.” You reached for your mug, sipping slowly to let the weight of your words land without pressure. You weren’t here to interrogate him. You weren’t here to fix him. You were just… here. He watched you. You could feel it, his gaze heavy and unmoving.

As if he was seeing you for the first time without the filter of assumptions. You were still radiating light, he thought, but it was softer now, not the blinding kind. A more human kind. Like sunlight after rain. Warm, but gentle. His brows drew together as if something inside him hurt a little. You watched his jaw twitch, the flicker of conflict in his features as your words processed. There was no way, he thought. No way that someone like you could carry shadows, too.

Yet there you were, cracks and light, both and you weren’t hiding either. He stared at you like he didn’t understand what he was seeing. How had this happened? How had someone like you, all open warmth and gentleness, who cooed at cats and smiled like it didn’t cost you anything, gotten in? His guard was steel-reinforced. Always had been. It had to be. That’s how he survived, how he kept others safe from him, and himself safe from the world. But somehow, without him even realizing it, you’d slipped right past it, in less than twenty’s four hours no less.

Not with force. But with kindness. With patience.

And now, there you were, sitting across from him with your mug and your quiet understanding, and the wall that had taken years to build suddenly had cracks in it wide enough for sunlight to bleed through. He hated how fast it had happened. And how natural it felt. And yet… he didn’t want to rebuild the wall again. Not right now at least. “I’m not afraid of you, Bob.” He blinked. Once. Twice. His eyes darted to yours, then away again, like the truth of that statement was too much to look at head-on.

You weren’t afraid of him. And that terrified him more than anything. Because if you weren’t afraid… that meant you saw him. Not the Void. Not the Sentry. Not the stories people whispered behind closed doors. Just Bob. Just the broken, stitched-together, half-repaired version of a person who wasn’t sure if he was worth caring for. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Something sharp and bitter lodged itself somewhere behind his sternum.

Why did his walls let her in?

Why her?

And why, for the first time in a long time… did he not want to push her back out? His fingers twitched on the table, restless, as though caught between the urge to retreat and the aching need to stay. You didn’t press. Didn’t push him to speak or to make some grand declaration. You just watched him, quiet, calm, like you were willing to wait. Like he was worth waiting for. And for the first time, maybe ever… he started to believe someone, most importantly you had meant it.

Later that night, you found yourself curled up on the couch once more, Alpine nestled along your side. The glow of your phone lit your face as you scrolled aimlessly through social media, half-reading posts, half-dozing off. Then you heard it. A soft, pained whimper, almost like a cry. Muffled, strangled, fragile. You sat up instantly, ears straining. Alpine’s head lifted too, eyes alert.

“Bob?” You called out gently, not loud enough to startle, just enough to be heard. No response. But the rustle of bedsheets and the creak of the floorboards told you enough. You didn’t hesitate. Padding barefoot down the hallway, you knocked once on his door. No answer. Another whimper. You slowly opened it. The room was dark save for the spill of moonlight across the floor. Bob was tangled in his sheets, face damp, brow twisted in agony, chest rising and falling like he was drowning in air.

“Bob,” You tried again, a little firmer now. He jolted awake with a gasp, eyes wide and wild, but unfocused. Disoriented. Still halfway in whatever nightmare he had just clawed his way out of. His breath came in sharp, panicked gulps. He shoved himself upright, fists clenched in the sheets like he was bracing for impact. “Hey, hey…” You coaxed, crossing the room slowly, palms lifted. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” He blinked rapidly, vision clearing.

When he saw it was you, just you, the panic didn’t vanish, but it changed. Turned inward. Like he was ashamed to have been caught so exposed. “I’m sorry,” He rasped. “I didn’t mean—” You shook your head. “You don’t need to apologize,” You interrupted softly, settling on the edge of the bed. “You had a nightmare. It happens.” He turned his head, jaw tight, avoiding your eyes. But you saw the way his hands trembled. The way his body practically vibrated with the need to pull away and collapse at the same time.

“You’re shaking,” You murmured, not accusing, just acknowledging. “Would it help if I got Alpine?” His head whipped around at that, confused. You offered a faint smile. “Animals help. They can bring your nervous system back down. Petting them, just being near them, it grounds you.” He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes still wide and full of something raw. “…How do you know all this?” He whispered.

“I work at the VA,” You replied quietly. “That’s how I met Bucky.” Something in his face shifted, not a crack this time, but a softening. Like your words had just unlocked a door he didn’t even realize had been sealed shut. “I’ve seen people fight battles even after the war’s over,” You added. “And I’ve seen what helps, even if it’s momentarily. Let me help.” He didn’t answer. Not with words. But when Alpine padded into the room moments later, hopping gracefully onto the bed, he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn her away. His trembling hand hovered for a second before he hesitantly laid it on her back. She pushed into his palm instantly, as if she knew. Purring loud enough to fill the silence. You stayed still. Let the quiet do what it needed to. After a while, Bob’s shoulders sagged. The tension bled out of him slowly, like air leaking from a balloon. His breathing evened out. And though he wouldn’t meet your gaze, he didn’t ask you to leave either.

So you didn’t. Instead, you shifted closer, careful not to overwhelm, but near enough to offer warmth. “You don’t have to talk, just… let someone be here. Let yourself not be alone tonight.” Your voice was soft, softer than the darkness around you, yet it filled the space like a promise. Not loud, not forceful. Just steady. Just there. You didn’t reach for him, didn’t press closer. You waited.

Tentatively, you watched as his hand inched along the rumpled bedding, fingers twitching. He moved slowly, like he was afraid the act of reaching out might break him. His index finger brushed yours, barely a whisper of contact almost like he hadn’t meant to, or wasn’t sure he had the right. Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. Not yet. Then your fingers slid closer, bridging the gap. And this time, he didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a full grasp. Not a hand-hold. Just the side of your fingers against his, warm and unmoving.

A silent offering. A quiet, unwavering truth: you were here. His hand was cold. A little clammy. But he didn’t retract. He let the touch stay, as if testing the idea that maybe, just maybe, physical touch didn’t have to hurt. The fear hadn’t left him. Not entirely. But it had receded enough to let something else in. Peace, maybe. Or at the very least… permission to breathe. He just sat there, pale in the moonlight, shadows clinging to the hollow angles of his face.

With Alpine curled trustingly in his lap and you by his side, your fingers brushing his in quiet solidarity. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. And as the minutes passed and Alpine’s purring filled the air, you swore you saw something in Bob’s shoulders, not relax exactly, but release as his head lolled to the side, fighting sleep. Almost as if he wasn’t carrying the weight alone anymore. Not tonight.

It was safe to say that after that night, something had shifted between you and Bob. Nothing dramatic, nothing loud, but it was there. Real. He didn’t flinch when you entered a room anymore. He didn’t avoid eye contact or disappear without a word. His hoodie still swallowed him whole, but now he stood a little straighter. Walked a little closer. He didn’t speak often, not at first, but he stayed. And that meant more than any words could. You’d become something like a routine for him.

Mornings started with pancakes, a small victory you were still gloating over. He claimed he didn’t know how to cook, and yet, he took to it like muscle memory, flipping with quiet precision while you chattered beside him. Perks of the Sentry serum, he claimed. Sometimes, you caught him sneaking chocolate chips into your batch when he thought you weren’t looking. He never admitted it. You never called him out. Evenings belonged to the couch.

You and Bob, Alpine curled between you, and whatever movie series you’d decided to marathon. You weren’t sure when he started sitting closer, or when the silence between you stopped feeling awkward and started feeling like safety. But it had. And you weren’t about to question it. Tonight was no different. Blankets tangled around your legs, Alpine’s tail flicking lazily over Bob’s thigh, and the familiar glow of another Twilight movie painting the room in silver and shadow.

"Twilight is a cinematic masterpiece." You declared with mock-seriousness, eyes fixed on the screen as Edward Cullen and Bella Swan made their appearance. Bob’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing in both confusion and disbelief. “I don’t know about that.” He muttered dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been the very beginning of a smirk.

You turned your head sharply, gasping as if personally insulted, hand flying to your chest in dramatic offense. “Excuse me?” Your smile had dropped instantly, but only for show. He could tell. Still, there was an almost guilty flicker in his gaze as he looked at you, unsure if he’d crossed a line until you threw a kernel of popcorn at him. “Jacob just imprinted on a baby,” He added flatly, motioning to the screen. “You’re calling that a masterpiece?” You blinked.

“That’s Breaking Dawn, and that’s not the point, Bob.” You huffed, throwing a pillow into his lap. His laugh, quiet, breathy, but real slipped out before he could stop it. It was soft and short-lived, but it froze you in place all the same. You turned toward him slowly, smile creeping back in its full, delighted form. “Was that a laugh?” you asked, eyes shining. “Did I just hear you, Robert Reynolds laugh at Twilight?” His face flushed instantly, but he didn’t deny it.

He simply just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, slumping back into the couch like it could absorb him. “Alpine, did you hear that?” You stage-whispered, petting her head. “History was made tonight.” Bob glanced down at the cat now lounging half on his lap, half on yours, and then to your surprise looked back at you with the faintest trace of warmth in his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” He scoffed, but there was no bite to it. If anything, it sounded like affection.

You leaned your head against the cushion, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Maybe. But I’m also right. Keep watching, it gets better trust me.” He didn’t argue. Instead, he let himself lean ever so slightly into your side, not enough to seem intentional, but not accidental either. Some time during the movie, right as Bella stared longingly at Edward for the hundredth time your fingers brushed his again, both of you reaching for more popcorn.

It should’ve been nothing, just another soft moment in the quiet rhythm you’d found together. But in an instant, everything shifted. The room vanished. Gone was the flickering TV light, the warmth of the blankets, the hum of Alpine’s purring. Instead you were back in that sterile, humming hospital. The air was too clean, too sharp, filled with the muted beeping of machines that had haunted your nightmares for years.

God, the sound. Steady. Constant. Mocking. In the corner of the room, your mother was laid out in the hospital bed like a stranger, tubes in her nose, bruises blooming along her collarbone from too many IVs. Her skin was dull. Her hair thinned. The woman who used to dance barefoot in the kitchen with you to 80s music was just… fading. And you stood frozen in the corner of the room, watching. Always watching. Too afraid to move.

Too afraid to touch her, as if you might cause the last thread holding her here to snap. The doctor had already given the odds. Words like “aggressive,” and “systemic,” and “prepare yourselves.” But you clung to hope the way a child clings to a blanket, desperate, naïve, and fraying at the edges. Then she turned her head just slightly and looked at you. Really looked at you. She smiled. And it was wrong. Too calm. Too peaceful. Like she knew something you didn’t.

Like she had already made peace with the fact she was leaving, and all that was left was to make you okay with it, too. Suddenly, the room went quiet. The memory ended. But the ache in your chest didn’t. And just as quickly as it came, it was gone. You were back on the couch, but breathless, your chest tight, your hand trembling where it still hovered above the popcorn bowl. The movie still played, but the world felt distant.

Bob had already pulled away, his entire frame hunched and tense like he was waiting for a blow. “I—I’m sorry,” He stammered, voice cracking under the weight of shame. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Y/N. I s-still don’t know how to control it, sometimes when I feel too much or get distracted it just… happens.” You blinked back the tears stinging your waterline, still trying to catch your breath as your reality settled again around you.

The last image of your mother still echoed in your mind, but it wasn’t jagged or cruel. It wasn’t weaponized. It was just… a part of you. A scar you’d kept covered. Your gaze snapped to him, to the way he had recoiled from you like your touch had burned him. His arms were wrapped tight around himself now, fingers clutching the sleeves of his hoodie as if he could shrink himself small enough to disappear. He couldn’t meet your eyes. He was braced for disgust. For fear.

But you didn’t feel either.

“Hey,” You whispered, the word breaking the silence like glass. Still, he wouldn’t look at you. You couldn’t handle it, not again. You shifted closer, slow and deliberate, reaching out to gently rest your hand on his knee, grounding both of you. “Bob, look at me.” He hesitated, eyes flickering to yours, filled with panic and self-loathing. “It wasn’t your fault.” You stated firmly, voice steady despite the slight shake in your hands.

“I’ve been carrying that moment for years. You didn’t force it out of me. It was… already there.” Yet he shook his head, mind spiraling right in front of you. “I didn’t mean to invade your thoughts,” He rasped. “I hate that I do that, just rip people into their worst—” You squeezed his knee, stopping him mid sentence. “You didn’t rip me into anything,” You cut in softly. “You touched my hand, and for a second, my mind gave in. That’s all. You didn’t show me something I didn’t already live through.”

He stared at you like you were speaking another language. Like kindness itself didn’t make sense coming from someone who had every reason to walk away. His eyes were glassy, wide, as if he was expecting you to scream, to flinch, to at him curse. Instead you didn’t move. You didn’t raise your voice or look away. “Bob,” You called his name softly, your voice full of a tenderness he’d only ever seen in other people’s lives, never his own.

“Sweetheart, come here.” The nickname hit him like a freight train. He blinked, stunned, like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Your arms were open, welcoming. No threat. No edge. He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” He whimpered again, like it was all he had left. His voice cracked in the middle, fragile and full of every emotion he couldn’t name. “I didn’t mean to—” You shook your head gently, shushing him like, and then you reached.

Your fingers found his wrist, slowly, gently, and when he didn’t pull away, you guided him forward. The moment his body made contact with yours, he froze. Stiff. Breath held. He didn’t know what to do with it, your warmth, your hands in his hair, your chest rising and falling against his. But he didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. Your nails scratched delicately into his scalp like a grounding rhythm, the other hand running in soft, steady circles between his shoulder blades.

His breath hitched. It had been so long since someone touched him like that. Not out of obligation. Not for necessity. Just to comfort. And God, he hadn’t realized how much he needed it. His arms, wrapped around you tightly, too tightly, like if he loosened his grip even a fraction, you’d disappear. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breath shaky and uneven. Every part of him trembled under your touch.

You held him tighter. “It’s okay,” You whispered into his hair. “You’re okay. You’re here. I’m here.” He made a sound then, a quiet, broken noise that wasn’t quite a sob, but close. Maybe it was relief. Or grief. Or both. You felt it in your own throat, that heavy lump of emotion neither of you could name yet. Minutes passed. Maybe more. Neither of you moved. And finally, in the low hush of the living room, Bob spoke.

So quietly you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already tuned to every fragile part of him. "I d-don't deserve you." It wasn’t just guilt in his voice, it was certainty. Like it was fact. Like someone, somewhere had etched it into his bones and he’d spent every day since then believing it was true. That sentence alone shattered something inside you. Because you had fallen, not in the surface way, not in some passing infatuation, but in a slow, aching unraveling for the man in front of you.

For his quiet strength, for the storm of self-hate he carried in silence and the flickers of hope he didn’t know he was allowed to hold. You’d fallen for all the versions of Bob, the terrified one, the broken one, the funny one who made dry little comments at the screen when he thought you weren’t listening. You saw every cracked piece of him and loved him more for it. And he thought he wasn’t worthy. Your hand gently cupped his cheek, guiding his gaze to yours.

“Don’t say that,” You whispered, voice barely audible, like you were afraid the moment might break if you spoke too loud. “Don’t ever say that again.” He flinched, eyes flickering between yours, and you saw it, the war behind them. That desperate need to believe you, battling a lifetime of voices that told him otherwise. You leaned in just a little, your forehead resting gently against his.

“You deserve everything, Bob,” You declared, eyes closing as the gravity of your words landed. “You deserve safety. And peace. And someone who sees all of you and stays.” You felt him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the deepest part of him. Your lips barely brushed his cheek when you spoke again, softer now. “And if you'll let me… I want to be that someone.” He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But his eyes searched yours like he was trying to memorize them, like they might be the one thing anchoring him to the present. And then, slowly, cautiously, his hand found the side of your neck, warm and trembling, thumb brushing just under your jaw. You tilted your head, giving him space, and that was all it took. His lips met yours with the hesitancy of someone who hadn’t kissed in a long time, or maybe had never kissed like this. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t hurried.

It was a whisper of vulnerability. Your hand slid behind his neck, drawing him closer, and he exhaled into the kiss like it physically hurt to let go of the air between you. He tasted like warmth and fear and something unbearably tender, like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to meet him in the quiet, in the ache. You tilted your head, deepening it just a fraction, your lips molding to his with a tenderness that made his shoulders sag.

Like the weight he’d carried for years had just been handed off, piece by piece, into your keeping. His breath hitched against your mouth, and your fingers slid into his curls, anchoring him to the moment. He melted under your touch, leaning into you like you were something breakable he wanted to protect but didn’t know how. When his other hand found your waist, it was clumsy and careful at once. He held you like you might vanish, like this might all be a dream, and kissed you again, slower this time, more certain.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads still touching, you whispered. “You’re not alone, Bob. Not anymore. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He didn’t cry. Not exactly. But he closed his eyes, nodded, and exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. “C’mere, let me hold you.” You coxed, voice thick with tenderness and exhaustion as you tugged him gently down onto the couch with you.

There was no hesitation anymore. No flicker of doubt in his eyes. Bob let himself be pulled, let himself fall, not just onto the cushions, but into the warmth of you, into the safety net of this fragile, blooming thing between you. Your arms wrapped securely around his waist, hands smoothing over the soft cotton of his hoodie, anchoring him like a lifeline. Without needing to be asked, he folded himself around you, holding you like something precious.

One arm around your back, the other settling protectively along your waist. Your legs tangled together as if they’d been doing that for years, as if your bodies already knew how to fit together. He clutched you gently but firmly, like he still didn’t quite trust the world not to take you away. “You’re warm.” You sighed, nuzzling into the space beneath his collarbone. His scent, faint cedar, old cotton, a whisper of something herbal from the tea he always made, filled your senses.

“I—um, I run hot. S-sorry.” His voice was muffled by your hair, and his hand twitched nervously against your back. You shook your head where it rested against his chest. “Don’t you dare apologize,” You scolded playfully. “You’re perfect.” He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt it. The way his chest rose and fell differently, heart thumping under your ear, as if your words had hit something he didn’t know how to name.

And then, soft and uncertain, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His face flushed, visible even in the dim light of the television screen still flickering forgotten in front of you. He pressed one last chaste kiss to your forehead, lingering there. Then, finally, you both surrendered to sleep, curled up and wrapped around one another like if it were second nature. The elevator hummed to life hours later, the quiet of the Watchtower broken by the low clunk of boots on metal.

Bucky stepped out first, duffel slung over one shoulder, scanning the empty common space for any sign of Alpine’s prancing form or your cheerful presence. His brow furrowed. The lights were dimmed, the room untouched. Not even a half-drunk mug of matcha in sight. Then his gaze landed on the couch, and the corner of his mouth curled. There you were. Tucked into Bob’s chest like you belonged there, legs intertwined, his chin resting atop your head.

His arms were locked around your waist with the kind of protectiveness Bucky hadn’t seen in Bob since… well, ever. And the kicker? Bob’s lips were still pressed softly against your forehead in sleep, the image of peace incarnate. “Are they—?” Yelena’s whisper broke the stunned silence as the rest of the team piled in behind Bucky, slowing to take in the sight. “They are." Bucky nodded, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Ava blinked, completely stunned. “Wow.” Alexei gave a low whistle, while John looked vaguely like he wanted to protest before Yelena elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. Bucky raised a finger to his lips, motioning for them to be quiet. He stepped forward, carefully scooping Alpine into his arms from her perch at the foot of the couch. She purred instantly, tail flicking with smug satisfaction, as if to say I told you this would work.

Then without another word said, Bucky promptly ushered the entire team out of the room, leaving you and Bob undisturbed in the glow of something new, something fragile and hard-earned, something definitely worth holding on to. And as the door slid shut behind them, the only sound that remained was the steady rhythm of two heartbeats, finally at peace in each other’s arms.

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planetaryupscaled · 3 months ago

Text

Summertime Sisters

Male Reader x Yuna x Anna

Tags: 9k, smut, creampie, oral, threesome

The story is not ours, we alternate the original story to match our desired settings.

Watching two naked young women splashing joyfully in the moonlit waves was just what I needed to restore my worn-out soul.

They were too far to see in detail from my perch high on the bluff overlooking the beach. Only during the moments when the moon peeked from behind the thin clouds could I make out more of them.

Both had lovely figures: fit, with wide hips and average breasts. Their laughter was an uplifting symphony of delight, though muted by distance and the onshore breeze as they attacked the rolling surf.

By coincidence, I was naked too.

I don’t know why I’d stripped off. After a full day driving to the island, then having to find my campsite in the dark then fumbling around setting up the stupid tent in the car’s headlights, I was pissed off and full of reckless energy.

The midnight breeze was warm, the beach was just on the other side of the hill, and no one was around, so why the hell not? I stripped off, grabbed my stash, and picked my way through the beach grass to a bare spot of sand on the dune bluff. The sand was cool. I sparked up a joint and took in the nearly full moon and the low waves breaking on the beach below.

The two girls showed up minutes later, laughing and talking as they strolled across the sand, their words masked by the wind and surf.

At first, they stood together, halfway between the bluff and the waves, talking quietly. Hidden by the dark and the beach grass, they didn’t notice me watching from the bluff.

One said something and the other exclaimed in protest. They talked more then the first girl threw up her hands, stripped off her sun dress and ran naked to the water’s edge. She beckoned to her friend, then waded deeper and dove under a crashing wave, reappearing waist-deep, wiping water from her eyes, her skin slick in the moonlight.

The other girl stood on the sand with arms wrapped around herself, looking around nervously.

After many minutes of encouragement by her friend in the water, she took a final careful look around, then stripped off her shorts and shirt and joined her friend. She squealed when the cool surf first splashed her. The other girl grabbed her arm and pulled her further into the waves.

I finished my joint and sat admiring the scene of carefree beauty. The pair splashed and shouted, jumping each time a wave rolled past or ducking under as one raced over them. The girls steadied each other as each wave hit or helped the other up when one got swept over.

They seemed to be around my age—early or mid-twenties. I wanted to trot down the hill and join them, to splash naked in the cool surf, but I knew better.

Eventually, the cool water must have got to them. The pair emerged and strode to their clothes, wrapping arms around themselves. With no towels, they struggled pulling their clothes on over wet skin.

They talked a little longer, then hugged. The girl in the shorts and t-shirt went back along the beach the way they had come, leaving the other behind.

The fun was over. I pulled out another joint to fortify me for the trip back to my tent, crouching to shield the lighter from the breeze. When I looked up, the girl in the sundress had walked nearly to the bottom of the bluff, where the path led straight to me.

If I stood to run back to my camp site, she would surely see me in all my naked-ass glory. So, I crouched low, hoping she would stay down on the beach. But she started picking her way up the narrow sandy path directly to where I sat.

Before she got too close, I called out.

“Hey? I don’t want to scare you, but there’s someone up here.”

She froze and looked up. I sat up and waved an arm.

Peering up quizzically, she called, “Is it just you up there?”

“Yup.”

“Were you spying on us?”

“Uh, no. Not on purpose. I was sitting here watching the waves way before you and your friend showed up.”

She nodded. “Is that you smoking that?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised. The smell of weed carries like nothing else.

“Yup,” I said. “That’s me.”

“Mind if I take a hit?”

I grinned. “Uh, sure. But...”

Before I could finish, she marched up the path towards me. I could see more of her now: a pretty girl-next-door face, her hair a mess. Modest breasts filled out the top of her dress.

There was no time and nothing for me to cover up with, so I clamped the joint between my lips and covered my crotch with my hands.

She stopped. “What the…? You’re naked? You’ve been watching us and jerking off, haven’t you?”

I explained how I had just arrived after hours of driving and felt like doing something a little wild. After all, it was long past midnight and no one else was around, at least until her and her friend showed up. And lovely as they were, I was too tired and too stoned to jerk off.

Approaching, she eyed me critically, then nodded to herself. Tucking her dress under her ass, she sat cross-legged on the sandy path, just out of reach.

She leaned over and plucked the joint from my lips.

“I can relate,” she said. “My sister and I have been doing nothing but work. We were too tired to sleep, and it was too hot. We came here to let out some steam.”

She took a long drag, then she threw her head back to exhale.

I said, “That was your sister with you? You work here?”

She handed back the joint. “We are waitress over at the lobster suppers. Did it last summer, too. Pays for almost the whole year of college in the fall.”

I told her I’d heard tourists came from everywhere for the beaches, the summer theater, and the lobster suppers. Busloads visited them all summer. I didn’t know they were so profitable.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “We all get a cut from the tour bus companies. And rich tourists bring their entire families or treat their business buddies. We smile, show some cleavage and if you ignore the occasional pat on the ass, most tip really well.”

“Never ate lobster,” I said. “So where do you stay? Gotta be expensive in a resort town like this.”

“We rent a site for the season here in the campground. Our dad leaves our pop-up trailer here at the start of summer.”

“That’s smart,” I said, taking back the joint. “I worked construction after high school. Pay was okay, but it’s hard work.”

She looked me up and down. “Is that why you’re so fit? Or do you work out?”

I laughed. “My family run a farm. Guess how I spent my summers growing up? Both are plenty good for staying in shape. Also, hard work.”

“Yeah? Serving tourists is no picnic either,” she said. “And this time of year, it’s non-stop.”

She looked out over the ocean and breathed in the salt air.

“Mmm. It’s pretty when the sea is like this.”

“It’s incredible,” I said. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen the ocean.”

“Seriously?”

“I grew up where we’ve got mountains, some big rivers, a few big lakes, but nothing like this.”

“So, why’d you come here?”

“One of my friends grew up here. He never stops going on about it. I really needed a change of scenery, so I said fuck it, borrowed some camping gear and drove twelve hours to get here.”

“We only have a four-hour drive,” she said. “My family came here every summer when we were growing up. Lots of good memories. But it’s different when you work here. It’s just work, sleep eat, and repeat. This is only the second time this summer we got to go for a swim.”

“Naked?”

She grinned. “Was that a treat for you? I’ll skinny-dip any chance I get. It feels sooo good. And no one seemed to be around, so why the hell not?”

“It looked like your sister took some convincing.”

“Yeah. She’s the cautious one. Always a little shy. Speaking of which...”

She reached for the joint, watching with amusement as I handed it to her while keeping one hand covering my crotch.

“...it looks like you’re a little shy too.”

“Uh, well, it seemed polite to cover up. Didn’t want to seem like any more of a creep, you know? I’ve never been caught naked before.”

“No?” she laughed. “I have. And I’ve seen a dick before, too. So, relax. You saw us, after all.”

“Yeah, from way up here. Not up close.”

Taking a long drag of the joint, she gave me an expectant look. Reluctantly, I moved my hand away.

She looked briefly and gave an appreciative nod. “There. Isn’t that better?”

“Uh, guess so.”

Grinning, she sucked back the last of the joint.

“That was good stuff. Where did you buy it?”

“I brought it with me.”

She wagged a finger. “Ooo, naughty. You know, it’s only legal here if you buy it here from the official stores.”

I smiled. “Gonna turn me in? Report me as a nudist drug smuggling peeping tom?”

She laughed. “Not if you share. My stash ran out two weeks ago. The closest store is way back in city and we don’t have a car.”

“Well, I do,” I said. “I plan to drive into the city in a day or two. I’ll bring you back something good.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” she said. She got to her feet, brushing off her dress. “Do that and maybe I’ll find some way to thank you.”

She grinned, looking me up and down again, then started picking her way down the path to the beach.

Scrambling to stand, I shouted, “Hey, wait! What’s your name? Where do I find you?”

She called over her shoulder. “Yuna. Meet me here tomorrow. Midnight.”

Without looking back, she waved an arm and started walking down the beach.

I yelled, “I’m Andy,” but I couldn’t tell if she heard or not.

—

That night I couldn’t stop thinking of the girl, Yuna. How open she had been, sharing a joint with a complete stranger, especially one she’d caught naked.

In the morning I explored the resort town, though calling it a town was a bit much: it was just a long strip of road packed with attractions, motels, tourist shops, and restaurants.

Everything was family friendly without a single bar or nightclub. All of it was sandwiched between rolling farmland on one side and the endless ocean on the other.

The beach was almost as endless. White sand stretched as far as you could see. Walking on the sand was exhausting, so I strolled barefoot on the damp packed sand by the water. Tiny birds pecked the sand as each wave receded, then scurried away each time one came in.

Bikini-clad women passed, and throngs of families huddled under beach umbrellas and built sandcastles. Tiny white fishing boats puttered around on the wide ocean.

The surf was mild, so later I went for a swim and discovered salt water tastes terrible and jellyfish stings hurt like hell.

Far down the road, I found the famous lobster suppers, the parking lot crammed with tour buses, motorhomes, and family SUVs. Curious, I stepped inside.

It reminded me of the big steak houses back home: one huge dining hall partitioned in sections of individual tables by low walls. But instead of decor being junk, everywhere was garish maritime kitsch: lobster traps, ships wheels, fishing nets, model boats and red plastic lobsters.

A group of sweaty older men barged past, crowding out the door. The last guy turned to snarl something foul at the cute but exasperated girl behind the reservation counter and gave her the finger.

With a sympathetic look, I asked, “Was it something you said?”

“Only that we couldn’t change their reservation for two to a reservation for seven buddies at the last minute. Apparently, that makes me worse than an ugly bitch.”

I laughed. “You look all right to me.”

She smiled and did a little curtsy, casting me a flirty look. “Why, thank you. So do you. Do you have a reservation?”

“Oh, I just came in to look.”

“Well,” she said sweetly, “we happen to have a table just open up. Want it?”

“I dunno. I’ve never had lobster. What if I don’t like it?

“Not a problem. You can have steak. Or scallops. Or lobster and either one on the side.”

They sat me at the far end of the hall, by picture windows overlooking fishing boats tied to the wharf. The paper placemats had printed instructions on how to open and eat a lobster. It seemed like a lot of effort just to eat a big sea insect. I opted for pre-shelled lobster with a small steak on the side.

I ate while scanning the room for Yuna. Then I spied her far on the other side, looking harried, being pulled in all directions at once. I waved, trying to catch her eye, but the place was hopping, and the servers were scrambling to cater to the crowd.

One time she saw me waving, but there was a crash as a table with restless kids knocked a plate of food to the floor. She scrambled to deal with the mess.

When I finished, I couldn’t see her. I wanted to hang around, but the place was so noisy and busy I needed to leave.

—

At midnight, I sat on the bluff watching the ocean, this time dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

By twelve I was about to give up, then nearly jumped out of my skin when a hand touched my shoulder from behind.

“Sorry I’m late,” Yuna said. She wore a tighter-fitting sundress this time. She sat close on the sand.

“Anna—that’s my sister—didn’t want me to come. She freaked out when I told her about last night. She’s sure you’re a serial killer or a drug fiend.”

I lit up the joint I’d been holding on to and took a drag.

“Maybe I’m both,” I said, handing it to her.

Yuna chuckled. “Nah. I’m a pretty good judge of people.”

“I went to the lobster supper for dinner,” I said.

“Yeah? You were lucky to get a table. I didn’t see you.”

“I saw you. But you were being pulled six directions at once. Is the place always that busy?”

She nodded. “Always. Told you it was no picnic. Wait... who was the host? The greeter? Was it a tiny girl?”

“Yep.”

“Did she flirt?”

“A little.”

Yuna made a face. “That was Yeojin. The little slut. She hits on everyone. Anyway, next time, throw a bun at me or something. I’ll comp you a free bowl of chowder. Did you like the lobster?”

“Not a lot. The steak was better.”

“You know we sell almost as much steak as lobster?”

“Well, cows are tastier. And a damn sight prettier.”

Yuna grinned. “There’s a joke: ‘The first person to ever eat a lobster must have been pretty damn hungry.’”

I laughed. “So, which do you like?”

“Neither. I don’t eat anything that has a face, pretty or ugly.”

“Wow,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone that. Vegetarians aren’t too welcome here. So, I guess that makes you a vegetarian pot smoking nudist.”

She laughed and shoved her shoulder against mine.

“You bet,” she said. “And proud of it. Want to know what I’m studying at college?”

“Ecology,” I guessed.

“Close. Environmental science.”

“Great. So, you’re a vegetarian pot smoking nudist tree hugger.”

We laughed, watching the ocean and sharing the joint. When it was done, Yuna stood and stretched.

“Time for a swim,” she said.

“You mean...”

She pulled me to my feet. “Yup. Get your clothes off.”

We ran down to the water’s edge, stripped, and waded into the nippy water until we were waist deep.

The moon was bright enough to get a look at her. Her breasts were pleasant handfuls, beautifully shaped, with tiny nipples erect in the breeze. She had wide hips, giving her a bottom-heavy look.

Yuna was playful, splashing and trying to dunk me under. She was beautiful, smiling and splashing waist deep, naked in the moonlight. She swept my feet out from under me, and I went under. When I surfaced, wiping the stinging salt water from my eyes, Yuna stood just out of reach, laughing and teasing.

I caught her, lifted her over my head as she wriggled and squealed, then threw her into an approaching wave. I got concerned when she didn’t surface immediately. I yelled with fright when something grabbed both my ankles under the water and yanked me off balance. Yuna, again.

Soon we were tired and cold. We ran back to our clothes. It was impossible to pull them on over our wet skin, so we bundled them up and found a driftwood log to sit on near the base of the sand dune bluff.

The warm ocean breeze dried us quickly, but Yuna made no move to get dressed. Neither did I. We sat side-by-side watching the waves and stars.

A welcome sense of peace settled over me. Back home, we only had oceans of grass. Or corn. Or wheat. Seeing all that water was strange, but somehow comforting.

Yuna nudged me. “So what’s your story? What did drive so far to escape?”

“Just needed a change, that’s all. The factory I worked at shut down. Then my girlfriend left me for someone else.”

“Ah, there we go—the truth! Were you together long?”

“Two years.”

“Ouch. Let me guess—the guy she left you for doesn’t deserve her, right?”

I sighed. “No. He does. He’s my friend—Was my friend.”

“Well, that’s shitty.” She chuckled then laughed.

I turned to Yuna and smiled. She met my gaze and smiled back.

“You know,” she said, “Too bad you didn’t like the lobster. They say it tastes like pussy.”

She grinned like a kid who just told their first dirty joke.

“Oh, do they?” I said. “Don’t see how. Every pussy tastes different.”

“An expert, are you?”

“Nah. I’ve never had any complaints. Been a while, though.”

Yuna hesitated, scanning me, then leaned forward to meet my lips.

Her lips were sweet and as soft as the breast she guided my hand to. We kissed, hands roaming over each other as the ocean breeze caressed us both.

When we finally separated, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Yuna picked up her sun dress, shook it and spread it out on the sand behind the log. She stood, then lay back on it, inviting me to join her.

“We could go back to my tent, you know.”

She just shook her head.

We kissed and caressed each other, our need growing. I had never met anyone like her, and never before been so comfortable with someone so quickly.

She sighed happily and held me to her when I slid lower to take a breast into my mouth. I massaged and teased her other breast, then caressed her tummy, her thighs, then finally touched her pussy.

Yuna pushed up her hips to meet my fingertips and widened her legs. She was already slick. With the pads of my fingers, I teased all around her mound and delicate lips, briefly brushing the hood of her clit then avoiding contact.

She stroked my cock and spread the leaking precum over the sensitive head.

Her eyes were wild with need as she urged me onto her, guiding my dick towards her opening.

“Fuck me,” she whispered.

“Not just yet. I wanna check something.”

Yuna giggled when I escaped her grasp and slid lower, planting kisses along the way: between her breasts, over her tummy, then to just above her pussy. Her skin tasted of ocean salt.

Moving lower still, I parted her legs. Her clit was peaking from under its hood, so I gave it a tiny lick of my tongue.

“Oooo,” Yuna moaned, and spread her legs wider.

Settling in, I began exploring every part of her with fingers, lips and tongue while Yuna pushed her hips to meet my face, gasping and groaning as I caressed and rubbed every part of her tender folds.

Carefully, I introduced first one, then two digit into her warm, slick tunnel while teasing around her clit. Yuna cried out and bucked, grabbing my head, trying to force my face into her.

I held on as she writhed, playing, rubbing and teasing, building her excitement.

Never had I been with someone so animated and was thankful for the darkness and sound of the surf masking her cries and groans.

When it seemed right, I took her tiny nub between my lips and suckled gently while twisting and probing my fingers inside.

Yuna mashed my face into her, then came with a gurgling groan.

I lifted up to watch, still massaging her gently. She was beyond beautiful: her eyes were screwed shut, back arched, head thrown back, one hand gripping my head, the other flung out to claw and grasp the sand, her skin glowing under the moon.

Before Yuna completely recovered, I slid up, careful to get any sand off my dick, then nudged the tip at her entrance. Her pussy seemed to be pulling me inside.

Still panting from orgasm, Yuna grabbed my hips and urged me into her.

I pushed and retreated, pushed and retreated, inching deeper each time. Yuna’s mouth was open, and her eyes were locked with mine as we joined. Finally, when I was buried fully within her, she locked her legs around me and pulled me into a kiss.

It wasn’t one of those frantic first-time fucks. We started into a sensuous, slow summertime mating, neither of us in any hurry for it to end.

The warmth of Yuna’s body beneath me and the heat of her snug clasping passage contrasted with the cool night air. Each time I entered her, she sighed and moaned and met each thrust, angling her hips seeking the best angle, the deepest penetration.

Soon I was losing control and from Yuna’s increasing energy, it seemed she was getting close too. She ground against me each time I bottomed out, clinging with arms and legs as I took her.

Suddenly, she gasped, and her pussy began rhythmically clutching at me. I pushed into her once more as deep as possible and tumbled over the edge.

It seemed to last forever: Yuna locked onto me, riding out another orgasm as I pulsed inside her, filling her eager body with jet after jet of cum.

Finally, all strength left me, and I collapsed, sliding to one side so as not to crush her. Yuna hugged me to her as I recovered.

She was smiling when I opened my eyes.

“Someone should write a song about that,” she said, stroking my head.

“I don’t think any song could capture it. That was incredible. You’re incredible. And you taste way better than lobster.”

“Oh, gee. Thanks. I try to maintain a crustacean-free flavor down there.”

I laughed.

She kissed me. “You can taste me any time you want. Don’t even have to ask. No one’s ever made me cum like that.”

We lay beside each other, gently caressing, until Yuna said, “I want to do it again. But my shift starts at two and I know my sister is still awake worrying about me.”

We made plans to meet the next day, but earlier. We dressed, then she walked back along the beach. I went back to my tent, drained, but happier than I’d been in a long time.

—

The camp sites like mine next to the beach were on open ground. With the ocean breeze blocked by the rising lip of the sand dune bluff, my tent became unbearably hot by the time I woke around nine.

Yuna was all I could think about. I didn’t want to wait until that evening to see her again, so after a quick breakfast, I grabbed the campground map and set out on foot to find her trailer.

All the other campsites were sheltered in among the pine forest far from the beach. I walked the looping dirt roads past sites with everything from pup tents to bus-sized motorhomes. The sites were close, but separated by alders or pines, each with a regulation picnic table and firepit.

Pop-up tent trailers were everywhere, most with small kids playing or at least a car parked in front.

Finally, I spotted an older tent trailer with no car. Judging from the pine needles accumulated on the roof and how deep the wheels were sunk in the soil, it looked like it had been parked for months.

Cautiously, I crept up to see if anyone was home.

The inside flap of the screen window beside the door was half-unzipped. I stood on the step and stretched up to peer inside. On one of the fold-out bunk ends, Yuna was sleeping on her side, facing me. She was naked except for a light sheet pulled over her rump. No one else was inside.

She looked angelic. Images of our midnight mating on the beach came back, getting me aroused. There was time for a quicky before she had to leave for work. And she did say I could taste her anytime.

I hesitated. Should I surprise her? She was bold and outgoing, so I figured she’d like it. Quietly, I opened the door and padded inside. Though shaded by trees, the trailer was already roasting inside. A light sheen of sweat coated Yuna’s skin.

Shedding my clothes, I slid onto the bunk beside her and ran a hand down the soft skin of her back.

Her eyes blinked open, then widened in surprise. When she let out a yelp, I put my hand over her mouth.

“Shh,” I said. “You’ll scare the neighbours.”

Yuna’s eyes darted from me to around the trailer.

“It’s okay. Your sister isn’t here. Surprised I found you?”

When I uncovered her mouth, she said, “A-Andy?”

“Shh. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I came to take you up on your offer.”

Pushing her back, I quickly slid down between her legs. Her pussy looked even lovelier in the dappled shade of the tent trailer than it had in the moonlight.

She fumbled, trying to push my head away. “Wait! I’m not... you can’t... oh, fuuuck!”

I dove the flat of my tongue between her folds, lapping, savouring her taste while skirting her clit with my thumb. Her hips lifted instinctively, pushing into me.

“Ohgod…” Yuna breathed, her head falling back on the bunk. “Please... oh, please just...”

With one hand I reached to massage a boob and tease the hardening nipple while worshiping her pussy with lips, tongue, and my other hand.

Yuna responded instantly, gasping and moaning, though quieter than the previous night. Campers on adjacent sites would hear us if we weren’t careful.

I never thought my oral skills were anything great, but Yuna’s responses made me feel like a champion. She panted, working her arms and legs against the sheets, twisting her hips, then lay still, giving into the sensations, making sweet little mewling sounds interspersed with sighs and groans.

We didn’t have much time, so I worked her harder than before, sliding fingers into her, curling them inside, fucking them in and out while lapping and pressing all around her mons. I followed by attacking her sensitive little clit then purposely avoiding it.

Like before, Yuna grabbed my head with one hand, trying to force my face into her while clawing and flailing blindly with the other.

Soon, she seemed to be close, so I introduced a third finger into her tight pussy then sucked and pressed directly on her clit.

“Oh my gaahh!” Yuna cried, lifting her hips off the bunk. Then she flopped back boneless while inside her warm passage contracted, flooding generous wetness over my fingers.

Stroking her gently, I lifted up to watch the spectacle of her orgasm.

The trailer door opened. Yuna stepped inside. What?

It was like having a stroke, or an out-of-body experience. Yuna at the door had a towel draped around her neck, a toiletry bag in her hand. Her hair was damp.

Her mouth fell open and her eyes flared. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She ran forward, wrapped an arm around my neck and yanked me off the bunk onto the trailer floor. Before I could react, she had my arm twisted painfully behind me, pinning me to the floor.

“Anna!” she screamed, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

The girl on the bunk sat up, dishevelled and fazed. She had trouble finding words.

“It’s... it’s okay, Yuna. I’m okay. It’s my fault. I... he...”

She petered off in confusion and flailing hands then fell back onto the bunk and groaned.

—

“How the hell could I know you’re twins? You never said!”

The three of us were sitting at the picnic table outside, the sisters sitting opposite me. Anna and I had dressed. She looked as embarrassed and confused as me.

“I thought I did. But even if I missed that detail, it doesn’t give you the right to walk into our trailer and stick your face in a girl’s cunt.”

Anna touched Yuna’s hand. “No, it’s my fault. I’m the one who didn’t stop him.”

“You were too shocked.”

Anna studied the table and shrugged. “Yes. True. I was shocked at first. Then I realized who he was. Who he had to be. And after what you said about what you guys did last night and how great it was, I...”

Yuna said, “You just let him do it? A complete stranger? What the fuck, Anna?”

Anna slumped further. “No. Not exactly. I tried to say something. Then... oh, it was so good. And it was so, so, bad. You know... your boyfriend doing that to me like he did to you. Thinking I was you. Fuck. I don’t know, Yuna.”

Yuna studied her sister. I didn’t dare say a word. I just wanted to crawl away and die.

“I can’t believe you’re not even angry,” Yuna said to Anna then she glared at me.

“Yuna,” I said, “Trust me. I’ve never, ever done anything without full consent. We get too much of that shit back home. My first girlfriend, she... well, never mind. If for a second I didn’t think it was you...”

Yuna shot me a withering look, but Anna flashed a shy smile then leaned to Yuna’s ear.

“He made me cum,” she whispered, a little too loudly.

“What?” Yuna pulled back, looking at her sister. “No way.”

“I did,” Anna said. “Hard. Oh my god, Yuna, it was good. I’m still like jelly inside.”

—

Yuna ordered me off their campsite, and I slunk back to my tent. The morning had gone from a surprise I thought Yuna would love to a disaster that might land me in jail.

I decided to drive to the city, an hour away. Even from the highway the island was quaint rolling hills covered by farmland and off near the horizon, the endless ocean loomed.

The city was known for a play that had been running for twenty years. It was sold out, so I wandered around, bought groceries and ice for the cooler, some drinks, firewood and then visited the overpriced official cannabis store.

—

It was dusk when I pulled into my camp site. One of the girls was waiting at my picnic table.

“Yuna?” I said.

“Oh, so I guess you can tell us apart.”

Sitting across from her, I slid the canister of weed to her.

“Like I promised,” I said. “The store said it was the best they had.”

She looked inside. “Holy shit. This is a lot. Feeling guilty about something?”

“Of course I’m feeling guilty. I ate out your sister thinking it was you.”

“You also made her cum.”

“Well, good. Doesn’t change anything.”

“She doesn’t cum.”

I blinked. “Sure she does. She did. Or she’s one hell of an actress.”

Yuna shook her head. “She’s been able to make herself cum maybe once. And never, ever with someone else.”

“Uh...”

“Do you know any twins?”

I thought about it. “No. At least not what do they call it... identical twins, like you.”

“Well, we have a bond, you know? Way closer than most sisters. Anna is my best friend, my confidant. My partner in crime. I go to her when I need anything, and she comes to me.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve heard that. So—”

Yuna held up a hand. “So, we look the same, but we’re not the same. She’s smarter, for one. And she’s always been shy, cautious, overly polite. I’ve always been outgoing, jumping into things without looking. And I always get the guys. She doesn’t.”

“Oookay. Are you telling me Anna’s a virgin?”

Yuna sat back. “Oh, she’s had boyfriends. The sweetest guys you can imagine. And she enjoys sex. Lots. But she doesn’t cum. Not everyone does, you know. Even by herself it just never happens. Lord knows we’ve tried. She says it happened once, but I think it was a mini-cum, or she’s kidding herself. So, this morning when you... when she came? It’s kind of a big deal for us.”

“I didn’t do anything special. I just—”

“Whatever you did, it worked. And like she said, that you thought Anna was me and the surprise and naughtiness of it all helped put her over the top.”

I digested that for a moment.

“So, you’re not going to press charges?”

Yuna laughed. “We want to see if you can do it again. Tonight.”

I pondered that for a long while.

“No,” I said.

Yuna blinked then leaned forward.

“Didn’t you hear me? Come back to our trailer. I’ll go for a walk or whatever. Do your magic with Anna again and make her cum.” She grinned. “Then after, if you wouldn’t mind, fuck my brains out, okay?”

“No. It’s not okay. Yuna, I loved being with you last night. Because I like you. A lot. You’re like no one I’ve ever known. And we’ve really hit it off, haven’t we?”

“Oh, yeah. So—”

“So, you said it yourself... you and Anna look the same, but you’re not the same. Anna’s your sister and she seems really sweet, but I don’t know her. I’m not some... some... orgasm vending machine. Some guys will fuck anyone any chance they get, but I don’t.”

Yuna stared in surprise.

“Would... would you do it as a favor for me? Anna really likes you. She’s so excited you made her cum.”

“She doesn’t know me, except maybe for what you’ve told her. I’d never ask a woman to do anything sexual as a favor. You think it’s okay to ask something like that from me?”

Yuna pursed her lips and sighed. She was quiet for a long while.

“Okay,” she said in a falling tone. “I get what you’re saying. Sorry. We thought you’d want to. We’re just really excited about what happened, that maybe a few more times would... help her. Break her out of her shell. So maybe she could cum as easily as I do.”

Yuna stood, taking a breath and forcing a smile.

“You know what? Forget it. You’re right. Stupid idea. I guess this fucks thing up between us now.”

It hurt to see her troubled expression. I stood and put my arms around her.

“It doesn’t change how special you are, Yuna. It doesn’t change me wanting to be with you.”

She smiled up at me.

“So... have you eaten yet?” she said. “I didn’t eat dinner.”

“Help me get the stuff out of the car. We can start a fire and grill something.”

“I’m vegetarian, remember?”

Yuna laughed when I showed her the groceries: veggie cutlets, veggie burgers, fresh corn, and certified organic apple pie.

“Turning over a new leaf?” she said.

“Thought I’d give it a try. I know people can’t keep on eating cows—or lobsters—forever. My family might disown me if they ever found out I bought this, though.”

—

“I never knew you could cook corn on a campfire. We always boil it.”

Yuna was finishing her second cob. I pulled out my last piece and unwrapped the foil.

“Back home there’s corn far as the eye can see. We have ten billion ways to cook it, pop it, turn it into fuel, turn it into ham...”

“What? Into ham?”

“Pig feed.”

She made a face. “Poor little oinkers. They’re smarter than dogs, you know.”

“Well, when it comes to escaping their pen, they sure are.”

Yuna looked at my tent, one of those nylon dome things from a big box store. Despite staking and tying it down, it wobbled precariously in the ocean breeze.

“So glad we have a tent trailer,” she said. “I hate sleeping on the ground.”

“It’s not so bad. I got one of those queen-sized air beds. Almost as high as a real bed. But then I didn’t bring a pump so had to blow the damn thing up with my mouth. Took over an hour and I nearly passed out.”

Yuna laughed and was about to say something when we noticed someone standing just at the edge of the firelight: Anna, twirling a finger in her hair, looking uncertain.

Yuna went to her. “What’s wrong?”

“You were supposed to be back by now.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Anna. But you knew I was here.”

The sisters exchanged whispered words for a long while, then Yuna took Anna’s hand and pulled her closer to the fire. Anna stood stiff and awkward.

“Hi,” I said. “What can I get you? Roasted corn on the cob? Veggie burger? Beer?”

“I ate. Look, I don’t want to interrupt.”

Yuna nudged her. Anna scowled at her sister then said, “Well, maybe a beer.”

The temperature had dropped the moment the sun set. We sat clustered around the fire, watching the flames.

The silence dragged on. I cleared my throat and said, “Anna, I owe you a huge apology. I’m so sorry for this morning.”

She looked straight at me. “I’m not. Not at all. Yuna told me you don’t want to... you know... do it again. And you’re right. It was the height of hubris to assume you’d be okay with that, so I’m sorry for that.”

“Uh, hubris?”

“You know. Excessive pride. Arrogance.”

“Hmm. Yuna said you were the smart one.”

“And she’s right.” She glanced at her sister and smirked.

Yuna stuck out her tongue.

“But,” Anna continued, “if you ever change your mind, I’ll be waiting with open legs.”

“Holy sh… Anna!” Yuna gasped.

I chuckled. “She also said you were the shy one.”

Anna twirled another finger in her hair. “Well, no point being shy with a guy who’s had his tongue up my cunt.”

Yuna sputtered, trying to form words.

I laughed. “It was my fingers. My tongue was busy elsewhere.”

“Well, whatever you were doing down there, it was pure magic.”

She wet her lips, fixing me with a hungry stare.

“Oookay,” I said, standing, “I think I’m ready for that apple pie now. Who wants some?”

—

Yuna wanted to try the weed, so we rolled a few joints of the stuff.

After a couple of hits, Yuna said, “They call this a monster? More like a mouse.”

She offered it to Anna. She stared as if it was sprayed with ebola.

Yuna assured her it was from the cannabis store and unadulterated. Anna took a drag.

We only had the picnic table to sit on, so we dragged it close to the fire. We sat on the bench, backs to the tabletop, me sandwiched between the sisters.

Chatting and sharing a joint, we warmed ourselves as the night air cooled. Anna was quiet, letting her sister carry the conversation, then she slowly relaxed.

When I asked about college, Anna said she was entering third year of a data science degree. She explained what that was, but it all seemed very abstract.

Both sisters had endless stories of working at the restaurant. Yuna had me laughing with tales of rude and entitled customers, incidents of abrupt projectile vomiting, and a five-person fistfight that ended with wiping out the salad bar.

“It’s not all bad,” said Anna. “We have huge family birthdays and get-togethers. People fly in from all over the world. And how many proposals have we seen, Yuna? Six? Seven?”

“Including the guy who stuck the ring inside a biscuit then forgot which one it was? The girl nearly choked to death.”

Anna chuckled. “Then there was that missing toddler. Everyone stopped to search everywhere. He was napping in the pile of stuffed lobsters in the gift shop.”

Being twins, Yuna and Anna tried to work sections in the dining room the furthest apart, but they were constantly mistaken for one another. Servers had to wear the same uniform, so Anna always wore her hair up, Yuna wore hers down. They wore different makeup, different earrings, but still they were confused by customers and even managers and staff.

“After this summer,” Anna said, “we are never, ever, working together again on anything.”

Yuna glanced at her sister. “Well, maybe on one more thing.”

—

By midnight, the three of us were mildly buzzed, chatting, and laughing like old friends. The adjacent campsites went dark as one by one each family got their kids settled, put out their fires and went to bed.

The stars were brilliant pinpoints of light with the Milky Way arcing from horizon to horizon. Having nowhere to go and nothing to do but relax and enjoy, the weight of my recent personal disasters lifted away.

Yuna sat leaning against my side, hand stroking my leg. Her eyes were alive with mischief and lust, mirroring my own feelings. Our desire for each other had been simmering all evening.

I hoped Anna would soon leave us alone, but she seemed comfortable. The weed, mild as it was, seemed to have relaxed her. She was rattling off more stories about the restaurant, the island, college, and human existence in general.

“I mean, why are we here if not to love each other, take care of each other and learn about the wonders of the universe? It’s all in the numbers, you know. Newton was the first to really get it. Too bad he died a virgin. If I’d been around back then I’d have... oh, wow, man. Look at the moon!”

Yuna and I chortled.

“Is this Anna’s first-time smoking?” I said.

Yuna grinned. “Oh, no. She gets all animated and philosophical when she drinks, too.”

Then we noticed Anna was looking back towards the ocean.

Behind the tent, the full moon was rising above the lip of the bluff, huge and brilliant orange.

We walked to the edge to see the whole thing. Glowing and split by wisps of cloud, the moon painted a fiery path towards us across the calm ocean.

Yuna and I stood side-by-side with arms around each other’s waist. Anna appeared at my other side. She looked uncertain again, so I wrapped an arm around her too. She melted against me, slinking her arm around my back.

The magic of the view was surpassed by the magic of having Yuna and Anna to share it with.

Only a light breeze was blowing from the ocean. Gentle waves lapped the beach below.

“Anyone want to go for a swim?” I said.

When I looked at Yuna, I caught something wordless passing between her and Anna.

Yuna gathered us into a three-way group hug.

“Not me,” she said with a coy smile.

“Yeah, maybe later,” said Anna. She rocked from one foot to the other looking up with huge pleading eyes.

We stood looking at each other, then Yuna gently guided my head towards her sister until our lips almost touched. Anna wet her lips, her breath quickening, then pulled me into a hungry kiss.

Her lips were so soft and tasted faintly of strawberry lip balm. Anna cautiously pressed the tip of her tongue past my lips, and I responded by pressing mine into hers. With Yuna watching, it was intensely intimate. My simmering lust went to full boil.

We separated. I looked from Anna to Yuna and back. Yuna glanced purposefully at the tent.

My objections evaporated.

“We’d be more comfortable in your trailer,” I said.

Yuna beamed. She grabbed Anna’s hand and mine.

“We don’t want to wait,” she said, pulling us to the door of the tent.

Yuna said, “Take off her clothes.”

Anna gasped, drawing an arm to her chest. She flashed her sister an incredulous look then darted her eyes to the other camp sites. I looked around too: we were the only ones awake.

Anna lowered her arm, faced me and bit her lip, giving a tiny nod.

I drew her t-shirt over her arms and off then undid the front clasp of her bra and removed that too.

She stood naked from the waist up, her eyes on mine, huge and trusting.

Anna’s shorts and underwear were next. I crouched to slide them down her long legs, bringing me face-level with her beautiful pussy—for the second time that day.

I stood to take in the entrancing sight of her naked body lit by the moon and flickers from the fire: her lovely breasts, her womanly hips with an enticing gap between her thighs.

Anna breathed excitedly, but stood with hands at her sides, letting me admire her.

From behind, Yuna asked, “You want to strip him, or should I?”

Anna raked me with her eyes. “You, Em. You do it.”

Without hesitation, Yuna yanked off my shirt and shorts. She gave my back an affectionate pat. Anna stared at my rising cock pulsing slightly in time with my thudding heart.

Inside, Yuna stripped, and we lay on the air bed with me between them. Yuna kissed me passionately then pushed me to face her sister.

Anna immediately pulled me close and met my lips. She glided her hands all over me as I did the same to her. She found my hard cock and stroked and squeezed while jamming her tongue into my mouth. She was so excited I wondered if she would cum the moment I touched between her legs.

I separated and bent to nuzzle her neck while stroking and massaging one soft boob. Anna sighed and lay back, still grasping my dick, stroking idly.

Anna’s hips rose and churned. I bent and took a breast into my mouth and trailed fingertips down along her tummy and across her sparse triangle of fur. She parted her legs in welcome and I lightly stroked up along the sides of her pussy.

“Ooo,” she breathed. “That’s nice. More. Please?”

Laying half across her, I switched to suckle her other breast then ran fingertips over her inner thighs, down her legs then up, swiping the back of my hand lightly over her mons.

Anna held my head to her breast with one hand and tried to force my hand back between her legs. At first, I resisted, then started touching her more and more directly as she moaned and writhed.

She groaned when I introduced first one finger then a second inside her. She was wet, but not yet ready. I curled my fingers up, seeking her g-spot. Anna moaned and bucked when I pressed and massaged the right spot.

Behind, Yuna began kissing my neck and shoulders then raked my back with her nails. “I think she’s ready,” she whispered.

I thought so too. Sliding down, I kissed down Anna’s tummy and got between her widely spread thighs.

Unlike that morning, we weren’t in any rush, so I took my time teasing, licking, rubbing and exploring every wonderful part of her. Above, Anna was panting steadily, groaning and sighing, head thrown back and to the side.

With one hand she was pleasuring one of her boobs while guiding my head with the other. Using every technique I knew, I built her passions right to the edge then backed off, pressing a palm firmly against her mound until she calmed, then started her up that hill again.

A warm mouth engulfed the head of my cock. Yuna had moved to kneel on the floor of the tent. She pumped my dick while swirling her tongue around the tip, an impish gleam in her eye.

Anna regained my attention my mashing my face into her and I resumed my quest. Trying to ignore the incredible sensations of her sister skilfully stroking and sucking my cock, I worked to bring Anna to the edge once more. Her little cries and gasps were like music.

Finally, I worked my fingers back and forth inside her while lapping and carefully sucking her clit. Anna inhaled one raspy breath, arched her back and froze.

Yuna lifted her mouth from my dick to watch her sister. I grounded Anna again with my palm against her and watched the breath-taking beauty of her being swept away. Anna’s eyes were closed, her eyebrows raised, and mouth wide in an expression of pure angelic bliss.

I looked down and shared a smile with Yuna. She scooted up to lay beside Anna, brushing strands of hair from her forehead.

Sliding up to Anna’s other side, I kissed her cheek. Her eyes blinked open, and she looked from me to Yuna.

“You okay?” Yuna asked.

“Oh, god. That was even better.”

Anna brushed my cheek. Then reached down to grasp my cock again. Her chest was still rising and falling.

She looked at Yuna. Again, something unspoken passed between them.

Yuna nodded then reached across to touch my arm.

“Fuck her,” she whispered.

I was hard and beyond ready, but I thought Anna was off limits.

“Are... are you sure that’s okay?”

Anna gazed at me with smokey, needful eyes, looking even hungrier than before.

“Only if you want to,” she said.

The thought of burying myself in that sweet girl, maybe even bringing her to another orgasm, had my heart racing.

“Oh, Anna,” I said, “Yes. I really, really want to.”

She growled and pulled me onto her, spreading her legs while I got into position.

My cock found her entrance on its own. She wrapped her arms around me and I pushed inside her in one slow, exhilarating motion.

Anna stared, wide-eyed, moving her hips with tiny motions, feeling me speared so deep inside. I moved too, eager to get even deeper, overcome by the sensations.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me hard.”

Slowly I withdrew, feeling her passage grasping my shaft, reluctant to release me. When again I was poised just at her entrance, I teased her nudging just in and out. Anna groaned and wrapped her legs around me, desperate to draw me in. She gave a guttural grunt when I pushed in hard, stuffing her full in one merciless stroke.

We began to fuck. Anna grunted each time I impaled her, then urged me to do it again, harder. Soon I was pounding into her, my nuts slapping her ass, lost in raw animal need to mate, to drive deep into her then fill her with come. Anna took it gleefully, meeting each stroke, groaning, grunting, urging me on.

“Anna,” I groaned, “gonna come.”

“Wait,” she said, then rolled us over. She began riding me like an animal, her hands planted on my chest, impaling herself, rutting and sliding, boobs bouncing.

I held her hips, fighting the urge to come. Sweet Anna became a wildcat, sliding and grinding, keeping my cock stuffed deep inside her. I grabbed her boobs, massaging them and sliding thumbs over her nipples, marvelling how she was using me for her pleasure.

She worked away for a long while and I knew I couldn’t last. At last, Anna stopped, head up, eyes glazed then wriggled, her mouth wide. Then inside she began pulsing and gripping all around my shaft.

Anna let out an explosive breath and dropped her head between her shoulders. I exploded into her, losing my grip on her boobs as my muscles went slack, flooding her with everything I had.

After, we lay facing each other, caressing. The tent air was heavy with the smell of sex.

Anna had one leg over me. She looked between us at the globs of cum leaking from her freshly fucked pussy.

“You’re the first,” she said, and smiled.

“What? You weren’t a virgin.”

“No. You’re the first to cum in me. I’ve always used condoms.”

“But... you’re protected, right? Birth control?”

“Well, of course.”

“Told you she was cautious,” Yuna said.

I turned. Yuna was laying on the air bed behind me, head resting on one arm. I’d forgotten she was there, having focused entirely on Anna.

“You watched?”

Yuna shrugged. “I sort of participated. Couldn’t watch you two without taking care of myself, too.” She kissed me. “But I’m hoping for a little more. Think you’ll get some energy back later?”

“I dunno. Anna is pretty fierce.” I laid my head down. “I’m a little worn out.”

Yuna smiled at her sister and nestled against my side. Anna did the same.

“Mind if we sleep here for a while?” Yuna asked.

I didn’t mind at all.

—

Sometime during the night, I woke, hard and horny, spooned behind Yuna. She woke when I slipped my dick into the gap between her legs from behind.

“Mmmm,” she said, pulling my hand to her breast. “You got your energy back. But we’ll wake Anna. She gets grumpy without enough sleep.”

“Then come with me.”

Yuna giggled when I quietly unzipped the tent door and led us, still naked, outside. After zipping it back up, I took her hand and led her to the sandy path at the top of the bluff. It was pre-dawn—the sky had just barely begun to lighten.

We looked over the ocean then I pulled her into an embrace, and we kissed.

Yuna pulled back. “Thank you for doing that with Anna.”

“Only too happy to help a woman in need,” I said. “Is she vegetarian too?”

“No, just me. Why?”

She tastes a little like lobster. For some reason, now I really like it.”

Yuna stared, then covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. She swatted me.

We embraced again, kissing and running hands over each other. She stroked me and I felt her getting wet.

“I want you,” she said. “Now.”

She looked around. “But there’s nothing to lie on. One grain of sand in the wrong place and it gets really unpleasant.”

I stepped behind her, turning her to face the ocean beyond. “Kneel down.”

I helped her to her to her knees then pushed between her shoulders.

“Head down, ass up,” I said.

She turned and smiled, then went on all fours.

Wiggling her broad ass, she said, “Okay, cowboy... should I oink, bark or moo?”

I laughed. “You are so nasty.”

Yuna grinned.

I kneeled behind her and ran a hand over her puffy lips. Positioning at her opening, I nudged. Yuna pushed back a little. Slowly her wetness grew, and I slipped a little deeper inside her with each push. Finally, we were fully joined.

I withdrew, then impaled her with one measured stroke.

“Guh!” Yuna huffed, going down onto her elbows.

“How about you just grunt?” I said.

She peered back with lidded eyes. “Now who’s nasty”

Grabbing her hips, I started taking her. Yuna gasped and moaned, pushing back to meet each thrust, twisting and angling herself for the best angle. as I fucked her with careful deep strokes. Then she reached between us to strum and tease her clit.

I loved the sight of Yuna’s upturned ass in that submissive position—completely exposed and vulnerable.

We were quickly losing the cover of night as dawn broke in earnest. Though partially hidden by the tall beach grass, soon we’d be easily seen from the beach.

Fortunately, we were reaching our limit. Yuna met my thrusts with an increasingly irregular rhythm as she frigged her clit. I bent over her and nipped her shoulders while grabbing one bobbing breast, squeezing then teasing her nipple.

I tried to hold out, but then sailed past the point of no return. Straightening up, I grabbed Yuna’s hips and jammed into her, unloading deep. Within moments, Yuna cried out as orgasm overtook her too.

Yuna was still squeezing around my dick, and I was still throbbing within her when we noticed a jogger running along the wet sand of the beach. We collapsed onto the sand, hoping to be out of view.

Yuna rolled over, still catching her breath. We shared a smile and laughed.

—

“You know, you never said when you had to go home.”

Yuna bit into her bread and peanut butter. It was the only food I could offer her while Anna and I had scrambled eggs and bacon.

“Before my severance pay runs out, I guess. But this is the last day I have this campsite. I have to clear off by 2 PM.”

The sisters looked at each other, again exchanging some wordless communication.

“The bunks in our trailer are queen-size,” Anna said. “Lots of room, if you’d like to join us.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “Er, am I going to be in the middle of some kind of sibling rivalry?”

“You’ve seen us,” said Yuna. “We share very well. Oh, and for reference, I sleep on the right-side bunk, Anna sleeps on the left.”

“Exactly. So where would I sleep?”

The girls exchanged a look.

To Yuna, Anna said, “Should we take turns, or flip a coin every night?”

#yuna smut #anna smut #itzy smut #meovv smut #kpop smut #girl group smut #female idol smut #male reader

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pseudowho · 1 year ago

Text

Read Part One of "Breeding Hips" here...let's gooooooo!

It was supposed to be a simple beach trip-- "Give the kids a break in Okinawa", Gojo said. "It'll be fun!" Gojo said.

Kento had failed to check the staff attendance list. Of course they'd invite you, with your natural warmth and the way the kids loved you. Of course they'd invite you, when you'd seemed so down lately.

Of course they'd invite you, with how the sea-breeze pleated the saran around your hips, barely-there, almost as soft as the way your plush creased at the top of your thighs when you sat he'd heard Shoko laughingly call them your "thighbrows" and how he could have bitten Shoko's head off as you cringed mortified and covering yourself up shit don't go please dont leave--

In his hotel room, Kento groaned in abject self-pity. He tried to breathe in time with the hushed roar of the waves, lapping up the shore like a lovers' tongue. In...out...in...out.

His head rested against the cool wall, his forearm planted above it, while his other hand tried to grip his aching length into submission, torturing himself with fuck up after fuck up after fuck up and it all started with that ill-fated car journey--

He'd take the edge off, he thought, slipping his hand into his beach shorts, shivering as he swirled pre-cum over his hypersensitive tip, biting the back of his hand as he began to stroke himself-- just one more time, and then I can cope--

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"...and in the most disrespectful possible way?"

Kento made a strangled, animalistic noise in the base of his throat, stalling the car at the traffic lights. He sat, ramrod straight, sweating like a virgin.

"...dont." He warned, his voice throaty and dangerous. "Don't."

A frisson of electric ran down your spine. You clenched your fists in your lap, staring straight ahead, and whispering; "Oh...okay."

The car journey was fraught with silence. For "disrespectfully" were the words bloomed into pictures, graphic and obscene, that Kento used to get himself off to you. "Disrespectfully" were the stones of shame weighing his pockets, as he showered himself down, water rehydrating the cloying cum stuck to his belly. "Disrespectfully" were the feral parts of him that sought to lift you onto the counter and bite you, until you were crushing his head between the thickness of your thighs.

"Disrespectfully" was so unprofessional, Kento could vomit. Still, saliva pooled under his tongue, unable to eschew "disrespectfully" from his mind when you asked him in that petalsweet voice.

"Disrespectfully" opened the car door for you. "Disrespectfully" offered you the curtest of bows as you headed inside. "Disrespectfully" waited until you'd definitely gone, before rubbing his eyes so hard, lights fizzlepopped behind them. "Disrespectfully" took him over the edge again, and again, to the imaginary sound of his thighs slapping into the backs of yours.

You screamed into a pillow, never able to look Nanami Kento in the eye again, after overstepping so hard, so fast.

The next few weeks of work with Nanami Kento were like sharing an office with a well-dressed wooden broom. Even pencil skirts didn't appear to break him.

They did. He spent the best part of two weeks stiff, in every way.

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He hadn't known you'd be coming to the beach, until the watermelon incident.

You and Shoko had been day-drinking, in just swimsuits, and you brought the curves and giggles of the Piña Colada glass with you. Misty as the clouded glass, you swayed with Shoko, and each step you took closer, the lower Kento's IQ dropped, point, by point, by point. That heavy arse flicked from side to side, bopping Kento's sanity away with it.

Somehow, impossibly, you held a whole watermelon in the deep divot of your waist. Your hip shelved it up, your squishy saddlebags plumping out beneath the heavy, verdant weight. With one arm draped above to hold the watermelon in place while you staggered hand in hand with Shoko, it all looked so effortless. Kento was sweating bricks, his book all but forgotten.

Thank god for dark sunglasses. He looked up without looking up. Hidden in sun-lounger shade, he watched you, obsessing in secrecy, a modern day peeping-Tom. You're okay Nanami pull yourself together stop being such a fucking boy--

"Hey, hey..." Shoko teased you, grasping your hip-squash with the girlish friendship needed to get away with it, "...I bet you could crush that watermelon between your thighs."

Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no no--

You laughed, you and Shoko high off your own supply. Shoko sat on the sand, placing the watermelon between her thighs, trying her best to squeeze them together as you wiped tears away, sitting down beside her.

And Kento watched how your ass spread, how your thighs spread, like melting gumdrops, want to fucking bite them--

"I'll give it a go...c'mere c'mere...nonono Shoko, 's my turn!"

Shoko rolled the watermelon across the sand. Kento wasn't aware his mouth had dropped open, when you opened your legs, leant back on the sand, like heaven's gates opening...and you clamped the watermelon between them.

And squeeeeezed.

Kento pressed his book over his lap, a tent over a tent. His mouth was dry, his throat thick. He moaned, somewhere deep in his chest, as a hot little dribble of pre-cum dripped down the leg of his swim shorts.

Surely she can't break a watermelon just between her thighs, those hips couldn't be that stro--

Crack.

Shoko cheered. You threw your arms in the air, and cheered. Your inner thighs dripped, stickysweet with watermelon juice. You lay back, laughing in the sand, your arms still above your head.

Kento relieved himself to the bar, his head swimming, still clamping his book over his throbbing lap, far too dizzied to be surreptitious.

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The day-drinking buzz faded by the time the seagull calls grew tired, against ombre skies. Shoko remained smashed, and Gojo designated-driver'd her to her room. Sandals grasped in one hand, with the salty sting of a chafe between your legs, you ambled across the beach, past the waterside bar.

Except, you stopped. To see him.

Kento's head was in his hands, his shirt opened and hanging off broad, lightly freckled shoulders, seasalt crystals down his back. You frowned at the volume of empty glasses in front of him.

"...Ken--...Nanami?"

Kento's elbow gave out under him with a grunt of surprise, his head lurching, swoopy before recovering. Narrow, slanted eyes glared at you, bleary.

"...oh. 's you."

You drew your saran around yourself, astonished by how such a big strip of fabric was still barely enough to cover your arse. Kento could feel himself thickening already, burying his face in his hands again with a groan. He stood, his legs barely responding to commands. He tried to sober himself, standing tall and stern, his usual self, wettened by drink.

"I'll walk you to your room."

"You don't have to do that--"

"I insist."

In truth, you weren't sure if you should walk Kento back to his room instead. He repeatedly fell a few steps behind, before shaking himself off and catching up again.

Each time, Kento's drunk eyes dropped, the mesmerising swing of your hips, the dimpled jiggle of your arse...how his tongue thickened like his cock, thirsty and hungry all at once and god she's lovely too the whole deal the whole nine yards shit Kento how can you look at her so--

"Thanks. For walking me back."

Kento clenched. Time's up. His face was flat, expressionless, downcast to the floor. You cleared your throat, opening your door and stepping through.

"Goodnight, Nanami--"

A foot jammed your door, Kento growling in pain as it squashed his sandal'd foot. You looked slowly up to his face, feeling a trickle of hot, terrifying anticipation slide down your spine. Kento's eyes drilled into you, whiskey on his breath, sobering rapidly as he made up his mind.

"I'd...like to come in."

You throbbed. Every hair stood on end as you asked.

"...respectfully?"

Kento's jaw clenched so hard, you heard the crack.

"Disrespectfully."

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monster-disaster · 8 months ago

Note

I have a request for you!

A female reader that is happy-go-lucky and carefree. She frequents a monster brothel very much to the annoyance of the owner, a large gruff skull headed male demon. All the workers outright refuse to accept any payment from her because she's that good of a fuck and they also slack off during work hours to chat with her. She's very amusing and has an infectiously positive attitude, becoming a pseudo therapy dog for them. He considers her a menace to his establishment.

The next time she comes in he gives her an itemized bill and tells her she is barred from entering until she pays up. The workers start making a fuss and his hubris kicks in and makes a bargain. He'll see if she is that good of a fuck, and if he runs out of stamina before her he'll pay for everything.

He's thinking that she's going to end up under him out of energy and breathlessly moaning his name. If only he knew the opposite is going to happen..…

Dear Anon, I love your brain.

demon!Ezek x human!Reader Good to know: smut

The demon stands outside, framed by the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. His arms are crossed over his chest, muscles straining the fabric of his shirt as he watches you round the corner. His dark, angular face twists into a scowl at the sight of you walking towards him with a spring in your step, light and easy as if you are simply meeting an old friend rather than the very creature who sent you away with a hefty bill only weeks ago. His sharp eyes narrow with suspicion, and annoyance rolls off his spine in waves. Yet, when your gaze meets his, you flash him a grin, bright and carefree. Your lipstick glints under the light of the setting sun still peaking out between the tall buildings. The glow gives you an orange blush that makes the deep color of your eyes shine with something that makes him grumble.

"Little pest," he greets you with a grunt. "I thought you wouldn't come."

The curve of your lips turns sly as you peek at him through your eyelashes. "You thought wrong," you tell him. "I missed my boys too much not to come, anyway."

Your words hit their mark. The tight frown etched into his bony features deepens at the use of your words. He almost scoffs. His annoyance lingers in the air, but he says nothing, only stares at you with that simmering, barely contained displeasure.

Your boys...

And he can't even argue with that. Ever since he sent you away with that bill, his men have treated him like the enemy rather than their boss. They grumble under their breath, shooting him looks like he is a storm cloud hanging over their heads. They have become a flock of offended hens, huffing and puffing whenever they catch sight of him. Their loyalty to you has been a thorn in his side ever since.

You have been the thorn in his side ever since you first set foot in his brothel years ago, slipping through the front door like a breeze that none of them saw coming. You charmed your way into his men's good graces, winning over their hearts with a flick of your little finger. It got to the point where his men wouldn't even accept your money, brushing off your attempts to pay with dismissive waves and toothy grins. It was a rare sight, seeing the lot of them, usually gruff and hardened, melting under your influence like snow under a warm sun. They'd offer you drinks on the house, pull up chairs beside you for conversations, and treat you like one of their own, much to his growing frustration. He’d seen how their eyes would light up when you arrived, and the playful banter that used to fill the rooms whenever you were around. To them, you were a welcome break from the usual grind, but to him, you were nothing but a nuisance, one he couldn’t quite seem to rid himself of no matter how many times he tried to draw boundaries.

"Come, then," the demon rumbles, jerking his head toward the entrance before opening it in front of you with a rough motion. The hinges creak in protest, blending into the noises of the traffic around.

"Where are the others?" you ask immediately, your gaze sweeping over the empty, dimly lit hall as you step through the doorway.

"I sent them home."

The deal he made with you spread through the brothel within a few hours. The whispers and knowing glances bounced from one monster to another like wildfire, and before the demon knew it, the place was unbearable with the sneaky exchanges. He felt like the butt of a joke, and he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Oh," you reply. The disappointment in your voice only adds fuel to his growing annoyance. "I wanted to ask Blake how his family gathering went."

Ezek scowls down at you. His features, all bones, seem haunting. The deep crimson of his skin darkens as he glares. "What?" he asks, irritated. Then, he shakes his head dismissively. "Don't answer. I don't care."

You huff in answer. "Rude."

He rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply as he gestures for you to follow him. The impatience buzzes beneath his taut skin, making his movements rigid while he leads you down the corridor. Each step he takes is purposeful as if he is trying to outrun his annoyance simmering just below the surface.

After he’d had enough of his men’s antics, he finally made the decision to call you. He swore he felt Hell freezing over when you answered the line, all chirpy and upbeat as usual. It was infuriating how effortlessly you managed to sound cheerful when he was at his wit's end at the brothel.

"What can I do for you?"

Ezek snarled before he forced the words out of his mouth. "I have a deal for you."

His idea was simple: you could come and go as you pleased for free, as long as you showed him why the monsters who were supposed to work for him and generate profit acted like you were the one who owned the place. It was a way for him to regain some semblance of control while getting rid of you for good.

"I will be there," you agreed.

The room he chose is simple, with low lights that cast a warm, inviting glow all over. Neatly arranged sheets lie atop the bed, their sweet scent filling the air and mingling with the subtle hints of something floral and fresh.

"I need the bathroom first," you say, already putting down your purse and making your way to the other door.

"Sure," the male grunts in reply with a hint of disinterest in his voice as he loosens a few buttons of his shirt. The fabric parts, revealing a glimpse of his skin.

He settles down on the bed, leaning back against the plush headboard while waiting for you. He can hear you moving around, and without realizing it, he steals glances toward the bathroom, his mind racing with thoughts he can't quite pin down. You are a lively little thing, radiating so much brightness that he has no choice but to feel both frustrated and intrigued at the same time. It doesn’t matter, though. After this night, he will show you that you have no place here, and everyone can move on without making his life impossible. The thought solidifies in his mind. He’s determined to reclaim his authority, to restore order among the chaos you've brought. This night will serve as a reminder to both you and his men that while your presence may be captivating, it’s also fleeting, a temporary distraction that he intends to put an end to.

When you appear at the doorway a few minutes later, he can’t help but be surprised at the sight of you. He expected you to go all out to impress him, but instead, you are clad in nothing but simple white underwear that fits snugly over your curves. Ezek feels a mix of admiration and irritation stir within him as he lets his gaze rake over your soft body. It’s disarming, and he can’t shake the feeling that you are effortlessly turning the tables on him, challenging his resolve in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

"What do you think?" you ask him with a big smile on your face. You twirl around to show him more, though there isn’t much to reveal when it comes to your underwear. It looks soft and comfortable, but his attention is quickly drawn to the plush curve of your ass before you turn back to face him. "I bought it just yesterday."

For a long second, Ezek is silent, taking in the sight of you. Did you really buy this for tonight? But he doesn’t voice any of this, though. While you’re nothing but an annoying little pest in his life, he has no desire to hurt your feelings or damage your self-esteem. Besides, he knows his men would burn him alive if they sensed he’d crossed that line. Instead, he clenches his jaw, torn between frustration and a reluctant admiration for your naiveness.

"You look stunning."

And he isn’t lying. Your natural confidence shines brighter than any lingerie ever could. The soft glow of your skin under the dim lights enhances your allure, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the thin fabric of your bra, clinging to you and showing off your hard nipples. It’s a sight that pulls his focus, stirring something deep within him that he’s too annoyed to confront. Even in something so simple, you manage to captivate him in a way he didn’t expect, and it leaves him grappling with a newfound awareness of just how potent your presence can be.

Moving on the bed, Ezek lets his legs fall onto the plush carpet as he leans slightly onto his knees.

"Come here," he commands, locking his gaze onto yours the whole time.

Maybe he is struggling to find his footing in this situation, but he sure won’t let you lead this dance between the two of you.

His long fingers grip your hips with bruising force, digging into the soft skin as he struggles to find control. It’s as if he can’t decide whether to stop you or urge you to move faster, making you bounce harder on his lap. It feels like his brain shut down the moment you climbed onto his lap an hour ago, and now all he can focus on is the heat of your body. Your warmth presses into him in a way that makes it impossible to think straight. Every shift of your body and every roll of your hips sends a fresh jolt through him, and he’s not sure if it’s pleasure or frustration that makes his grip tighten even more. Probably both. His breath comes out ragged, catching in his chest as he tries to steady himself, but it's a losing battle. Every time he thinks he is regaining control, you shift or press closer, and the edges of his thoughts blur again.

You are on his lap, riding him with a relentless rhythm. Your warm, slick heat envelopes him with every bounce. The sound of your bodies colliding, skin slapping against skin, fills the otherwise quiet room, blending with the soft creak of the bed beneath you. If Ezek could muster even a shred of sanity, he’d be irritated by the rhythmic noise. He sure will change every bed in this damn brothel the moment he can think again. But right now, every coherent thought slips through his grasp like sand. His fingers press deeper into your soft flesh, trying to steady you, or perhaps himself, as each movement sends a fresh surge of pleasure through him. It’s maddening, the way you ride him, guiding the pace with a confidence that both frustrates and excites him.

"Ezek," you moan above him. The high, desperate sound wraps around him like a vice, pulling tight, and he feels his erection jerk inside your wet, clenching heat.

A low growl rumbles from his chest. His teeth grind together at the way you moan his name, and then your hands slip from the headboard to wrap around his horns. The sudden, sharp tug on his skull makes his vision go white-hot at the edges as a shudder of raw sensation courses down his spine. His hips buck upward in a frantic, uncontrolled thrust that has him driving deeper inside you. The pressure of your grip on his horns leaves him reeling, forcing out another growl from deep in his throat as his body responds to you in ways he can’t quite rein in. He holds you down, forcing you to stay tight and snug around his cock as he grinds his hips up into you. He can feel the slick warmth of his previous release as it seeps out of your used hole, dripping around the base of his cock with every thrust. The sensation is filthy, spurring him on further to push into you with a rough determination that leaves your pussy clenching around him.

"Fuck," the demon snarls, his voice rough and guttural as he pushes himself up on the bed.

He moves with a sudden, feral urgency, crowding you beneath his larger frame. With a swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, forcing your chest down into the rumpled sheets while your surprised squeal echoes in the room. His palm presses down firmly on the small of your back, pinning you in place as he shifts one of your legs to the side, spreading you open. The position leaves your pussy swollen and easily accessible.

"Ezek!" His name falls from your lips like a breathless plea as he drives into you again. Your body arches instinctively, responding to the overwhelming pleasure. His hips snap forward with an animalistic force. Each stroke is deep and unrelenting as if he’s determined to imprint himself into every part of you. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of his body against yours, the way his presence fills the space around you, making it feel both electric and consuming.

The male leans over you, his breath is hot against your ear as he growls. "Cum around me, Y/N." The weight of his body presses down. Your ass is soft and plush against his pelvis. Each thrust drives him deeper, pushing you closer to the edge.

The demon's muscles are taut as he holds himself above you. He can feel the familiar tingle at the base of his spine, a sign that he is nearing his own release. His balls pull tight, the need to fill you up almost primal, urging him on with a ferocity that makes his heart race. He digs his fingers into the sheets, anchoring himself as he quickens his pace.

“Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and raw. "Let go for me."

The tight, urging command is the final push you need. He swears he could break his own teeth by the force he closes his mouth as your warm pussy clutches and pulses around him. The feeling of you milking his already sensitive cock snaps the molten heat pooling low in his stomach. It’s as if every nerve ending in his body ignites at once, stealing his breath away for several long seconds. The tight grip of your warmth around him pushes him to the brink, and he can't help but growl as he feels his release barreling toward him, unstoppable.

With a final, deep thrust, he lets go, filling you completely as he shudders in ecstasy. Thick spurts of his cum paint your tightening walls. The warmth of him floods you in waves that send shockwaves of pleasure coursing through both of you. He can feel the pearly white liquid drip down, smearing over your joined skin.

As he finally catches his breath, he collapses onto the bed next to you, chest heaving and the world still spinning. For a long while, both of you lie sprawled out on the bed, the air warm and thick with the mingled scent of your arousal. He turns his head to glance at you, and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. The dim light casts a soft glow across your features, highlighting the contentment etched on your face. It’s a sight that sends a wave of satisfaction through him.

He takes a moment to soak it all in.

Until you break the silence.

“Do you think if I give you some time, you’ll be ready for another round?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your voice is hoarse, yet as cheerful and bright as ever.

The question catches the demon off guard, leaving him momentarily breathless as he stares at you in disbelief. “Wha'?”

You shrug with a playful glint in your eyes. “You are better than I thought.”

The praise ignites a fire within him, causing his blood to boil. His usual scowl returns, hardening the sharp lines of his features as he processes your words.

For a few silent seconds, you hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly as if trying to decipher his reaction. “That’s a no?”

The demon groans, frustration creeping into his voice as he glances up at the ceiling. “Go and find your boys.”

“And what if I do that thing with my tongue again?” you ask. The sultry tilt in your voice sends a jolt of arousal and pain through his already spent cock, making it twitch in response.

Well, call him a machoist... "Give me ten minutes."

He will hear about this from the others anyway when you saunter into the brothel, so why shouldn't he enjoy it while he can?

#monster romance #monster x human #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #teratophillia #monster fucker #terat0philliac #monster smut #sweet asks #monsterfucker #demon x reader #demon smut #terato #monster lover #monster kink

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whencloudwavesbreak-if · 1 year ago

Text

DEMO UPDATE 30-03-2024

So I got impatient and decided to update before I completely finished chapter 3. Feel free to check out the new stuff using the updated link in the pinned post.

If you want to share your opinion or let me know about bugs/glitches etc., please reach out to me on the COG forums (link also in the pinned post).

Some things to note:

All parts that say INCOMPLETE have not been added yet. There is nothing there. You will get an error if you try any of those options.

The dance section is labeled WIP because Oscar/Ophelia’s dance scene is complete. JJ’s dance scene has not been added yet - I want to complete a few of the other options first before this one.

For the full list of changes, take a look under the Read More.

UPDATE 30-03-2024 CHANGELOG

CHOICESCRIPT_STATS

Updated main stats page (a word)

Updated Casey Young's description (a word)

Updated Lucille D'Angelo and Oscar/Ophelia Lovelace's descriptions (a word)

Updated JJ's description (accommodating new gender selectable status, updating description text)

INTRODUCTION

Added Storyteller Mode (toggleable on/off in Stats page)

Added JJ to the gender_option variable (previously, this only affected Lovelace)

CHAPTER 1

Added text to clarify setting of stats + sister's personality (Storyteller Mode not required)

Updated Benjamin confrontation

Removed opportunity to ask Benjamin about himself - moved to chapter 3

Removed opportunity to investigate sister's bedroom - this is being moved to a later chapter

CHAPTER 2

Updated to accommodate changes caused by the new version of the Benjamin confrontation

CHAPTER 3 (WIP)

Add ability to:

Eavesdrop on Benjamin and Evelyn

Meet Jeremiah/Jessamine Callahan

Dance OR speak with Oscar/Ophelia Lovelace

#when cloud waves break if #if: when cloud waves break #wcwb if #interactive fiction #hosted games #choice of games #if demo updated

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ameliathornromance · 7 months ago

Text

The Other Woman - Part 2

A/N: I'm blown away by the support you guys have given me with this part. I want to thank everyone who commented on the first post and gave me feedback! I'm always happy to recieve constructive critisim to make my work better for you all. This part 2 is a little different from how I usually handle part twos, so I hope you guys enjoy!

Link to PT 1

Your eyes itched as you dragged them open the next morning. The tears you shed last night had completely exhausted you by the time you got back to your room in the Palace, you had just flopped into bed without changing, skirts covered in melted icing.

A part of you was glad for it, as you had something to distract yourself from the soreness of heart break in your chest. You had no idea what you were going to do when you headed to court. The King’s personal guard would be there, and as far as you were aware, he hadn’t seen you the previous night.

Which means to him, nothing had gone wrong between the two of you.

You weren’t sure what to do knowing that. You could: A) Pretend nothing is wrong, carry on with this affair like you’d never seen what you had, or B) End things with the Orc and live with the guilt of what you did for the rest of your life.

Option A was just too difficult for you to do. You couldn’t bare the thought of doing something so heartless to that lovely Orc lady who worked in the kitchens. She was too kind to you, and always willing to lend a shoulder when you needed it… She would be a great mother.

So, it looks like option B is the only way to go.

As you finished remaking your bed, a shaky sigh escaped you as you leaned against your mattress, trying to steady yourself to face the day.

Leaving your quarters, you walked through the halls with your head in the clouds, thinking about how exactly you were supposed to end this affair. Would the King’s guard be angry? Upset?

After stewing on it, a wave of indignity washed over you. Really, none of this is your fault, it’s not like you were aware of his marriage. So, why should you be the one to break it off?

Of course, the last thing you wanted was to stay with the Orc, but if anything, he should be the one ending things with you! He was the one who chose to lie to you and hurt you in that way.

But how would you send that message to him? It’s not like you could just tell him what you saw. He might try to convince you to stay with him and you would not be persuaded into doing such a thing.

… Maybe, if you ignored him, he’d get the message and just leave you alone? Then that way, he’d know that you were angry with him and then, he would have no choice but to apologise to you. He’s not a stupid Orc, he should realise sooner or later what you were upset with him about.

But then, how do you regain your dignity as a Lady?

You chewed your lip as you greeted the Queen, apologised for your lateness and then followed her, alongside the other ladies in waiting to the throne room.

Thinking about this anymore would have to wait. You had a job to do as the Queens lady in waiting.

Their excited whispers brought you back down to Earth.

“Do you think that he’s handsome?”

“I don’t know, have you ever seen a forest dweller before?”

“Well no, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not good looking!”

“(Y/N) what do you think?”

“Hm?” You looked over your shoulder at the others. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve really been all over the place this week haven’t you?” One of the ladies said, “you know we’ve been preparing for the Forest Fae? Well, the Lord of the Forest Fae, is apparently, devilishly handsome. And, he’s not married or in any other kind of commitment with a woman or man!”

Another one of the ladies giggled, “do you think he’s come here looking for someone to marry?”

“Unlikely.” The third lady said, dismissively. “Men of any species love to flounder, even when they’re married. Why make their promiscuity more complicated than it has to be? You agree with me, don’t you (Y/N)?”

You didn’t answer. Due to recent experience, you had no interest in trying to romance a Fae Lord, there was no point in trying to if he was so easily led astray. “All men seemed to be like that.” You said, callously. “Even if he is loyal to those he sleeps with, I’m not looking to marry a Fae Lord.”

“Oh come on (Y/N), don’t pretend you’re not even slightly interested!”

“Ladies,” The Queen shushed and all the other women fell silent. “Gossip is unbecoming of all of you. If any of you wish to become involved with the Lord, I’ve heard he’s not one for those who spread rumours.”

Upon reaching the throne room, all the chattering of the ladies had fallen silent.

The doors to the impressive room opened, the Queen, you and the other ladies in waiting taking their respective places next to their mistress as they waited for the Fae Lord to make his entrance.

Sunlight caught the Queen’s glittering necklace, making you look around in surprise. And infuriatingly, you caught the King’s Guard’s eye. He smiled at you, eyes kind and wide like he was expecting you to return it.

Instead, you whipped your head away from him and locked on the throne room door. Other courtiers bustled around the room, discussing whatever was on the nobles minds at that moment in time.

For now, you would just have to stick to your plan of ignoring him. What else could you do until you could think of something more suitable for vengeance?

Soon, the doors to the throne room opened and the whole room fell silent.

The first few Fae glided in like they were sliding on ice, their ethereal beauty suffocating and snuffing out any other attractive person in the room. There were eight of them, four entering from opposite sides of the doors, who twirled in what looked to be spider web like dresses, their skirts sparkling in the light as they came to a stop, their long blonde hair falling down their backs with an eery gracefulness.

One of the ladies next to you mumbled something about how the Fae were so lucky, but you were so focused on not looking around at the Orc standing beside the King, that you couldn’t hear what the rest of her sentence was about.

After the graceful – and attention stealing – dance, a Fae man, taller than the others you’d seen so far, graced the courts prescence.

His hair was so white you might have thought that he was an old man, if not for his smooth skin untouched by aging. His eyes were deep pools of black that threatened to suck you in and never let you go, while his smile was kind and serene.

The Fae Lord came to a stop a few feet away from the thrones, and bowed his head. “Your Majestys, it is so wonderful to see you all again. I’m so pleased that I could finally make this trip like my father before me.”

“And we are pleased to have you, my Lord.” The King returned. “As it’s your first time staying here at the Palace, we’ve prepared a little celebration in honour of your new position…”

As the King droned on about how he hopes that this will be the new beginning of a fruitful alliance between humans and Fae, yada-ya, a chill went down your spine.

While the King’s announcement had been going in one ear and out the other, you brought yourself back into the room and carefully searched for the source of your discomfort… only to find the Fae Lord, looking directly at you.

You stood a little taller, returning his gaze in an attempt to be polite. When you gave him a polite inclination of the head, his smile widened as the King finished his speech.

“And so, we will have this little ball to welcome you and hope that your stay will be as comfortable as possible.”

“Yes,” the Fae Lord said, airily. “I’m sure it will be.” He turned to look back at the King and inclined his head once again. “I appreciate that the ball isn’t until tonight, and since this is your court, I’d like to ask if I can be a little forward, your Majesty?”

The King frowned, but nodded his head.

“You see, I couldn’t help but notice that lovely lady standing over there,” the Fae Lord pointed at you, “and was wondering if it would be too much for me to ask her for her first dance tonight?”

Your eyes widened.

The other ladies beside you, nudged you in the ribs. “So it was you he was looking at! I was wondering why his eyes were wandering, I thought he was just bored!”

Face burning, your eyes darted to the Queen and in the process, caught sight of the Orcs face.

His nose was scrunched up as he snarled, “awfully cocky, aren’t you?”

The Fae Lord ignored the Orc as he looked at you once again, hands behind his back.

When you looked at the Queen, she smiled at you and jerked her head to the Fae. “Well? You don’t have to ask me for permission, Lady (Y/N).”

All eyes on you, you bit your lip and sucked in a deep breath. Most of all, you could feel the Orc’s eyes baring into the side of your skull, like he was trying to make you face him, daring you to accept the Lord’s offer.

But the image you saw the previous night, flashed through your mind.

Spite leading you, you answered the Fae Lord. “I’ll have my first dance with you, my Lord.” You said, firmly.

The Fae bowed his head to you, “I look forward to it, my Lady.” And with that, he said his goodbyes to the King and Queen before the entire court was dismissed.

The rest of the day went by with a bubbly air, all the ladies sneaking glances and smiles at you as you went about your day.

You, yourself, could hardly believe that you had accepted the dance. It was true, you weren’t interested in romancing this Fae Lord in the slightest… but if it meant that you could piss off the King’s Guard, then you would gladly accept anything else that the Fae Lord had to offer.

After all, it’s not like the Orc could jump in and say that you couldn’t do something, people would get suspicious then.

As soon as the Queen had sent the ladies in waiting to go and prepare for the ball later in the afternoon, they all pounced on you.

“I can’t believe it!” One of them said as they took you by the wrist. “He really asked you, in front of the whole court!”

“It’s just a dance,” you told them all as you made your way back to your apartments. And that was all it would probably be, you told yourself. “It was just formality that I accept him. It would have been an awful start to his stay if I had told him no.”

“But even so, to ask you in front of the entire court!” Another one of the ladies squawked. “He must really like you.”

“We haven’t even formally met.” You said.

“Oh can’t you just be romantic for one minute?!” The first Lady huffed. “I’m imagining a star-crossed lovers romance, where he dramatically proposes to you just before he’s about to leave, flying through the corridors, abandoning his carriage in search of you-”

“Alright.” You said, firmly. “I get it. Well you can have your fantasies all you like.” Once you reached your apartments, you yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind you, locking the other ladies outside.

Sliding to the floor, you pulled your knees to your chest and squeezed. When you’d first started seeing the Orc, all you did was fantasize like that. Dream of running away with him and sharing all sorts of romantic ventures together.

But any kind of desire for that experience had left the moment you saw his wife.

You didn’t want to colour all men with the same brush, but a betrayal like the Orcs, isn’t something that you can just shake off.

And although it gave you the slightest bit of pleasure to know that the Orc was angry with the Fae, you knew you couldn’t allow yourself to get caught up in the romance of it all. He may be the exact same as the King’s Guard for all you knew.

And… you didn’t want to end up hurt again.

Once evening finally did come around and you joined with the other ladies in waiting – who were all too eager to have you be the leader of the group – the ballroom was full of chatter, people drinking and watching couples dance in the centre of the room.

“Oh, he’s not here yet?” Frowned a lady beside you, “don’t worry, he’ll turn up soon I’m sure, most of the other Fae are here. You should sit by the entrance that way, he’ll see you as soon as he enters.”

The suggestion made you want to roll your eyes. While you were going to dance with this Fae, you didn’t want to be seen as desperate for company. Taking a glass of wine from a passing waiter, you decided to hover to the side of the room.

As you sipped on the delicate glass, your eyes scanned the room where you spied the Queen dancing with the King, the other ladies mingling and chatting animatedly with other guests.

You caught yourself glancing at the entrance to the doors a lot. Keeping an eye out for the Fae Lord. You had to keep internally slapping yourself. This was just a means of getting back at the King’s guard.

And perhaps it was because the King’s guard was standing opposite the room, within perfect line of sight of keeping an eye on you that you were eager for the Fae Lord to arrive.

The Orc’s eyes glazed over the room, mostly following the King, but occasionally, he found you.

Anger boiled in your veins as you kept your eyes firmly fixed on the doors to the ballroom.

Even now, the Orc was good at keeping his affection for you a secret.

A part of you wanted to throw the wine glass in your hand at him, just to keep him on edge.

But, before you could put your thoughts into practice, gasps echoed around the room, drawing your attention to the ballroom doors.

The crowd parted as the Fae Lord’s eyes searched the room and found you. His eyes lit up at the sight of you and he passed through the crowd of people, and held a hand out to you. “There you are,” he said, smiling. “What are you doing hiding in the shadows over here? A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be hidden away like this.”

You shook your head as he took a wine glass from a waiter and sipped from it, “do you mind if I have a drink before we dance?”

“No, not at all my Lord.” You replied.

Over his shoulder, you chanced a glance at the Orc, whose eyes were now locked onto you and the Lord.

The Fae spoke, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your name first before asking for your dance, my Lady…?”

“(Y/N).” You answered smiling. “Thank you, for asking me for this dance.” You held your hand out to him, which he took and pressed a kiss onto your knuckles. A pleasant chill ran up your arm.

The Fae Lord bowed his head as he took another sip from his glass. “It’s an honour that you accepted. I should be thanking you for not humiliating me in front of all those courtiers.”

You chuckled at that. “I wouldn’t have done that to you, that would’ve been cruel, even if you were being very forward.”

“I just don’t have a care for all of these silly procedures,” the Fae said, waving his free hand around the ballroom. “There’s no point in any of it, I’d have preferred that the King and I just talk about what I’m here for and then to just leave, you know. But, a simple ball isn’t so bad.”

“So, you’d say you’re a simple man?” You asked.

“Completely.” The Fae finished his drink and you rushed to do the same too.

“My Lady, please, don’t do that on my account, we have the whole evening to dance, you can take your time.” He pulled the glass by the stem away from your lips.

You frowned, holding your free hand up to cover your mouth. “But I don’t want to keep you waiting, it would be rude of me to do that.”

With a sly wink, the Fae Lord said in a low whisper, “if I didn’t want to be kept waiting by you, I wouldn’t have asked for your first dance.”

You gave him a suspicious look, to which the Lord replied, “I want to get to know you, (Y/N).”

“Why?” You asked, shortly. “We’ve never even met before.”

The Fae Lord didn’t flinch at your tone. Instead, he searched your eyes. “Because, it seemed as though you were in need of some cheering up.” He said, simply. “And I don’t like seeing people upset.”

With a gentle smile, he patted your shoulder. “Don’t feel like you have to tell me what’s going on right now, after all, we did just meet each other. But whenever you’re ready, I’m here if you want to talk.”

You stared at him. Was he being serious? As you looked into his eyes you could sense no malice, no playfulness or manipulation in his face… Maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to give this Fae a chance?

Once you’d finished your drink the pair of you took to the dance floor.

And for the next few days, he always made a point of talking to you. At first, it was mundane things, how did you sleep? Did you eat breakfast yet? Before it became more involved questions, like what your family did for business, asked about your other ladies in waiting and if they were doing well.

And gradually, you started to look forward to your little chats and began to ask about him and his life. It turned out he was an only child and took the Lordship after his father had died of some kind of tree associated illness.

He was funny, had a quick wit and was fond of lymerics. He liked the smell of morning dew on grass and the way the forest smelt after a rain storm. Oh, and he enjoyed rum cake.

Your stomach bubbled with excitement every morning now at the prospect of seeing him around the Palace and speaking to him in the evening, the Orc barely even crossed your mind anymore.

Except for when you were on your way to your apartments one time, and the Orc ambushed you from a dark corner of the halls.

“What is with you?” He snarled at you. “You’re completely ignoring me in favour of that pretty Fae man.”

You didn’t spare the Orc a glance and kept walking. “He’s nice to me.” You shrugged, “I can’t talk to other men?”

“It’s not just talking to other men!” The Orc hissed. “You’ve been ignoring me and the gifts I leave you, along with letters as well! Whenever I enter your rooms to give you something else, the other gift is always left unopened!”

He grabbed you by the wrist, forcing you to stop in your tracks. He tightened his grip, “did I do something wrong?” He asked you. “Tell me if I have, I will do what I have to do make up for it.”

Anger flared like a fire stoked with gunpowder. You wanted to yell at him, to shout at him that he should go back to his wife, confess that he was an adulterer and that he should be begging for her forgiveness.

But for some reason, you couldn’t let that anger escape. It refused to climb up and out of your throat. You shook your hand free of his grip. “You really want to fix it?” you hissed. “You can leave me alone. Pretend that this never happened. Take your hush gifts and give them to the person who really deserves them!”

And with that, you stormed off to your apartments.

Once you were inside the drawing room, you let out a groan of frustration. Of course, going off with the Fae Lord was definitely one way of getting revenge… but it didn’t feel like it was enough.

You still felt awful for the Orc lady, who was pregnant with that adulterers baby. There had to be something else you could do… some other way of getting back at him and really sticking it to the King’s guard.

And then, an idea came to you. It was a risk to ask, sure… but, the Fae Lord really seemed genuinely interested in you. And he did say himself that he would be open to listening to you if you had any problems. Who knows? Maybe he would be up for your revenge too.

So, that night you arranged a private dinner for the two of you, away from court to tell him what was really going on.

He was perplexed by your request to meet him in a place away from the public eye, but never the less accepted and arrived to dinner with that same pleasant smile he always gave you.

“What’s all this about?” He had asked as you finished setting the table.

You intertwined your fingers together and clasped them in front of you, as if you were about to start praying.

“… Do you remember when you told me that you could sense a sadness within me?” You asked. And over dinner, you told him everything. The secretive meetings, the presents. As you told your sombre tale, you realised how badly it all truly sounded.

Of course, the affair was awful enough on it’s own… but the fact that the Fae Lord had been unwittingly helping you in your payback, would come across as you using him.

And as you finished with the climax of your story, the Fae Lord’s fists clenched tighter around his cutlery. His jaw tightened.

You bit your lip, wanting to explain yourself. “I have to say that your asking me to dance in front of the whole court was what inspired me to continue on with this plan of revenge. I have truly enjoyed spending time with you and didn’t mean to use you my Lord…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” The Fae spat. “It’s an awful thing for him to do to you, it’s no wonder he was so against us dancing and being seen together in the first place. I had half a mind to complain to the King about his behaviour.”

He knocked the butt of his fork on the table as the Lord looked around your drawing room, like there would be some kind of explanation somewhere. “How dare he use someone like that to get his own rocks off!” The Fae Lord hissed. “And especially you. You should have told me sooner, this isn’t something that you should have to deal with alone!

“No, do you know what?” The Fae pointed at you, “don’t do anything else until I say so, alright? We’re going to get this bastard man-whore… or should it be Orc-whore?” He gave you smug smile as you laughed. “For this plan to work,” he continued, “I’ll need to ask permission from someone before I go through with it.”

You frowned. “Ask permission for what?”

The Fae Lord gave another sly grin, “It’s a surprise.” His smile faded as he reached out across the table with a free hand and took yours in his, “I’ve grown very fond of you, (Y/N) and I hope that you have of me too, so with that in mind, please trust me, okay?”

He was right, you had grown fond of him and his presence. It would be strange for him to not be around in court any more. Your heart sunk in your chest at the realisation that he wouldn’t be around for much longer.

You nodded. Lowering your head, you stared at your empty plate and sighed. “… I feel really silly for thinking that he could have actually liked me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The Fae Lord asked, frowning. “I like you.”

You sighed. “I mean honestly liked me. Not just used me as a means to have an affair… I thought that we would get married one day and…” You gripped your skirts.

For a moment, the Fae stayed silent. “You don’t deserve to be loved by trash like him.” He said, firmly. He gave another squeeze of your hand. “And we’ll make sure he knows it. So don’t put yourself down, alright? It’s not you who’s in the wrong, it’s him.”

And once again, he was right. You sniffed. It made you feel a lot better to hear someone say it out loud, and to talk to someone about this affair. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off your chest.

Weeks went by and everything continued on as it had been before. The Fae Lord acted no differently than before your dinner together and the King’s guard grew more and more furious each time he saw you and the Fae together.

He had stopped bothering you since you’d told him to leave you alone… but there was still that foreboding feeling that the Orc was still looking for ways to win back your approval, proved by his scathing looks of the Fae Lord when you and he were together.

And with that feeling hovering in the air at court, you began to realise how stupid you must have been, to believe that you were only worthy of such a deceitful kind of love. You deserved so much more, wanted so much more.

The strangest part about knowing that, was that you felt it might come true very soon. You didn’t know how you could tell, you just knew it.

You began to worry as the final days of the Fae Lord’s stay drew near. There still had been no update on the Lord’s revenge plan and when you asked him about it, he’d always reassured you and given your hands a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just making the final preparations, alright? Don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got this.”

It was all too soon that the final week of his stay around. Everyone in the Palace was suddenly mournful that the Fae Lord and his company would be departing.

The Monday of the week the Lord was going to leave, you awoke to find a gift box. It was carved of wood, the bark of the tree still on it’s exterior and top, with a mossy bow tying it shut.

And as you opened it up, you couldn’t help but gasp at the sight you saw. In a bed of moss, was a necklace made of spider web, droplets of water beads strewn around it delicately. Underneath it, was a note:

I would like to give you a surprise gift every day leading up to the final day before I leave. I hope that if you appreciate this gift, you’ll wear it today and the others that are to come.

Others to come? Was this part of the revenge plan that the Lord had cooked up?

Without a second thought, you put on the gift and when you entered the Queen’s apartments that morning, all the of other ladies practically screamed with excitement for you.

Even the Queen – who never normally allowed herself to be emotional – got involved with her ladies delighted chattering.

The next morning, it was a bracelet made of hardened tree sap – the note detailed that if you licked it, it would make for a good snack – the morning after that, a broach made of butterfly wings.

And every day you wore them, eventually looking more and more like a forest Fae than a human noblewoman.

When the day finally came of the Fae Lord’s departure, you found that there was no gift that morning. Although strange, it didn’t surprise you.

He was leaving today after all, perhaps he just didn’t have time to leave one final gift.

With a heavy heart, you made your bed, adorned yourself with all the gifts you had received that week, and set off to go to court to wish the Fae Lord a good journey home.

Following the Queen to the throne room, the rest of the ladies in waiting seemed to be uncharacteristically quiet. When you gave them strange looks, they all pursed their lips or looked away from you, as if they were trying to hide something from you.

Even the Queen refused to look at you. Although you were sure that you caught a small smile on her lips whenever you all turned a corner.

When you entered the throne room, it was packed with courtiers, all chattering as usual. But there was something different in the air. You weren’t sure what it was, but there was certainly something going on without your knowing.

Once you had taken your place beside the Queen, the doors to the throne room opened and in stepped the Fae Lord with his company.

You had hoped that he would make time for a private goodbye, or at least tell you how his plans for revenge had been progressing.

The whole time you had seen him in court or in other places in the Palace, it seemed as though he was doing nothing to try and help you with your revenge plan.

A part of you wanted to be angry with him for being so slacked about it.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to be. At the end of the day, you’d been able to get back at the Orc in some way; throughout the whole week of you wearing the gifts that the Fae Lord had been giving you, the King’s guard said nothing to you, apart from giving you foul glares from across the room whenever he saw you.

“Your Majesty's, I must thank you for your hospitality these past weeks, it has been nothing but delightful.” The Fae Lord announced.

As soon as the sentence had left his lips, the whole court went silent, hanging onto his every word.

“But, if you do not mind, your Majesty,” he looked at the Queen, “I would like to steal one of your ladies in waiting.”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him as the Queen smiled at him. “But of course, it’s been difficult to ignore that you certainly have a favourite among my girls.” She looked at you and tilted her head. “Go on, (Y/N).”

Your head darted between the two. Again, you caught the Orcs eye, who gave you a warning look of carefully concealed fury.

At that, you straightened your back and headed over to the Fae Lord. Once you had come before him, he held his hand out to you.

You took it. Sandwiching your hand between his, he looked you in the eye. “I know we’ve only known each other for a few weeks,” he said, “but they’ve been some of the best weeks of my life. You’re funny and smart,” he lowered his voice. “Vengeful.”

Rolling your eyes with a smile, he continued, “but most of all, you make me happy. So, I ask that you come back to the forest with me and be my wife?”

Your jaw dropped and you clasped your hands to your mouth. “You… you can’t be serious…”

The Fae Lord let an abashed smile come over him. “I am… so, if you’ll have me as a husband…” He pulled a ring, made of wood from his pocket, a white, misted crystal adorned the top of the ring. “This is the final gift… I’m sorry that there wasn’t one for you to wake up to this morning, but I felt you may appreciate it more if I gave it to you in front of everyone.” He gave you a knowing look.

You allowed a devious grin to broaden your lips.

An aww escaped the crowd, followed by a few claps. But before you could give your reply, a shout rang out.

“No!” You and the Fae Lord whipped around to find the King’s guard, abandoning his post. “No, this is completely inappropriate!”

The Fae Lord pushed you behind him, as the Orc towered over the pair of you. He jabbed a thick green finger at the Fae, “what makes you think you can just wander in here and take one of the ladies in waiting?!”

“Actually,” the Fae returned, plainly. “Her father gave me permission. I asked him last night before coming here… Unlike some people here, I’m actually upfront with future family.”

Your eyes widened as the court gasped and muttering began to rise from the onlookers.

You gripped the Fae’s arm and squeezed it. “No, please don’t. You’ve done enough.”

He looked at you, then back at the Orc. “Well, it’s all down to (Y/N)s decision anyway.” The Fae Lord raised an eyebrow and smirked. “After all, it’s not like you have any interest in her, is it?”

The King’s guard scowled at the Fae. But he said nothing.

“Come back here, now!” The King snapped from his throne. “Don’t ruin this moment for the Lady (Y/N) any more than you have!”

“But you can’t possibly allow this!” The Orc turned to face the Monarchs.

“I just did.” The King glared at his guard. He looked at you with kind eyes as he went on, “well, what is your answer?”

Looking directly at the Orc, you took the ring from the Fae Lord and slid the ring on your finger as slowly as possible.

The Fae Lord grinned and pulled you into a tight hug as the court let out an applause.

Wishing the court goodbye, you and the Fae Lord turned and left, without even giving a second glance to the Orc, who was left in the centre of the room, stunned.

“Now this, was a great revenge plan.” You whispered as the pair of you walked down the corridors.

You bit your lip, “I… I was worried that this was just going to be some kind of holiday fling for you.”

The Fae Lord stopped in his tracks, taking your hand. “My darling, I could never, do that to you.”

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pochaccoups · 7 months ago

Text

facetime — choi seungcheol & yoon jeonghan

pairing — choi seungcheol x yoon jeonghan x f!reader

summary — when three people in a relationship want to fuck but one of them is in a different country, facetime comes in pretty handy.

wc — 4k

warnings — nsfw content minors dni! smut, established polyamorous relationship, threesome (technically), phone sex, butt plugs, anal and vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), masturbation, so much dirty talk, soft dom!seungcheol, brat tamer!seungcheol, prone bone, creampie, slight daddy kink, reader referred to as a girl, a lot of ‘cheollie’ and ‘hannie’ sorry but i think they sound cute

author’s note — umm hi can u tell i had so much fun writing this …… this will be part of a poly jeongcheol series i have in the works so pls stay tuned and enjoy !!! :>

seungcheol: just finished up the show, what are you up to?

jeonghan: busy.

Attached is a photo that’s slightly shaky and dimly lit, but Seungcheol can make out every detail of you with Jeonghan’s cock halfway down your throat.

It takes less than a second for Seungcheol’s caller ID to pop up on Jeonghan’s phone screen, and Jeonghan doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Yah… You know I hate being left out,” is the first thing Seungcheol says. The sound of his deep voice makes you draw your mouth off of Jeonghan.

“Cheollie?” you ask, beaming as you snatch your boyfriend’s phone from his hands so that you can see your other boyfriend through the screen.

“Hi, pretty,” Seungcheol says, waving. He looks hot, but that’s a perpetual characteristic of his. He hasn’t removed his makeup yet, and his hair, getting longer, is still styled from the show. “Miss me?”

“So much. We both do,” you say with a grin. You make a show of mouthing at Jeonghan’s cock for the camera, sticking out your tongue so you can slap the tip on it, swirling it around, all with a faint mischievous gleam in your eyes at the sound of one boyfriend’s whines and the other’s sulking.

“Yeah? Doesn’t really seem like you do,” Seungcheol says, laying back on a bed that’s way too soft, too cold, too far away.

“Seungcheollie, you know how needy our girl is-ah,” Jeonghan pipes up, moaning as you wrap your lips around him and bob your head up and down.

“I do know, and you’re not innocent either, Jeonghan. You miss getting your pretty little ass fucked, don’t you?”

You worry Jeonghan will bust then and there from the way his cock twitches in your mouth, but fuck was Seungcheol right. It’s why you all prefer to have sex with all three of you present, because at this point having someone missing feels… weird. Not bad. Definitely not. But the absence of a third lover becomes far too apparent.

Right now, you and Jeonghan don’t have much of a choice though. Duty calls, meaning Seungcheol is touring on the other side of the world—has been for the last two weeks and will be for another two weeks. Jeonghan would be with him if it weren’t for his enlistment. Alas, you have Seungcheol’s voice to do what it does best: tell you two exactly what to do.

“Take all of him, baby, you know you can,” he says, soft and slightly commanding in a way that makes you want to do good just for him, make him proud. And you’ve taken Seungcheol, who’s a little longer and far thicker, all the way down your throat many, many times before that swallowing Jeonghan’s entire length feels like a mere warmup.

Pride swells through you when your two boyfriends curse above you, filling you with an eagerness to give them more. So while one of your hands holds the phone, albeit shakingly, your other hand pumps the base of Jeonghan’s cock, in rhythm with your mouth as you bob up and down. It’s wet and obscene, the way you lap up the precum that leaks from your boyfriend’s tip only to let it spill from your lips and drool all over him, all over your fingertips.

Your eyes never break away from Seungcheol, who’s chewing on his bottom lip and staring at you with eyes that are both clouded over with desire and dark with concentration. If you know your boyfriend then he’s thinking of all the things he would do if he was in the same room as you two.

Jeonghan doesn’t expect it when one of your spit-slick fingers creeps down to his ass and traces his hole, and he squirms and cries as you prod at his opening before pushing inside. He’s taken Seungcheol many, many times, too, that your finger should feel like a warmup, but two weeks without his boyfriend’s cock stretching him out is torture, so the slide of your digit in and out is a sweet relief that he’s forgotten.

You pull your mouth away from him, sitting up on your knees so that you can angle the camera for Seungcheol to watch as your finger dips in, all the way to your knuckle, then back out of Jeonghan’s hole.

“He’s so whiny today, Cheollie.”

“Mm, more than usual, huh?” he replies, licking his lips, his hand reaching to his crotch to palm at it just a little. He thinks about how his fingers are twice as thick as yours, how Jeonghan would sob if it was his hands inside him.

“He misses your fat cock,” you say, and Seungcheol feels his sanity jump straight out of his hotel window. You’ve always proven detrimental to his patience and self-control, taking years off of your poor boyfriend’s life with your bratty ways. “Right, Hannie?” you say, right as you pull your finger out of him, grinning as he squirms and curses under his breath as a reply.

You only stop fingering him because you have an idea. With the phone still in hand, you dangle yourself off the side of the king bed to open one of the bedside table drawers, grab the silver heart-shaped plug and bottle of lube, then clamber back between your boyfriend’s legs. Jeonghan watches with glistening eyes as you drizzle the plug with lube. Once it’s drenched, you flip the phone camera around, letting Seungcheol watch as you press the tapered end of the plug against Jeonghan’s hole. The cold toy makes him flinch at first, and he shudders as you circle his rim with it until he’s thoroughly smeared with the sticky liquid.

The sound Jeonghan makes when you push the plug inside of him is pitiful, and it’s in harmony with a deep groan of approval from Seungcheol. You’re the furthest one from dominant among the three of you, and yet you have these men dangerously wrapped around your finger. Your men.

“There,” you say, content, like you’ve just painted a masterpiece—and your boyfriend’s pretty ass with a cute heart-shaped butt plug nestled inside comes pretty close.

“That’s my girl. So thoughtful,” says Seungcheol, and his praise ignites you with a sense of accomplishment that rivals the highest of promotions.

“Can I make him eat me out now?” you ask, because it’s Cheol who does this best; sets the pace, tells you what to do, lets you sit in the palm of his hand while he does all the thinking for the three of you. A true leader, through and through.

“Keep sucking Hannie off, baby, just for a bit,” is his instruction. It would be easy to disobey him, yes, to disconnect the call and turn off the phone if you so pleased, but the thing about Seungcheol is that even when his voice is soft, it still commands.

You pout only for the sake of pouting because, really, having Jeonghan’s cock in your mouth is one of your favourite pastimes. You waste no time swallowing him all the way down to his base again, only to pop right back off him just to hear a tortured moan from him. You fall back into an up and down bobbing rhythm then, steadily, lips wrapped tight around your boyfriend’s length in the way that you know won’t make him last long.

“Jeonghannie,” Seungcheol calls out, but the man in question is too busy whining and whimpering to hear him. When he’s close his brain all but shuts off and the only thing he can do is take whatever he’s getting with pretty, pretty moans.

“Baby, don’t let him cum yet,” Seungcheol urges you instead.

Jeonghan nearly sobs this time when you pop your mouth off his cock, but there’s a force in Seungcheol’s voice that compels you to listen. “Yes, daddy,” you say—the cherry on top.

Seungcheol drags a hand over his face, groaning. “Fuck, you two want me dead, huh?”

“Yeah, well, you two are disgusting… and annoying,” says Jeonghan, who sounds thoroughly irritated as a cute frown knits his brows together.

Poor, poor you, with not one but two needy, jealous boyfriends who can’t stand not being the subjects of all your affection. If it was you in Seungcheol’s position, alone on the other side of the world, you would never get this sulky. You’d be completely rational about it. Obviously.

The urge to soothe Jeonghan comes as an instinct, one that makes you crawl up from between his legs so that you can straddle his slender waist and kiss his pouting lips. He melts into you when you do, mouth moulding against yours so sweetly, his hands falling to your waist and the tips of his fingers dancing softly against your skin. The Facetime call is forgotten, much to Seungcheol’s dismay, as you drop the phone to the bed in favour of cradling Jeonghan’s cheeks in your hands so that you can kiss him harder. Your crotch, still clothed, rocks back and forth over his erection and soon you’re moaning into one another’s mouths, muffled by your tongues that are swirling together.

Jeonghan doesn’t have half of Seungcheol’s strength to manhandle you around, so he opts to gently guide you off his lap and onto the bed until you’re underneath him. He kisses you once, twice, thrice, leaves you reeling as he moves on to pepper your neck with soft nibbles and scrapes of his teeth. He pulls away for a moment only to drag your t-shirt (one of Seungcheol’s, of course) up and over your head.

Now that you’re less occupied with Jeonghan’s lips, you pick up the phone again and bring the camera up to your face, grinning at Seungcheol’s small pout on the screen. If you could only hop through the phone and into his lap, you would do it in a heartbeat.

“Cheollie, wanna see your cock, please,” you say, shivering as Jeonghan mouths at one of your nipples. He flicks it with the tip of his tongue as his hands reach up to grasp your tits delicately, and you sigh when his warm, wet mouth envelops one of your hardened buds.

“Not yet, baby, I’ll take it out when Jeonghan fucks you, okay?”

Seungcheol chuckles fondly at your unhappy hum, so he adds, “I wanna cum with you two, yeah?”

“Okay, fine- wait, Hannie,” you whine. “My boobs.”

He peers up, already between your legs, having decided he was done giving attention to your tits. You see right through it—your boyfriend is nothing if not vengeful.

“You’re too spoiled,” he quips, peeling your shorts and panties down your legs, exposing your drooling pussy to him.

“And you’re used to Cheollie doing everythi-ahh!” Jeonghan cuts you off when he licks your cunt without warning, sending your eyes rolling back into your head and your hand grabbing a fistful of his now-short hair. He’s far from rough and aggressive, but it’s precisely the patient softness of his touch that leaves you keening for more.

“Baby, can you do me a favour?” Seungcheol asks, practically cooing as he watches your eyes glaze over with pleasure.

But all you can focus on is the way that Jeonghan’s warm tongue flicks lazily over your clit as well as the grip of his fingers on your thighs.

“Baby?” Seungcheol tries again, only a little louder. This time your eyes flick to him on the screen and you make a little affirmative noise. “Will you flip the phone screen around for me, please? I wanna watch Hannie eat your pretty pussy.”

You do as he asks, pointing the camera to give Seungcheol a view of his boyfriend between his girlfriend’s thighs.

“Good girl,” he says, breathier now, his tone darker. It’s deliberate; malicious, you would say—his praise makes you a whiny, needy mess. His voice alone turns you into a slut and he knows that because you’d told him that, word for word. “And since I’m not there, can you play with your tits for me, baby? The way that I would do it? I know it’s not the same, but it’ll still feel good.”

“Mhm,” you moan. You find yourself closing your eyes as you let go of Jeonghan’s hair and bring your hand to cup your own breast, to squeeze and grope at it, to tweak and tug at your nipple, all while imagining that you’re leaned against your boyfriend’s sturdy, broad body and that it’s his big, unrelenting hand cupping your tits and not your own.

At the same time, Jeonghan eats your pussy like the fiend that he is. Unlike Seungcheol, who lacks the control to stop himself from ravaging you like an animal until your pussy is raw and puffy, Jeonghan is much more, as he is in all aspects of his life, calculated. He’ll string you along with swipes of his tongue that seem coy until he’s making passes through your folds, prodding at your dripping, awaiting entrance. He licks into your hole and sips at your arousal like it’s honey, intent on making you fall apart slowly.

“How does his mouth feel, angel? Tell him,” says Seungcheol, whose lips have gotten swollen from his relentless chewing on them.

“God, Hannie, feels so good,” you squeak, your eyes still screwed shut as if that’ll help soothe the heat that burns through your body from Jeonghan’s mouth. Your fingers keep pinching at your nipple, and then Jeonghan slips two of his fingers into your heat, sending your hips bucking against his face and leaving you whining desperately, shamelessly.

While his mouth makes out with your cunt, Jeonghan’s fingers dip in and out of you, massaging at your most sensitive spot over and over. He finds it with practiced ease, and he knows by now exactly what kind of vigour it needs to have you crying. He’s practically petting at your insides, your walls clamping around his fingers as your moans start to grow louder.

“H-hannie, I’m close, please, right there,” you squirm as your walls attempt to suck his fingers in.

You don’t see it, but his eyes flash with something devilish. Your other boyfriend sees it, though.

“Jeonghan, don’t even think about edging her.”

Jeonghan smirks with mischief, letting his fingers do the work as he pulls his mouth away from your pussy.

“Let me have my fun, Seungcheollie.”

“If I did that neither you nor her would cum at all,” is your other boyfriend’s response.

There’s silence as Jeonghan ponders whether he should obey or disobey. All the while, you’re mere inches away from your edge, hot with frustration because it’s so close; you’re so close. You just need a little bit more. It’s not too much to ask.

“Hannie, please…”

And he can’t find it in himself to deprive you any longer, so he crooks his fingers and works them as fast as he possibly can until you’re clenching, gushing, writhing all around his hand, wailing his name as you grab at his wrist but he still won’t stop.

“Such a good boy, huh, Jeonghannie? Making her cum so good,” comes Seungcheol’s voice, sounding more breathless with each time he speaks. “Now we’re all happy.”

It’s only once your walls have stopped spasming around his fingers that Jeonghan finally slips them out of you and pops them straight into his mouth, licking them clean of every drop of your sugary arousal. He makes sure to gaze directly into the camera as his tongue laves and swirls over each one of his digits, knowing Seungcheol’s dick is twitching at the sight.

“I haven’t cum yet though. So I’m not happy yet,” he says, dragging a finger out of his mouth with a pop.

You sit up on your elbows with your cute, blissed out features, your eyes falling to his red-hard cock.

“Come here and fuck me, then,” you say, impatient, like he didn’t just give you an orgasm. You paw at the hem of his shirt (also Seungcheol’s) and bite your lip as he pulls it over his head, letting your hands roam over his pale torso.

“Ride me?” he asks. How predictable. If it’s not Seungcheol taking him from behind then it’s you on top of him. God forbid Yoon Jeonghan does the work.

“Actually, I have a better idea. And this way Cheollie can see us both,” you say with a grin.

With the phone on the front-facing camera, you prop it up against the headboard and roll onto your stomach, craning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“Like this?” Jeonghan asks, straddling the backs of your thighs.

“Yeah,” you say, parting your legs a little, arching your back and raising your hips—presenting your soaked, messy hole to him. “Try not to get tired.”

He responds with a half-hearted smack to your ass and Cheol scoffs out a chuckle. Jeonghan slides his cock between your folds, coating it with your slick, revelling in your tiny gasps every time it catches on your entrance. You’re prepared to whine and nag at your boyfriend to hurry up, but you suppose he’s feeling just as impatient as you are because he’s pushing in before you can even speak up. You look at Seungcheol, mouth dropping as you’re stuffed full with Jeonghan’s cock until he’s buried to the hilt inside you. His hands land on either side of your elbows so that he can hover over you, reel his hips back, and fuck himself into you like that.

In this position, Jeonghan’s length brushes right against your gummy, sensitive spot with every stroke, making you keen for more even though he’s just started.

“Harder, Hannie,” you sigh, pushing your ass up against his hips.

Instead of listening, he drops his head to the crook of your shoulder and kisses your skin. His breath tickles your ear when he whispers to you: “ah, what’s the rush, angel?”

You turn your head to catch his gaze, to drink in the sight of his face as he takes what he needs from you; his cheeks pink, his eyes tired and full of hunger. His lips, plump and enticing, evoke an unrivalled craving within you and he reads you well, brings his mouth to yours to give you as much satiation as he can muster.

Seungcheol sits, silent, waiting. His patience is mere embers as he watches you two, his boyfriend and his girlfriend, tangled within one another. The wet slap of Jeonghan’s balls against the back of your thighs; the smacking of your lips, teeth, and tongues. He misses it. Fuck, he could go insane.

“Cheollie,” you whine, when Jeonghan’s lips are no longer enough. “Want you to feel good too.”

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, abandoning all semblance of the self-control he’d displayed up until now. It’s time, anyway, he thinks. He’s held off long enough. He puts his phone down and there’s shuffling as he strips himself of his sweat-soaked outfit from the show and settles upon the bed sheets once more.

Saliva pools from the sides of your mouth when he angles his camera to show you his hand wrapped around his thick, erect dick and God, what you’d do to have it bruising the back of your throat until you’re gagging, letting him defile you all while he coos the sweetest of praises at you.

“Daddy, I miss your cock so bad,” you admit in a weak whimper, shivering when Jeonghan angles himself deeper inside you.

“Yeah? Miss how I’d fuck your pretty little mouth?”

“Fuck, she’s clenching so hard around me, Seungcheollie,” Jeonghan grits. “Greedy little thing.”

“I mean, it’s our fault one cock’s not enough to make her happy anymore,” says Seungcheol, sighing with relief as he thumbs at his leaking tip, squeezing his fist around it, reminiscent of the way that you and Jeonghan like to tease him.

“Like I said,” says Jeonghan as he pushes two of his fingers between your parted lips. “Spoiled.”

You moan around them, staring straight into the camera as you suck on them, staring at Seungcheol, who starts to pump his hand up and down his cock. He wants to shut his eyes and pretend it’s your hand, or Jeonghan’s hand, or one of your tight, warm holes, but he can’t take his eyes off of his phone screen no matter how hard he wants to, and, well, he doesn’t want to.

He jerks himself off to the same rhythm that Jeonghan’s hips grind into yours. Seungcheol likes things a little faster, usually, more rough, but it’s Jeonghan who’s inside you right now, not him, so he matches his boyfriend’s lazy but not too slow pace, one that’s just enough to give you a gradual stimulation.

There’s something about the whole thing—being fucked on camera, being teased with Seungcheol’s cock when you can’t have it—it has you way more excited than you expected. Way more turned on than you expected. It shows in the floods of arousal that drip from your pussy and dampen yours and Jeonghan’s thighs, in the way you’re whinier and more sensitive than usual.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol’s own noises don’t help. In fact they spur you on, coax you closer to your edge, urge the heat in your belly to grow. When Seungcheol isn’t giving deep, rasped curses, he’s letting out pretty, breathy, borderline whimpering moans. Jeonghan’s sounds are as angelic as he is. His voice is a holy choir in your ear, heavenly and soft as he gasps with exertion and pleasure; as he does things to you that any God would frown upon.

Jeonghan, too, is more sensitive. With the plug constantly brushing at his prostate, he can’t help but screw his eyes shut and pretend it’s his big, buff boyfriend fucking his girth into him. It makes his thrusts grow raggedy, like he’s more heavy. His body weight presses into you as his arms start to ache just a little. He’s impossibly deep in your guts like this and it feels so fucking good that your brain starts to melt.

Seungcheol recognises the look in your eye—absent, like you’re starting to tap out and letting yourself become consumed by bliss.

“Is she getting close, angel?” he questions, punctuating it with a moan, the slick glide of his hand up and down his cock like music in your ears.

Jeonghan hums affirmatively. “Pretty pussy’s choking me,” he says, his voice cracking, his composure with it. He tries to put more vigour in his thrusts, more determination. The sooner you cum, the sooner he cums.

“Cum for Jeonghannie, baby,” Seungcheol urges softly.

“Cum for me,” Jeonghan echoes. You don’t stand a chance.

The heat inside you coils up, then erupts. Jeonghan fucks you through your climax as you tremble beneath him, crying his name and clawing at the sheets below you.

“There it is, my good girl,” Seungcheol coos, tightening his grip on his cock as he tugs at it harshly as though it could ever replicate the feeling of your warm walls clamping down on him as you cum.

“Ah, fuck,” Jeonghan gasps, dropping his head to your shoulder, cock twitching. His next request is a broken, pathetic moan. “Ch-cheollie, cum with me.”

Jeonghan stills inside you, whimpering softly with every rope of cum that he spills inside you, letting you milk him of every last drop. At the same time, Seungcheol gives a resounding groan as he brings himself to his own release, cum splattering over his toned stomach.

There’s a moment of silence, or, rather, nothing but a harmony of laboured breaths as the three of you come down from your orgasms. You give a noise of protest as Jeonghan suddenly rolls off of you, but his stamina is always drained after sex—especially when he’s doing the work. You shiver, both from the emptiness in your cunt and the cold air that hits you now that you no longer have your boyfriend’s body as a shield from it.

“Seungcheollie’s gonna wanna see your cum leak out of me, you know,” you say.

“You know me so well, baby,” is Seungcheol’s reply.

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. He makes no effort to move from his spot, opting to stretch his arm above his head and pat around until he finds the phone. He sits up next to you, points the camera between your legs as he grips one of your ass cheeks and spreads you apart.

There’s a screenshot sound as white drools from your spent hole.

“Seungcheol!” you shriek. “You pervert.”

“Coups-ya, send that to me.”

thank you for reading! reblogs and feedback are highly appreciated <3

tags — @svtiddiess @ylangelegy @simpxxstan @caibeauchicfashion

1K notes · View notes

ztarvokwrites · 21 days ago

Text

💔LaDS men realising they still love MC💔

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

Dating him made you feel loved, wanted — cherished. Yet, you couldn't help but notice the look he gave her. He told you about her, how he once loved her, but how her heart belonged to another. Seeing the pain in his eyes, you comforted him — gave him all your love and much, much more. Nothing could stop the two of you. You felt like you were on cloud nine and then some...

But, it came tumbling down into a fiery pit of anger and heartache once you realised the unbearable truth.

He loved her. Always has. Always will.

...But not you.

a/n: hope the intro was captivating enough! drafting when it's nearly midnight is always fun lmfao. anyway, guess who's got into love and deepspace? MEEEE :3 enjoy this absolute angst-fest <33

info: you're dating the lads men, but realise that he still loves emcie. so, what do you do?

extra notes: mc's name is emcee for the sake of clarity! you are not mc in this! also sorry if i made any of the boys ooc! i tried to stay as true to their character as possible (yes i'm apologising for the long caleb chapter i am so sorry caleb girlies </3)

genre: angst

word count (minus intro): 5.4k

remember to drink water and enjoy <3

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

⭐️Xavier⭐️

Xavier. Your calm, sleepy boyfriend. Despite not showing it much in public, he shows his affection towards you in the comfort of your own home or his apartment, much preferring to watch your reactions in private than in front of other people. Other than work or napping, he likes hanging out with you and going on dates.

Yet, whenever you go over to pick him up from work, you always notice his blue eyes staring at Emcee with a look that he never gives you — devotion. A lost, longing devotion. He always manages to snap out of it once she looks your way and waves to you, his hand gently resting on your waist with a twinge of hesitation.

And you always notice. It goes on for almost a year, and you ignore it. For the first few months, he only looks at you — focuses on you. But after that, his mind and eyes seem to wander off to Emcee.

It comes to a head when you confront him about it after ignoring it, thinking he'd eventually look at you that way once more. But you can't handle being the second thing he looks at, the hesitant thing he touches. It's driving you mad.

"What are you talking about?" Is the first thing out of his mouth once you start confronting him about it that night as you sat in his apartment. Sitting up on the bed next to him, you look down at your lap, trying desperately to articulate your next words coherently.

"It's just..." You trail off, glancing at him as he copies your movements, sitting up next to you and looking at you, yet not quite seeing you. And that's what annoys you the most. "Whenever I pick you up at work, I notice your eyes don't land on me when I walk through the doors. You just... You stare at Emcee. And you only stop until she greets me..."

And that's what causes your relationship to crumble. You tell him everything that is on your chest that night, and he listens. He holds you, apologising from the bottom of his heart. He even takes you out on a date the next day...

But that doesn't bridge a gap or close the smidge of distance between the two of you. It only creates a slowly growing cliff in your relationship, making the distance unbearable.

He is much quieter, if that was possible. He barely glances in your direction, barely touches you, rarely asks you to come over or go on a date. It's like he doesn't want to do anything with you. You feel the final thread holding you two together finally snap in the car ride back to his apartment.

After walking him to his door, you break the silence rather abruptly, taking his hand before it could reach the door handle. He turns to you, a brow slightly raised. It's the first time he has looked at you at all that day.

Silently, he watches as you reach behind your neck and take off the necklace he had gifted you, handing it to him as you speak.

"I can't take this anymore," You begin, forcing your voice to steady as you place the jewellery in his palm, giving his fingers a gentle push to close around it. "This distance. The silence. I can't do it. I'm sorry, Xavier, but we're done. I'm breaking up with you."

He just stares at you as you speak, unsure of whether to fight for this relationship or comfort you or... Well, do anything, really. It's only when he sees the tears you've been so desperately holding back fall down your tinted cheeks that his brows furrow, his pupils shrinking and slightly dilating as he stares at you. He blinks once, maybe twice, before he clutches the necklace in his hand and looks down at the dangling chain.

"...Y/N, I-" He gazes up to answer, only for you to be halfway down the hall towards the elevator. His shoulders tense as he watches you walk away, his foot lurching forward to chase you, only to stop once you get in the elevator and disappear as Emcee exits the elevator with a concerned look. Her gaze meets Xavier's as she walks over to him, a bag of ingredients in hand.

"Xavier? What happened? Is Y/N okay?" Her question falls on deaf ears for a moment before Xavier shakes his head.

"...It's... Nothing..." He trails off, eyes darting to the bag of ingredients. His fist clenches around the necklace, letting the metal chain and pendant dig into his palm. With a shake of his head, he dismisses her. "Sorry, Emcee. I'm not in the mood to cook with you right now... I'll... See you later." Emcee watches as he disappears into his apartment, leaving her confused and concerned for her friends.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

🐟Rafayel🐟

Thomas leads you into the studio, thanking you for coming.

"He's been locked up in there for a while, muttering things under his breath," He speaks, rather concerned. "He was staring at his phone all morning when the workers and I walked in, but he suddenly shooed us away. We thought he needed space and silence to paint, but when an hour passed and we heard nothing, we tried to get his attention. Rafayel told us to go away every time. The reason why you're here is obvious," He turns to you once you stand by the door. "You're his partner. Do you think you can get through to him?"

"I can try," You mumble, raising a fist to the door and knocking rhythmically. "Raf?"

"Go away!" His muffled voice chimes through the door. You sigh, knocking again.

"Raffy, it's me," You try, your voice softer now. "Can you let me in? We're worried about you..."

"No! I need space!" Thomas and you exchange a look of exasperation before sighing.

"Good thing I called back up. Here she is," Thomas beams, eyes darting behind you. Turning, you see Emcee approaching, worry in her gaze as she enters with Caleb behind her. A pang of jealousy stings your heart at the sight of her, but you push it down. You can't be mad at her, after all — she knows nothing of Rafayel's feelings for her like you do. But seeing Emcee and Caleb hold hands as you step aside to let her reach the door gives you a pit in your stomach that you never knew existed.

After knocking, Emcee calls for him. On the other side of the door, you can hear Rafayel basically sprint and trip over to the door, mumbling curses under his breath before he opens it. His face lights up upon seeing Emcee.

"Miss Bodyguard! You're here--" His eyes dart to Caleb, then to their connected hands, before he frowns and slams the door in their faces. There's a stunned silence between you all before you shake your head and gently usher Emcee and Caleb aside to speak to Rafayel through the door.

"Rafayel! Don't be so rude," You scold, hand on the door knob turning it left and right. It's locked, of course. "Come on, just tell us what's going on! We're worried about you!"

Silence from the other end. You feel tears brimming your eyes, a lump in your throat becoming hard to swallow. Thomas places his hand on your shoulder, the reflection of light from his wedding ring distracting you for a moment as he speaks.

"...Perhaps you should go home," His gaze falls onto the couple behind you. "You, too. I'll let you know if he's alright by the morning."

"No," You hiss, voice determined despite the ache in your chest. "Raf's my boyfriend. I'm too worried to go home now! I'm staying right here until he's ready to talk." Emcee and Caleb exchange concerned glances as Thomas sighs, shaking his head as he grabs a chair.

"Alright, take a seat. I'll order takeout for you," He says, slightly exasperated. You sit down on the chair and thank him, crossing your arms and trying not to look Emcee in the eyes in fear of tearing up.

Soon after, Emcee and Caleb leave and so does Thomas, rubbing his temples to soothe the headache that's forming. As you wait in the chair, you fail to swallow the lump in your throat, a choked sob bubbling out of your lips before you could stop it. You place your hand over your mouth and take some breaths, hoping no one heard you.

But someone did.

Footsteps approach the door you're waiting in front of before it swings open, revealing a dishevelled Rafayel whose eyes are glassy and bloodshot. Upon seeing you, his gaze darkens slightly.

"...Come in," He says, voice dull as he steps aside. "We need to talk." Your stomach drops.

Once inside, he's the first to speak.

"...I thought I was over her," He admits, sitting down on one of the sofas. "I thought that, with you as my partner, I'd finally be able to leave her behind. But after seeing her with..." He trails off, fists clenching before he glances up at you. "I'm sorry, Y/N, we can't be together anymore."

"What?!" You exclaim, tears threatening to spill again. "No! No, don't say that! We can still be together--"

"No, we can't! Not after I just admitted to using you," Rafayel argues, making you pause. His Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow, tears falling down his cheeks as he watches your expression change to utter despair. He hates this, but it has to be done. "I'm sorry... But you need to leave. Please."

"...Raffy-"

"Now," He interrupts, eyes boring into yours. The way his gaze proceeds to darken strikes something deep within you, and you're unable to keep yourself together. Tears fall from your eyes and a sob rips from your throat — your heart feels like it's burning from the inside out as you stare at him for a moment, stifling a sob, before you turn and swiftly leave the room, grabbing your bag and pushing past Thomas on the way out while you cry.

Thomas, after quickly glancing at your face as you dash out, sighs and enters the room. On the sofa, Rafayel hangs his head between his knees, hands threading and pulling tight on his hair as his body trembles. Thomas leans against the doorframe, unsure of what to do or say to comfort him or you in that moment.

This is a mess.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

🐦‍⬛Sylus🐦‍⬛

Eyes fluttering open, you squint as the sun filters through a gap in your curtains, birds chirping and cawing reaching your ears through the slightly open windows as the morning greets you with a smile... And a crow in your face.

You yelp, heart hammering in your chest as you immediately jolt awake before your tired eyes recognise who it was. Sighing, you reach out to pet Mephisto's tiny head, a sleepy smile on your face.

"Good morning, Mephie," You wearily speak, eyes then landing on the note in his beak. You take it and he caws rather... Sadly? "What's this, hm? What's wrong--"

As you read it, your face drops. Your eyes widen, suddenly awake with every written word you read. It's his handwriting, that's for sure. But the usual passionate, devoted tone is gone, replaced with solemn strokes of expensive pen ink.

This wasn't a good-morning letter like usual. This was a break-up letter.

Y/N, I'm sorry to spring this on you so early in the morning — I expect Mephisto has given you quite the wake-up call. Unfortunately, I have no desire nor time to tell you this in person, so a letter will have to suffice. I'm going to be upfront with you, like I have been from the start: I don't love you anymore, Y/N. We can no longer be together. This letter will be the last you hear from me and the last you see Mephisto. I'm sure that, with time, you will find someone who truly treasures and adores you. Goodbye. — Sylus.

You stare at the letter, stunned to silence as you re-read it over and over again. Sitting upright, you look up from the letter to glare at Mephisto, a heartbroken rage engulfing you.

"...Give me 10 minutes," You demand, clutching the letter so tightly in your hand it crumples. "Then take me to Sylus immediately."

Mephisto doesn't bother arguing, as ten minutes later he's taking you to one of Sylus's many safe houses. Ignoring Luke and Kieran, you push past them and burst open the door to Sylus's room. His back is turned to you and he seems to have anticipated this reaction, so he sighs a little. But, before he can turn around and speak, you talk first, letter in hand.

"What the fuck, Sylus?!" You exclaim, furious. You wave the letter around. "Who the hell does this?! Writing a break-up letter instead of calling me or telling me face to face?!"

"Keep your voice down," He spoke in that same, arrogant tone you grew to love overtime. But now, it just feels condescending. "I have a headache."

"Oh, I'm sorry," You sarcastically retort. "Do you want me to come back at another time where I'll still be pissed off?!"

There's a beat of silence in which Mephisto softly caws and flies away, leaving you two alone in the room for the tension to boil over. You burn holes into the back of his head with your fiery gaze as the silence stretches. Until you break it.

"You're a coward, Sylus," You hiss, lowering the hand that holds the letter. The atmosphere in the room shifts, becoming cold and uptight. Sylus turns around slowly, almost as if he doesn't expect that insult coming from you of all people.

"...What?" He questions though gritted teeth, as if trying to keep himself in check. You swallow the lump in your throat and tremble slightly. Not out of fear. But of heartbreak and anger.

"You heard me loud and clear," You reply, crumpling the letter into a ball in your hand while maintaining eye contact. Even as tears well up in your eyes, you don't look away. "Only a coward would break up with their partner through a letter. I want you to say it to my face, Sylus. Tell me you're breaking up with me to. My. Face."

Sylus steps toward you until he's right in front of you. You watch as his face flickers an unreadable expression — guilt, or rage, you think — before he leans down and speaks.

"We're over," He states coolly, his tone biting and cold. Hateful, even. Your heart drops along with your tears. "Now get out."

You stare at him for a while, your expression dropping to one of slight shock before you clamp your lips together, trying oh so desperately to stop your bottom lip from wobbling.

"...Fine, I'll go," The way you speak is far from the angry tone you used. It seems more bitter now than it did before, Sylus notes. He watches as you turn and walk to the door, before you pause and look at him over your shoulder, bottom lip trembling violently as you glare at him. "But I'm not coming back. And I never want to see you again."

SLAM.

Another distant slam echoes throughout the safe house, signalling that you have left. Sylus doesn't move for the longest time, brows furrowed and eyes glued to where you once stood by the door. His chest heaves up and down, blood boiling as he remembers every inch of anguish on your face. Shaking his head, he turns and sits on the edge of his bed, busying himself with an upcoming auction.

He can't afford distractions, after all.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

❄️Zayne❄️

Your boyfriend and primary care physician is at work yet again. After meeting with him earlier for a scheduled check up, he had told you he'd most likely be home late. He also told you not to wait for him. So, what are you doing right now?

Waiting for him, of course! In your shared — yes, shared — living room, you sit on Zayne's sofa, wearing his shirt and a pair of leggings while a blanket is draped over your shoulders. You expect for him to be home by around midnight, or even past that. What you don't expect is to be so tired while waiting that you eventually pass out on the sofa.

When you wake up, you realise that the blanket has been draped over you and a figure is walking toward you, placing down a mug of coffee on the coffee table. Rubbing your eyes, you regain your senses and notice it's Zayne in front of you. You smile as you make eye contact.

"Good morning, honey," For some reason, his eyes dart away at that pet name coming from your lips. You sit up, stretching your arms before reaching for the coffee. The bitter taste awakens your taste buds once you take a sip. "...How was work? What time did you come back home in the end?"

"...It was fine," He responds dryly as he sits down on the other sofa, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers together. You take a better look at him now that he's awake; his hair is slightly messy and there are bags under his eyes. Your brows lift slightly as you grip the mug a little tighter. His eyes meet yours. "I told you not to wait for me."

His tone, not teasing, makes you freeze. It's much colder than what you are used to.

"...Well, I wanted to..." You mumble, looking at him with concern. You place the coffee down on the table again and look away briefly before speaking. "Is everything okay, Zayne? You seem tense. If it's because I waited for you, then I'm sor-"

"No," He interrupts rather quickly. His green eyes soften a little as your eyes meet again, watching as your expression shifts into confusion. "...We need to have a talk. A serious one..."

The way he speaks sounds sorrowful yet final, and that makes your heart drop just a little. You sit up a little straighter and silently urge him to go on. But what he says strikes you right where it hurts — your heart.

"...I can't keep leading you on like this," Zayne begins, hesitating as if to choose his words carefully. He's never been good at delivering bad news unless it's in a medical setting. "...Leading you to believe that my heart belongs to you, when in reality..."

When his eyes drift to yours, he stops. Dripping down your cheeks and onto the back of your hands, you silently let tears fall as you look at him with a trembling, weak smile. There's a look in your eyes that make his lips feel suddenly dry — resignation. It's like you already know what he's going to say.

"...I understand," You speak after a while, the shake of your voice hard to ignore and even harder to control with the way he was looking at you now, green eyes speaking their own apologies. You reach for his hand and he lets you take it. "Go to her, Zayne. The only thing I ever wanted for you, was happiness. So, if she's the one that will make you happy, then go to her."

Zayne's Adam's apple bobs twice, as if he's trying to swallow a heavy pill or a lump that just won't go away. He subconsciously squeezes your hand gently just before you pull away. Wiping your eyes to attempt to stop the tears from falling, you stand.

"...I'll pack my things," You say, voice just above a whisper. As you leave the room, Zayne follows, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

"Do you have a place to stay...?" He questions softly. You pause before nodding.

"I can go back to my apartment," You say. "My old roommate won't mind if I return." Zayne says nothing in response, only nodding. In silence, he watches as you carefully fold your clothes and pack everything away in bags until barely a trace of you belongings are left, apart from a few items of furniture that looked too heavy to carry.

The two of you move to the entryway of the front door, your hand reaching for you coat and putting it on along with your shoes. Gripping your bags with one hand, you reach for the door, only for Zayne to open it before you get the chance to touch the door handle.

You stare at each other for a while, as if you were both reminiscing on the time you shared together without uttering a word. Feeling your eyes brim with tears again, you make the decision to momentarily let go of your bags and wrap your arms around Zayne's waist, your head buried in his chest as you force yourself to speak your parting words.

"Thank you for putting up with me, even if it felt wrong. You were the best boyfriend I could've asked for," Your voice, albeit muffled and strained, reaches his ears as he stiffly wraps his arms around you. You feel him take a deep breath. As you pull away, you force a smile as you look at him, your arms dropping and one hand gently squeezing his hand. "Take care of yourself, yeah? Goodbye, Zayne."

Just like that, you're out the door and in your car with your bags in the backseat. He watches with a distant gaze as you drive away.

Time passes. A week. Two weeks. Three weeks. A month.

He notices you haven't showed up to any of your appointments or answered any of Akso Hospital's calls. Your disappearance is... Horrifically familiar to him. His anxiety spikes, then dips, then spikes again. Zayne can't get that look of grief and acceptance you gave him out of his mind. No matter how many times he distracts himself with work, or closes his eyes for a brief moment, you're there. Much like today.

Sitting in his office, typing away at his computer in an effort to distract himself from the civil, yet hurtful breakup, his focus shifts momentarily to that same look on your face. Haunting. Aching. The doctor takes a momentary pause to take his glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh of frustration. His heart, his love, doesn't belong to you. So why is it that you're haunting him with a look so powerful, it shakes his focus?

A knock at his door shifts his attention.

"Come in," He speaks, putting his glasses on and repositioning himself to make it seem like he wasn't stressing out. In walks Greyson, holding a paper in his hand. His brows crease, as if he's nervous about something. He approaches and places the paper face down on Zayne's desk, pushing it toward him slightly. "...What's this, Greyson?" Greyson swallows thickly.

"Just something for you to sign," He says, nudging the paper further towards him. "...It might be urgent to you." Zayne raises his brow, reaching for the paper and turning it over.

Rolling his chair closer, his eyes read over each word before they come to a halt, his heart sinking in his chest. So this is why he hasn't seen or heard from you. You've requested to switch back to your old doctor. Greyson watches as Zayne takes a deep breath and grabs a pen, uncapping it and letting the nib hover over the empty dotted line at the bottom.

Zayne hesitates. He knows why you're doing this and he understands completely, but the reality that this is happening hurts him more than he likes to admit. With slight hesitation, he signs the letter in agreement and hands it back to Greyson, who swiftly takes it and leaves.

Now all alone in his office, he rolls back his chair a little bit and leans, looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought as a familiar, icy chill runs down his arm.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

🍎Caleb🍎

As you stir the homemade gravy to go with the dinner you're making, your brows furrow. Your shift as a nurse for the Farspace Fleet ended two hours ago, and you've taken it upon yourself to clean up around his Skyhaven apartment and make dinner for yourself and Caleb when he gets back.

When.

He's supposed to be home in an hour, yet he's been coming home much later, seemingly avoiding your calls and texts. He says he's busy — and you get it, he's a Colonel after all — but surely he can't be so busy as to avoid his partner entirely. That's just one of the issues you have with him, but you love him regardless.

By the time he gets home, you're already plating up the food with a small hum, your back turned to him. You can sense he's stopped in his tracks for a moment as you can feel his eyes piercing through the back of your head, but the moment your gaze turns to meet his, he's gone into the bathroom and started up the shower. With a small sigh, you turn back to the food you're plating up and perfecting... While also reflecting.

Your relationship with him has been rocky for a while now — you're not even sure when the arguments started, but they've gotten worse as of late, especially since he keeps comparing every little thing you do with how Emcee does things. You just hope tonight will be a peaceful night where you don't go to sleep angry.

Just as your mind is about to be swept away by a tidal wave of negativity, your thoughts are pulled away by his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. You tense slightly. It's something he always does, yet it always catches you off guard.

"...Smells good," Caleb murmurs, his chin on the crook of your neck. He eyes the plated food in your hands before speaking again. "Looks good, too." He wants to say more, you know he does, but he doesn't. Instead, he kisses the side of your face hastily before moving to sit down at the dining table.

You murmur a stiff 'thanks' as you take the plates of food and set them down on the dining table, taking a seat across from Caleb. You picked at your food for a little bit before eating, something Caleb was quick to pick up on but do nothing about, sensing the tense atmosphere. His purple gaze lingers on the way your hair is styled this evening, a spark of familiarity in his gaze. As soon as you catch him staring, he looks away. You immediately know what — or who — he's thinking about.

Midway through your meal, you hear him hum. Cocking a brow, you look at him quizzically.

"Everything okay, Cay?" You ask, tilting your head a little. He looks at you for a moment, placing his fork down gently as he hesitates. You get a bad feeling in your stomach.

"...Yeah, it's just," He trails off, eyes trailing from your hairstyle to the food in front of him. He sighs, pushing his plate away to rest his elbows on the table, his hands covering his face as he mumbles, "Everything is reminding me of her again."

"...Are you shitting me...?" You mutter under your breath, the food on your tongue suddenly tasting awful. In contrast to how he placed his fork down, you let it drop onto the plate with a heavy sigh. You pinch your brow in frustration. "Can we please go one day, just one day, without you mentioning Emcee?"

The way he looks at you, lifting his head slowly from his hands, makes your blood freeze slightly.

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to miss her now?"

"What?! No! I never said that. You're allowed to miss her, Caleb, but you bring her up every single day," You respond, exasperated and irritated that this same argument was happening all over again. "I get it. You want to see her now more than anything else, especially after you were pronounced 'dead' — you want to surprise her. But there has to be a line somewhere in this specific relationship; a boundary. I've told you time and time again that it's okay to bring her up sometimes, but you've been doing this for months now. She's not dead, for fucks' sake--"

"Don't you fucking dare say that," Caleb abruptly gets up from the dining table, chair scraping across the floor with a harsh, echoed yell. You flinch slightly, eyes widening a bit as you hold eye contact with him. "Do you know how many nights I've gone without sleep, thinking that she was out there in danger, or worse? I think about her all the time, Y/N. All the time. It's like she's the only thing on my mind these days, and you saying shit like that truly pisses me off."

He flinches, falling back down on the chair with a hiss, one hand on his head as pain shoots through it. You rush over to him, only for him to use his Evol on you to hold you in place before you could even reach him.

"Caleb..." You whisper, concern etched onto your features and a question hanging from your lips. "...Isn't our relationship on your mind, too?" He looks at you then, hand in his hair and an unreadable look in his eyes. You swallow thickly, as if trying to gulp away the fear and anger. "...I know how much you care about Emcee and her life. But it's like you don't care about us — about our lives together. You bring her up so much that I know too much about her. We argue all the time because you're so... So obsessed with how she's doing or where she is-"

Caleb flicks his wrist, landing you as gently as he can against the wall before releasing you and stalking over. His expression is... Cold. Purple pools of hatred, is one way you could describe them. Instinctively, you lean back against the wall, as if trying to create more distance. You've never seen him this angry before, and it's rubbing off on you.

"Obsessed?" He remarks, tilting his head a little.

"...You heard me, Caleb," You respond softly, hands flexing. "Have you not thought about us? Even once?"

"No," His response is immediate as he steps closer, stopping just in front of you. The rage you've been stewing in for months, finally sets itself free. Your fists clench as you stare at him, brows furrowing and cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink. You can feel a burn behind your eyes, a wetness resting at your waterline. Urgently, you fight back tears, but he can see them clearly, his reflection mirrored in your angry, glossy gaze. His face softens a little, but before he can say anything, you move. "...Where are you going?"

You enter the bedroom and open your area of the closet, grabbing two bags and a suitcase that you haphazardly throw onto the bed. He enters just as you're packing every item you own into them. Caleb stands in the doorway, his face falling completely as he watches you stuff one item after another into the almost full suitcase. He goes to stop you, but you swivel your head to look at him.

"Stop," You hiss, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don't try to stop me, Caleb. You've done enough — said enough. I'm... I can't stay with you anymore." His heart drops.

"I..." He trails off, stepping back as you finish zipping up the last of your stuff. Grabbing your bags and suitcase, you walk past him toward the front door. He stands by you as you put your shoes and coat on, slinging one of the bags over your shoulder. He knows he fucked up when you open the door with your cut of the keys before tossing the keys to him with tears cascading down your cheeks. But he doesn't say or do anything. You knew he wouldn't, partially due to that damn chip in his head.

"We were never meant for each other, clearly," You mutter, looking at him with a sniffle. "Go and find Emcee, since she's the only thing on your mind nowadays. Maybe finding her alive and well will finally put your mind at ease and make you happy."

With those parting words, you leave his apartment, the slam of the front door echoing in the silence. Caleb's sunset eyes stick to the door like glue, brows furrowing as he glares at it. After a while, he slumps against the wall and sinks down to the ground with a sigh.

"...Fuck."

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

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dreamauri · 15 days ago

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♪ — 𝗩𝗔𝗔𝗥𝗪𝗘𝗟 max verstappen x fiance! reader ( angst->fluff ) fic summary , you decide to pull a harmless prank on max one quiet morning, teasing the idea of leaving over the smallest things (0.9K)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

You wake up in Max’s arms — as always.

The room is bathed in sleepy blue light, the blinds not yet open, the morning quiet enough to hear his heartbeat thump steadily beneath your cheek. His arm is heavy around your waist, legs tangled with yours under the linen sheets. He smells like sleep and Max: warm skin, leftover cologne, and a hint of last night’s body wash. You barely shift, and his grip instinctively tightens.

You love him like this. Safe. Close. Yours.

Which is exactly why your heart flutters mischievously with what you’re about to do.

You inhale shakily, masking your smirk as a sigh, and carefully untangle yourself from his hold. His brows twitch, lips part slightly — even unconscious, he doesn’t like it when you leave the bed.

You kneel by his side and gently nudge his shoulder.

“Max,” you whisper softly, as if you’re trying not to wake him but also needing to.

He hums, brows still furrowed. “Hmm?”

“I need to tell you something.” Your voice trembles, and it doesn’t have to be fake — the prank is already starting to hurt you more than you expected.

That gets his attention. His eyes blink open slowly, clouded with sleep, but they find you immediately, like they always do. Still hazy, still tender. “What?” he rasps, voice dry and gravelly.

You look down, pressing your lips together like you're trying not to cry. “I… I think I need to leave.”

He doesn’t react at first. Like the sentence doesn’t register.

And then his entire face shifts — barely a second passes, but it’s like the ground beneath him cracks open. “What do you mean leave?” His voice is hoarse. “Like… leave what?”

You stare at him, playing with the hem of your shirt. “Us.”

Max jerks upright like he’s been slapped. “Wait—what? What are you talking about?”

He’s fully awake now. His hand shoots out and rests on your arm, eyes scanning your face frantically, chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to breathe. “Yn, schatje—what are you saying? Did I do something? Is this because I forgot to do the thing yesterday? Or—what—what the fuck happened?”

You look away.

Silence.

His hand slides off you like it’s burned. “You can’t be serious,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You just said you loved me last night. We’re going to get married; you said yes.”

“I did,” you say, softly. “I do. But maybe love isn’t enough.”

Max stares. You’ve never seen him look this… gutted. Raw. His whole posture crumbles like someone’s cut his strings — he slumps forward, hands covering his face. You hear his breath hitch, and your chest tightens.

“No, no, no, you don’t get to say that and just go,” he says suddenly, voice shaking with too many emotions at once. “I’ve built my life around you, everything, every f—every part of me is wrapped up in you, do you even—how can you leave now?”

Your throat tightens. His voice is desperate now. Not angry. Not even loud. Just devastated.

“I can’t do this again, I can’t—” He pauses, swallowing hard. His eyes are red now, glossed over. “Not with you. Not you.”

You finally break.

“I’m kidding,�� you say, quickly. “Max—I’m not going anywhere, I swear, baby, I swear—I was just messing with you.”

He freezes.

“You—” His voice catches in disbelief. “You what?”

“I was—fuck—Max, I thought it would be funny. Just a dumb prank. You always do dumb shit like waking me up with ice cubes or hiding my phone. I didn’t think you’d—Max, I didn’t think you’d believe it. I didn’t know you’d—I didn’t know it’d hurt you this much.”

You reach out, but he flinches slightly.

“Max…” You kneel back on the bed beside him, guilt crashing down on you like a wave. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it. You’re the only person I want. You’re it for me.”

He’s still staring at you, wide-eyed, like he’s trying to process that you’re not actually leaving. His jaw works like he’s holding back words—or tears.

“Don’t—don’t ever say that again, even as a joke,” he whispers finally, and now you hear it. The real heartbreak. The fear that still lingers. “I thought I was losing you.”

You cup his face, both hands trembling. “You’re not. You’ll never lose me.”

Max pulls you into his arms so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His fingers dig into your back, his face buried in your neck. You feel the warmth of his breath, the tremble of his hands. He’s not crying. But he’s close.

You stroke his hair, pressing kisses to his temple. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise me,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

“I promise.”

“I don’t care what happens. Just—never leave like that. Never scare me like that again.”

You press your forehead to his. “Never again.”

A few minutes pass like that, quiet and close, until the adrenaline fades from his voice and the morning light starts to warm the edges of the room. He finally looks at you again, teary-eyed and tired, but breathing steadier now.

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me,” he says softly, lips twitching into a tiny smile despite everything.

“Oh?” You smile through your own guilt, brushing his cheek. “Breakfast in bed? Cuddles all day?”

“And no more stupid pranks.”

“Deal.”

He pulls you into bed and wraps himself around you, blanket and all, like a shield.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmurs against your hair.

“I scared me, too.”

He kisses your forehead. “Good. Then we’re even.”

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neellscapsule · 1 day ago

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a teen . . . mom!?

summary | kara only wanted to get wine-drunk, she didn't expect the effects it would have . . . especially when it came to you, a forty —sixteen?— batmom.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x batmom! reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, super comic relief, teenager!reader is a menace to society. she physically and mentally age regresses but just because of a wine-day gone wrong :D

word count | 5.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is not part of the kent!batmom!reader series. but it includes some of that. you don't need to read the other parts to understand it. this is a one shot, it won't have a continuation.

IT WAS A QUIET AFTERNOON IN THE STUDY ROOM.

Which, by Batfamily standards, meant only low chatter instead of emergency signals and rooftop injuries. The spring sun filtered through the tall windows, casting soft, golden patterns over the wood-paneled floors and worn rugs.

Jason leaned his weight lazily on one foot, cocking his arm back as he aimed a dart between two fingers. Across the room, Damian stood with his arms crossed, brows furrowed in the way that meant he was pretending not to care, but tracking every motion with the intensity of a hawk.

“Go on, Todd,” Damian said, in that smooth, faintly imperious voice. “Miss again and I’ll call it a mercy kill.”

Jason grinned. “You’re talking big for someone who lost three rounds to me last week.”

“It was two,” Damian snapped. “And I let you win the second.”

Jason threw. The dart thunked into the board, a perfect bullseye.

“Sure you did.”

Across the study, Cassandra was curled up in the corner armchair, legs tucked under her. She wore a thick navy hoodie and AirPods, bobbing her head to the beat only she could hear. She watched the dart game out of the corner of her eye, waiting for her turn, but didn't speak. She didn’t have to—Cass was good at communicating with glances alone.

Tim sat on the couch, cross-legged and half-focused on a tablet in his lap, scrolling through files Bruce had sent him earlier about recent LexCorp activity. But Bruce, sitting across from him with a fresh cup of black coffee, had started speaking, and Tim—curious as ever—had set the screen down, listening closely.

And then Dick spoke, that usual warmth lacing his voice like a current of sunlight breaking through a cloud.

“So…Mother’s Day’s coming up.”

Everyone looked up, heads turning like a lazy wave passing through the room.

Bruce arched a brow. “Already?”

“Two weeks out,” Dick replied, spinning a basketball on one finger. “Which means we have to start planning. Last year was amazing. We set the bar pretty damn high.”

Damian scoffed, just as his dart embedded itself with perfect aim. “Last year we attempted to make her breakfast and nearly set the kitchen on fire. How is that your definition of amazing?”

“She cried,” Dick said, eyes wide with dramatic flair. “She cried and told us it was the best day of her life. That makes it a win.”

Cass pulled one AirPod out and offered a soft, almost dreamy smile. “She loved the photo album we made.”

Tim nodded, now turning toward the conversation. “Yeah, we should do something else personalized this year. Not just gifts.”

Jason finally turned from the dartboard, expression a little more serious now. “She’s done so much for us. Like… how do you even thank someone for that? Don’t start with the mama's boy stuff—” He pointed at Dick, preemptively shutting him up. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Bruce said, quietly, and it silenced the room for a moment. Then, softer, “She deserves something good this year. We all do.”

“Agreed,” Tim murmured, folding his arms. “Let’s make it count.”

Then the sound came

A metallic grind, a low hum, a sudden, vibrating thud like a pressure valve being opened too quickly. The kind of sound only one place in the Manor could produce.

The Batcave.

Weapons were drawn before anyone spoke. Instinct took over. Damian’s sword was at his side before his feet hit the floor. Jason had his twin pistols unsnapped. Tim flipped his bo staff into his palm. Bruce stood, straight-backed and focused, something sharp behind his gaze.

Only Cass remained calm, pulling her AirPods out and rising silently, expression unbothered but watchful.

They knew the rule: the Batcave wasn’t open territory. Only a handful of outsiders had access through that entrance. Clark. Kara. Conner. Jon. Diana. No one else.

So they moved—quiet, fast, precise—descending into the dark corridor that led to the heart of their operations. Footsteps echoed over stone. Jason went first, shoulder to shoulder with Damian, both of them tense and silent. Behind them came Tim and Cass. Bruce brought up the rear, quiet as a shadow.

The moment the platform came into view, the sight gave them pause.

Kara stood near the central console, half-leaning on it like someone who wasn’t quite balanced. Her hair was slightly mussed, cheeks pink with either embarrassment or something stronger. Krypto sat loyally by her side, tail thumping slowly. She pursed her lips, shifting her weight, looking . . . guilty.

Clark was standing with his arms folded, his posture unusually rigid. His jaw worked the way it always did when he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. He was angry. Not just annoyed or uncomfortable. Angry.

He caught sight of Bruce and exhaled, visibly bracing himself.

“Clark?” Bruce’s voice was a deep, quiet thing. “What happened?”

The family eased slightly. No one lowered their guard entirely, but the weapons were sheathed, stowed, folded back into utility belts. If Clark was here, if Kara was here, it couldn’t be world-ending. Just… strange.

“Everything’s fine,” Clark said, too quickly.

She blinked slowly. “Almost.”

“Kara.” Clark’s voice was a warning now.

“What?” she said, rolling her eyes. “It is. Nobody’s dead. I only sorta screwed up.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen at the farm?”

“No,” Clark said firmly. “Nothing dangerous. Nothing permanent. It was—”

“Well—” Kara interrupted, eyebrows lifting as she crossed her arms. “That’s debatable.”

Clark elbowed her, not exactly subtle. “Kara.”

“I’m just being honest!” she whined, then gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s a little temporary. One hundred percent contained. Just… very slightly out of hand.”

Jason squinted. “Okay, what is this? Did someone open a Phantom Zone portal again? Did Jon break the time treadmill?”

“No,” Clark said, sighing. “No Phantom Zone. No timeline collapsing. It’s…a chemical situation. Temporary. Contained. Everything is going to go back to normal by tonight.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Start from the beginning.”

“There was an experiment. LexCorp. Some remnants of a Luthor liquid serum Kara managed to—acquire.”

“Stole,” Kara muttered helpfully.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stole. She thought it was wine.”

“In my defense, it looked like wine.”

“She and . . . Well, they drank it,” Clark said, louder now. “And things got… scrambled. The effects are temporary. The serum ages or de-ages the subject, depending on genetic compatibility.”

Kara looked deeply offended. “I was tipsy. It looked like Smallville summer wine, Clark! You made it!”

“I didn't think it was a mix of alien compounds! I wanted to serve her some wine!”

Tim interrupted, “Wait. What does this have to do with—”

And that’s when the voice rang out.

“Okay, what the hell is this place?”

It echoed from the shadows behind the console. A girl stepped out.

Sixteen, maybe. Her hair was unbrushed, tangled and thick, held back by a red bandana. She wore a denim overall, short-legged and patch-pocketed, clearly old and worn in, and over that, a red flannel flapping open, several sizes too big. Clark’s. Definitely Clark’s. And a pair of worn-out sneakers that had seen better days. Maybe better centuries.

She stared up at the stalactites overhead, mouth parted. The high ceilings of the Batcave. The holograms, the platforms, the frozen-in-time suits. Her shoes clacked awkwardly on the stone floor as she spun slowly around.

Her eyes, wide and suspicious, scanned the Batcave with fascination. “Are we in a mine shaft?” she asked, spinning slowly. “Is this one of those weird rich people train stations?”

Then she turned.

Wide, familiar eyes. That face, younger but still unmistakable. But unmistakably her.

You.

Or, more specifically, you at sixteen.

Tim’s voice cracked in the quiet.

“…Mom?”

You paused mid-spin. “Mom? Who’s a mom?”

Bruce moved first, slowly stepping forward, as if any sudden motion might startle her off a cliff. You looked at him, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Who are y’all?” you asked, voice thick with a Kansas twang, the vowels long and slow. “Is this a movie set? Is this, like… NASA?”

Jason dropped both his arms. “No. No, no, no, no.”

Kara raised a hand sheepishly. “Oops?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is what I meant. Temporal regression. Not full time travel, just... age reversal. It’ll wear off. Eventually.”

“You turned our mother into a teenager?” Tim shouted, voice breaking.

“Okay, stop sayin’ that. I don’t know what kinda cult this is, but I ain’t nobody’s mama.”

You take a half-step back from the sudden wall of strangers, your wide eyes darting between the dark-clad group in front of you and the enormous computer screen glowing behind them. You don’t know what to make of any of it. You definitely don’t know what to make of them.

You reach instinctively for Clark’s sleeve.

It’s familiar, solid. You grip the flannel he let you borrow earlier tighter around your shoulders, the hem hanging nearly to your knees. You feel ridiculous in it, but also... kind of protected. The way you always do around your big brother.

You don’t even try to hide the fact that you’re pressed against Clark’s arm like you’re glued to it. Not because you’re scared. Not really. But because everything around you feels like something out of a sci-fi channel marathon you fell asleep to once. And frankly, you don’t trust the ground not to move. The ceiling’s way too high. The lights are all weird and humming.

And not a single pig in sight.

Also, Clark smells like safety. You’ve always thought so. Even now, when he’s tense as all hell and fidgeting with the collar of his shirt and shooting Kara a look that clearly says you’re going to pay for this later, you can still hear his heartbeat under your cheek.

“Clark,” you hiss, whispering to him like he’s your lifeline. “Why are there ninjas in a cave?”

“They’re not ninjas,” he says softly.

“They’re totally ninjas.” You look at the smallest one with the sword. “That one’s even got a blade. Don’t try and gaslight me, Clark.”

“That’s Damian.”

“Oh, you named the ninja.”

“He’s your—” Clark stops himself and visibly decides against finishing that sentence. “Let’s just say he’s family.”

You blink at him, then blink again at the short, brooding boy who’s glaring at you like you just insulted his entire lineage.

“Family?” you echo. “We talkin’ blood? Or, like, Thanksgiving-level ‘you have to sit next to Uncle Steve even though he smells like sardines’ kind of family?”

He doesn’t answer. Krypto, saint of your sanity, lets out a soft huff and nuzzles into your side. You crouch immediately and tangle your fingers into his fur. He’s warm and real and familiar. Thank god.

“You get it, don’tcha, boy? This is all nuts.”

Krypto wags his tail once. You're taking that as agreement.

Kara, who’s been hanging back trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly, steps forward like she’s about to deliver a very complicated math presentation without knowing how to count.

“So,” she says brightly. “Funny story…”

You tilt your head. “That’s never how good stories start.”

“Well… remember when you were helping Ma Kent with the garden and we had dinner and then we went to the cellar?”

“No.”

“Okay, fair, because you got drunk off of Clark’s summer wine—”

“She did not get drunk,” Clark interjects, looking scandalized. “She sipped half a cup.”

“She’s a lightweight, Clark!” Kara cries.

You raise your hand. “Hey! I’m young, not weak.”

“You’re almost a baby,” he mutters, looking personally betrayed.

You hold up your hands. “I’m whatever age I was this morning, which, as far as I remember, is still sixteen, and none of this explains why I’m here.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Kara says, putting her hands on her hips. “There was a bottle. We thought it was apple cider. But it was glowing, and probably from Luthor’s lab, and I was dared to try it—”

“No one dared you,” Clark says.

“—and I may have poured some into the wine without realizing it was some kind of… de-aging compound.”

You blink at her. “You what?”

Kara shrugs with the energy of someone who absolutely knows they’re in trouble but is too hungover to care. “On the bright side, it’s temporary.”

You slowly straighten up and stare at her. “You turned me into a minor.”

“Temporarily!”

Clark winces. “It’s wearing off by tonight.”

“Does the IRS know that?” you ask, before immediately following it up with, “Wait, do I have a mortgage?”

“No,” Bruce says dryly. It’s the first thing he’s said in several minutes. “You live here.”

You point at him. “You say that like it makes sense.”

“Bug, look,” the old nickname slipping from your brother's mouth caught your attention again. “This is where you live, actually. You are forty. You are married to Bruce. And you have five children alongside him. And these five here are those children.”

“. . . So, like, is this real? You didn’t drug me and put me in, like, a bat-themed escape room, right?”

“Why would I drug you?” Clark asks, mortified.

“Why wouldn’t you?” you shoot back. “I once shaved your eyebrows in your sleep when I was mad about you eating my pie. This could be revenge.”

Clark groans. The kids stare at you.

“Okay, wow,” Tim mutters. “She’s always been like this.”

“Worse, apparently,” Damian mutters.

Jason finally groans and leans against the cave wall like the full absurdity has just settled in. “This is worse than that time Bruce got turned into a baby.”

“I’m sorry—what?” you ask immediately.

Bruce doesn’t respond. His eye twitches.

Clark clears his throat. “Look, Y/N—”

“Don’t call me that,” you say automatically. “It’s too grown-up. You make it sound like I pay bills.”

“Well...you do pay bills.”

“I’m sixteen,” you declare, backing up, one hand on your hip. “The only thing I’m legally responsible for is not failing chemistry and remembering to brush my teeth.”

Tim raises a hand. “Technically, if she’s back in her sixteen-year-old body, can she still sign legal documents? Do we have to contact a guardian?”

Clark rubs both hands down his face. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I’m calling Ma,” you announce. “Or maybe Pa. Actually no—wait. I don’t have my phone. Someone took it.”

You turn to Clark, grabbing the front of his shirt again like you’re about to confess your sins. “Clark. I’m scared. This is like one o’ them dreams I get when I eat too much bacon.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Clark says, rubbing your back like you’re five and just skinned your knee. “You’re safe. Just stay here until the effects wear off.”

“For how long?” you ask, nose wrinkling.

“A few hours,” Kara chirps.

You stare blankly.

“Hours? With them?”

Clark starts steering you gently toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat. Something with bread. Lots of bread.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause last time I drank, I rode Pa’s tractor into the pond.”

“And I had to fish you out. Yes. That’s why.”

As Clark helps you up the steps, you glance back at all of them again. Still strangers. Still bizarre. But they’re watching you like you matter. Like you’re something more than a tipsy farm girl in borrowed flannel.

You blink slowly and lean your head on Clark’s arm.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“…Do I really kiss him?”

Clark laughs. “More than once.”

“… Wow.”

And you giggle the whole way up.

You’re still chewing on the corner of your sleeve when the smells start hitting you.

Warm bread. Roasted corn. A little honey, maybe. Something with sage. You blink up from where you’ve been pretending to count how many ninjas live in this cave—your current estimate is “too many”—and sniff again.

That’s cornbread. Your cornbread. The one Ma Kent makes when it’s been a long day in the fields, and she doesn’t want anyone talking until everyone’s had a slice. And that’s—oh lord—that’s peach cobbler. And is that...

“Is that fried green tomatoes?” you ask, wide-eyed, following your nose like a bloodhound.

You abandon Clark’s arm like it’s a shed skin, Krypto trotting beside you as you charge up the stairs from the Batcave like a girl possessed.

Then you’re in the dining room.

The long oak table stretches out before you like something from a royal banquet, except instead of swans carved out of ice, it’s biscuits, golden and stacked in neat towers. Thick slabs of pot roast steaming in heavy, gravy-soaked platters. A skillet of corn pudding. Macaroni that’s baked right, none of that watery cafeteria stuff. Greens swimming in broth. Sliced ham with a brown sugar crust. Butter melting off the edges of everything.

You stand there, slack-jawed, a hand pressed to your stomach like maybe you dreamt this. Like maybe the cider and wine and weird glowing juice from earlier invented this whole fantasy.

“Did I die?” you ask out loud. “Is this heaven?”

“No, Miss Y/N,” says the man in the apron, stepping forward with all the dignity of a knight approaching a queen. “But I shall take the compliment.”

You blink at him. He’s tall, older, with the kind of soft British voice you’d normally only hear narrating nature documentaries. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alfred,” he says with a small bow of his head. “And dinner is served.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

The chair closest to the center of the table is pulled out for you, and you don’t even question it. You plop down like a sack of corn feed, already reaching for a biscuit. The moment it hits your mouth, you moan.

“Oh my god, this is illegal. This has gotta be a federal crime. What did you put in this?”

“Flour, butter, buttermilk,” Alfred replies dryly. “And an abundance of affection.”

You point at him, chewing. “Don’t get all poetic on me, mister. I’m emotionally vulnerable. But I like you, let me tell you that.”

“Most do,” he replies without missing a beat, disappearing into the kitchen again.

Around the table, you spot the not-ninjas from the cave—who, apparently, are your kids. They’re spread out across the long, dramatic dining table like they belong there. Like they’ve sat there with you before. Hundreds of times.

There’s a quiet comfort to the way they occupy the space. The scraping of forks, the occasional head tilted in your direction like they’re watching a ghost move and breathe and laugh.

You shovel another bite of soup in your mouth and sigh contentedly.

“Oh my lord. Y’all eat like this every day?”

Jason, who is halfway through his second helping of roasted chicken, snorts. “Not unless you’re around. You’re the only one Alfred spoils like this.”

“Damn right he does,” you say, pointing with your spoon. “He knows quality when he sees it.”

Across the table, Damian snorts under his breath. You shoot him a look.

“What’s your name again? Demian?”

“Damian,” he corrects you, like it causes him actual pain.

“Right. You’re the little ninja.”

“I’m not—”

“He’s not a ninja,” Jason interrupts. “He’s just angry and carries weapons.”

“Which is the definition of a ninja,” you say, nodding solemnly. “A tiny, lethal ninja.”

Damian’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You’re more annoying as a teenager than I expected.”

You grin. “And you’re smaller than I imagined. So we’re even.”

“Mom,” Dick cuts in, gently, like he’s trying to keep the dinner from devolving into actual combat. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

You pause, spoon halfway to your mouth again.

You glance at him. At his warm eyes. The subtle curve of his mouth when he calls you mom, like it’s something sacred. Something that makes him feel safe.

Five of them. Five. Each one with eyes too watchful, expressions too full of restrained emotion. You don’t remember raising them. You don’t remember them at all. But you can’t deny how much it seems they remember you.

They all look at you like you hung the moon. Or maybe like you were the moon, and just fell out of the sky.

You shake your head. “I don’t. I mean… y’all are very sweet. You seem like good people. But I don’t know you. Not really.”

A pause. The mood drops just slightly.

“But,” you add, offering a crooked smile, “I can tell you’re mine.”

Tim blinks at you. “How?”

“Because you all look like you wanna cry, but you’re pretending to be cool about it,” you say, reaching for your bread roll. “That’s textbook Kent behavior.”

Cass sits silently to your right, scooping some greens onto her plate. She doesn’t push. Just eats, and watches, and offers a small nod when you meet her eyes. You don’t know her, but you like her already. She seems like someone who doesn’t talk unless it’s important.

Tim’s two seats down, fussing with the tablecloth and poking at his food like he’s too stressed to eat. He hasn’t stopped looking between you and Bruce since the meal started.

You still haven’t really figured out that part yet. Bruce sits at the head of the table. Quiet. Watching. You’ve been sneaking glances at him in between bites of roasted potatoes, trying to piece together why your chest gets tight when he looks away. He’s handsome, sure—rich people often are—but it’s something else. Something behind the way his eyes soften when he watches you laugh.

You’re not dumb. That’s not a stranger’s look. That’s something older, deeper, thicker than time.

But he hasn’t said much. Just listened. And you’re not sure whether you’re more confused by him or comforted by him.

“So,” you say, pointing your fork at him this time. “You’re the one I’m supposedly in love with.”

The room goes very still. Even Damian’s fork hesitates mid-air. You keep chewing, eyes locked with Bruce, and watch as the corner of his mouth—just barely—twitches.

“I—um—” Dick makes a strangled sound. “Maybe we ease into that conversation?”

“Why?” you ask, grinning now. “We courtin’ or somethin’? Did I leave myself a note? Some Kansas-girl-doomsday-plan in case I ever forgot? ‘If lost, return to the tall broody guy with the eyes like storm clouds’?”

Jason barks a laugh and promptly chokes on a string bean. Cass slaps his back without even glancing at him. Tim exhales like someone who’s just been released from a hostage situation.

Bruce, however, finally speaks.

“We married quite the years ago,” he says, voice low and careful. “One here. Another in Smallville. You, obviously, enjoyed the one at your house the most.”

Your chewing slows.

For a moment, something in your chest aches, sharp and sudden, like it’s remembering something your mind hasn’t caught up with.

“Well,” you say after a second, softer now, “I can believe that.”

You look around the table. At these strange, wonderful people with your name on their tongues. You don’t know how or why. You don’t remember the hugs or the heartbreak or the nights they must’ve fallen asleep on your shoulder. But something deep down—a bone-deep kind of knowing—tells you you’d die for each one of them without blinking.

And you feel it more clearly now, under all the noise and gravy and jokes and silence.

You feel safe.

“I’m real lucky,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

Cass tilts her head.

“Hmm?” Dick asks, gently.

You clear your throat, suddenly shy. “Just… reckon I got no clue how I ended up here, but I can tell you it ain’t bad. If this is the future—present? Whatever it is—I think I must’ve done somethin’ real good to get here.”

Damian finally speaks.

“You raised us,” he says, deadpan. “And you did it exceptionally.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

Damian sets down his utensils, folds his hands neatly, and repeats in that clipped, matter-of-fact voice: “You raised us. Me. The others. You taught us how to trust. How to care. You made this house into a home. You protected us. All of us.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Damian adds slowly, “you taught Alfred how to make fried chicken that actually slaps.”

Jason nods in agreement.

You laugh again, louder this time. It bursts out of you in a way that makes Cass’s eyes soften and Bruce’s head tilt just slightly in your direction. You laugh until you have to wipe your eyes on your sleeve and Alfred appears beside you like a magician, handing you a cloth napkin as though he’s been anticipating that exact outcome since the meal began.

“I like it here,” you say honestly, smile still lingering.

No one answers. They don’t have to. The warmth in the room does it for them. The shared glances. The way Tim is no longer fidgeting, how Dick looks just a little less like he’s trying to hold everything together with charm and string. How Jason has stopped guarding his plate. How Cass lets her fingers rest beside yours on the table. How Damian doesn’t look away.

You’re sixteen and lost and missing whole years of your life, but somehow you’re sitting here in a place that feels like it waited just for you. A place where the people around you speak of you not like you’re missing—but like you never left.

You glance at Bruce again.

And you think—not think, you feel—that whatever you’ve forgotten, whatever’s waiting when this all wears off, it’s something you’d want to run back to with open arms.

Maybe even something that’s already been waiting.

You don’t feel the moment it happens.

There’s no dramatic surge of power, no flash of memory overtaking you like lightning. No cosmic thunder or shaking ground. Just warmth. A deep, complete warmth that seeps in from your spine and settles into your limbs like summer sunlight after a storm.

You are sleeping.

Somewhere in the manor, the halls are quiet. The grandfather clock in the entryway ticks along like it always does, neither hurried nor idle. The windows let in pale blue light, that in-between shade that hovers after sunset but before darkness. A cool wind moves through the trees outside, rustling the leaves in that specific, low, lulling way that only wind in a big old yard can. The world outside breathes, and so do you.

You’re still. Curled under thick covers that smell like lavender and laundry soap and a home you somehow never stopped belonging to. Kara’s gentle voice is long gone now, her apologetic explanation about molecular re-stabilization and Kryptonian neural interference left behind like a bookmark in a story already finished.

You sleep through it. Through the moment when everything settles into place again. Through the return of every year you’ve lived. Every scar and every birthday candle and every night you stayed up late just to fold clothes for five kids. You don’t jolt awake when it happens. You don’t startle or sit up or gasp.

You just breathe deeper.

And by the time the moment passes, you’re forty again.

A mother. A partner. A Kent from Kansas and a Wayne by choice, tangled up in one long, complicated, impossibly lucky life.

You wake up slowly. Like your body’s been waiting for you to come back.

The room is dim, the bedside lamp off, the curtains partly drawn. You shift under the covers and let out a soft groan as your joints stretch, your muscles easing from the hours of sleep. You recognize the weight in your bones. The familiar slight pull in your shoulder from when you helped Damian fix that punching bag mount last month. The dull, expected ache in your lower back you’ve had since you fell asleep on the couch with Jason a year ago and never quite recovered from it.

And you smile.

You sit up in bed slowly, pushing the comforter aside. Your feet hit the floor. The carpet’s soft under your toes, plush and warm from sunlight that must’ve sat there for hours earlier. You pad across the room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your mind still gently fogged but clear in all the ways that matter.

You know who you are. You remember your life. Your family. Your name. Every moment of it.

Every child. Every heartbreak. Every fight at the dinner table. Every embrace on the front porch. Every night Bruce reached for your hand under the blankets and you found him waiting there, steady as ever.

You shuffle into the bathroom and splash water on your face. No panic. No rush. Just the ordinary, heavy-limbed sort of wakefulness that comes after a long nap. You see your reflection in the mirror and smile faintly—your face is yours again. Older, but in a way you’ve grown to love. The lines around your eyes aren’t flaws; they’re maps of laughter and worry and too many hours squinting at homework papers and birthday lists.

You pull on a fresh pair of sweats and one of Bruce’s soft and old shirts from the dresser drawer. You don’t even think about it. Just slip it over your head like you’ve done a hundred times before. It smells like cedar and ink and something deeper, something unmistakably him.

You don’t bother with shoes. The floor is cool beneath your soles as you make your way down the hallway. The manor is hushed, and you walk like someone who belongs here—because you do.

The house remembers you. The creak in the third stair. The way the light hits just right through the windows near the library. The faint scent of coffee that always lingers near the kitchen no matter the hour. You pass framed photos along the hall—Cass’s first dance recital, Tim’s high school graduation, Damian in a rare candid moment on a horse—and your heart tightens, swells, relaxes all at once.

You pause in front of one: Bruce and you on the Kent farm, both of you squinting against the sun, his arm snug around your waist, your mouth caught in mid-laugh. You touch the frame gently, then keep walking.

You don’t have to ask where he is. You know.

Bruce has a particular silence that follows him. Not a cold one. Not empty. But heavy and meaningful, like the kind of quiet that makes everything else make sense. You follow it like a trail, soft-footed, slow. Your fingers trailing along the hall as you go. You’re still half-asleep, and your body knows it—still soft around the edges, still sunk in that liminal warmth that only comes from a nap where the world was finally allowed to pause.

You find him in his study.

He’s seated at his desk, the lamp beside him casting a warm halo of golden light over his hands and jaw. His jacket is off. Sleeves rolled up. Shirt slightly rumpled. There’s a book open in front of him, and for a second you think he’s reading, but then he glances up the moment you enter.

And when he sees you—barefoot, sleepy-eyed, wearing his shirt and nothing else—he smiles.

Not a smirk. Not one of those sharp, fleeting things that cross his face in public. But a true, quiet smile. The kind that starts small and deep and grows only enough to be felt, not flaunted.

You don’t say anything at first. You walk across the room, slow and unhurried, like your body knows exactly what it needs before your mouth even thinks to speak.

Then, voice gravelly with sleep, you mutter the words like a kiss:

“Hello, handsome.”

Bruce leans back in his chair just slightly, like the sight of you is all he needs to let the weight of the day fall from his shoulders.

He watches you for a second, just a beat longer than necessary. Not because he doesn’t recognize you. But because he does. Because you’re you again, fully and completely, and he doesn’t need to check, doesn’t need to ask.

His voice is low, fond. “Welcome back.”

You don’t hesitate. You step close to the chair, and with all the ease in the world, you sink into his lap.

His arms go around you instantly.

It’s instinct, that part. Like breathing. Like gravity. His hand settles on your lower back, firm and grounding. His other brushes a strand of hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. You curl into him, cheek against his shoulder, eyes half-closed again, your entire body relaxing like it’s found the softest part of home.

You sigh.

“Long day, huh?” you murmur.

Bruce chuckles quietly against your temple. “You could say that.”

You both fall quiet for a while. He holds you like he’s not sure he’ll get the chance again. Like he’s afraid even now that it could all slip away. You don’t rush him. You just lean into him, letting your arms drape around his neck, one hand resting at the back of his head, fingers threading into the thick hair there.

“I remember everything,” you whisper.

Bruce’s hand tightens at your waist, just for a moment.

“I know,” he says. “I could tell the second I saw you.”

You breathe deep, your nose brushing the side of his neck. He smells like paper and ink and something darker, something quiet and unmistakably safe. You don’t need to say the words out loud. You know he hears them anyway.

Still, after a moment, you lift your head and tilt his chin to face you.

“I missed you,” you say.

“I was right here,” he replies.

“I know,” you smile faintly. “But I missed me, too. I missed us.”

Bruce’s eyes are soft. His thumb rubs a slow, steady circle against your side, anchoring you there.

“You came back,” he says.

“I always would,” you murmur. “You know that.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

You stay like that for a long time. No need to move. No one asking questions. No world-ending alarms or high-tech misfires or impossible missions. Just this. Just his arms and your breath and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“The kids—”

“I remember them,” you interrupt gently. “All of them. Every last impossible, wonderful one.”

He exhales slowly. You feel it in his chest, the way it unwinds him.

“I said some ridiculous things,” you add after a beat, laughing under your breath. “Told you I’d testify against myself for casserole. Called you ‘sir.’”

“You also asked if I owned the bank.”

“Do you?”

He hums. “Technically.”

You smile against his neck. “I’m never gonna live that down.”

“No,” he says. “But they loved you for it.”

You lift your head again, your voice quieter now. “They really okay?”

“They missed you. Every minute.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and slow, and holds you there like the ground beneath him finally stopped shaking.

And when your eyes finally close again, warm and safe in the circle of his arms, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that you came back to exactly where you’re meant to be.

Home.

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