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pillow-coded · 21 hours ago

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To Have and To Hold — Chapter 14

Summary: Spencer, Maddie and Y/N go to the aquarium. Things start getting really homely. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: fluff, Spencer being the best girl dad, kissing (yippie!) word count: 8.5k

Series Masterlist

Bioluminescence is the production and emission of light by a living organism. Typically a defense mechanism. Sometimes a lure. Always beautiful. I remember reading that it only works in the dark—that it takes darkness to make something glow like that.

And as I’m standing here, breathless and late, watching her silhouette framed by the soft neon of aquarium lights, I think maybe that’s what she is to me.

A creature that glows when the world goes dim. Not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that disarms it. And the worst part? She’s smiling like she still forgives me—for being late, for being complicated, for being me. I don’t know how to deserve that. I just know I’d follow the glow if it led me anywhere near her.

“You finally made it,” she sighs, all relief and softness.

“I’m so sorry. Work ran over, and then someone on the subway spilled their coffee on me, so I went home to change—but then I didn’t like what I picked, so I changed again, and then—”

“Hey. Hey,” she cuts in gently, a hand finding my wrist. “It’s okay, Spence.”

Her fingers are light on my wrist, but the touch short-circuits something in me. Not in a bad way. Just… like I was buzzing too loud and she found the off switch.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay. Right. I’m here.”

And then she lets go. And I miss it.

Before I can spiral again, a blur of pink jacket and pigtails barrels into me from the side.

“Spencer!”

Maddie’s arms wrap tight around my legs and I stagger just slightly—more from the shock of it than the force.

“There she is,” I breathe, crouching to her level. “How was school today, princess?”

She pulls back just enough to grin at me—one of those full-face, nose-wrinkled grins that makes her dimples pop.

“Miss Carla made us do a class spelling bee,” she reports gravely, like this is the most pressing news of the day.

“Oh really? how did you do?”

“I won!”

Her eyes sparkle with pride, and for a second, I swear the whole aquarium feels brighter.

“No way,” I gasp, dramatically placing a hand over my chest. “You won the whole thing?”

She nods so hard her pigtails bounce. “I spelled dinosaur and elephant and important and even vegetable.”

“Vegetable?” I echo. “That one gets me every time.”

She giggles. “You’re silly.”

I smile, but it’s soft. Barely there. I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to make it about me. But part of me—some smaller, broken part—can’t help thinking: If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like this. Loud. Smart. Unafraid.

“You must be so proud,” I say, glancing up at Y/N.

“She wouldn’t stop talking about you on the way here,” Y/N says softly. “Kept saying, ‘Spencer knows every word in the whole world. He’s gonna be so proud of me.’”

My breath catches. And I look back down at the little girl beaming up at me like I invented the alphabet.

I clear my throat. “Well then. As your official spelling bee wizard, I think this calls for a reward.”

Her eyes widen. “Like… magic?”

“Better,” I whisper, leaning in. “Three tickets to the sea otter show.”

She gasps.

“Come on,” I say, standing. She takes my hand without hesitation.

Maddie slips her small fingers into my other hand like it’s second nature. Her palm is warm and a little sticky—grape jelly, maybe, or aquarium gift shop candy—but I don’t let go. She swings our arms dramatically with every step, humming some tune she’s making up as she goes.

We move slowly at first, weaving through the aquarium's dim corridors. Blue light filters down from above, fractured by water and glass. It bathes everything in something quiet. Something gentle. I think about saying something—about the way this feels too good to be real—but then Maddie gasps.

“Look! Look, they’re glowing!” she cries, her voice echoing just slightly off the curved walls.

And just like that, she takes off. Still close, still within reach, but ahead now—drawn forward by some silent, shimmering current. The colorful fish.

I don’t call her back.

And then—so quietly I almost miss it—Y/N’s hand slips into mine.

She doesn’t make a show of it. Just a simple, steady motion. Like it’s normal.

I glance at her, but she’s watching Maddie, not me. Her expression soft—almost private, like she’s letting herself feel something she hasn’t admitted out loud yet. Maybe I am too.

Her fingers fit between mine so easily, it feels like this has happened before. Like it’s muscle memory. Or fate. Or maybe just something we both needed and didn’t know how to ask for.

She squeezes my hand, and we keep walking, just the two of us trailing behind the bounce of pink sneakers and wonder.

“How was work?” she asks, and her voice tugs me back to the surface.

“It was alright…” I hesitate. “Unfortunately, JJ told the team about you, and now they all want to meet you.”

“Unfortunately?” she echoes, glancing sideways with a crooked smile.

“Well…” I rub the back of my neck. “I told JJ about you in confidence. I wasn’t going to tell anyone yet.”

Her brow lifts, just slightly.

“Not because I don’t want anyone to know about you,” I rush to clarify. “I do. I swear I do. It’s just—”

“Honey, breathe.”

She says it so easily. Honey.

It’s the second time she’s called me that, and it hits just as hard. Like some long-dormant part of me perks up at the sound—hopeful, wild, unreasonably greedy. I want her to call me that again. Forever. Until it’s the only name I answer to.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “What I mean is… I don’t usually talk about my personal life at work. Not because I’m ashamed or hiding anything. More like… you two are special to me… and I’ve seen what that world does to special things.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. And in that silence, I feel myself spill open more than I meant to.

“Call it paranoia. Or trauma. Or both. But I guess I didn’t want to risk… pulling you into something messy.”

We pause for a second near the glass, Maddie’s laughter echoing through the dim blue glow as she presses her nose to the tank.

When Y/N finally speaks, her voice is gentle. Unshaken.

“Spencer,” she says, not unkind, “I think you might just be overthinking it.”

A soft laugh escapes her—just breath and warmth, like the kind that fogs glass.

“No harm in meeting your friends. I think I can survive a round of profilers.”

I open my mouth to respond—something about how she’d do more than survive, how they’d love her, how JJ already does—but then Maddie spins toward us, her face lit up like one of the exhibits.

“Mommy! Can you take a picture of me with the blue fishies?”

Her hands are already pressed to the glass, hair a little wild from static, smile too big for her face.

“Go get in the picture with her,” Y/N nudges, her voice low and teasing—but there’s something gentle under it. Something like trust.

I blink at her. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she laughs. “You’re half the reason she’s glowing like that.”

I hesitate, glancing down at myself like I need to double-check I’m worthy of being seen, but Maddie’s already calling for me, her little fingers tapping the glass. “Spencer! Come see! Come see!”

And when I walk toward her—awkward, unsure—I catch our reflections in the glass. She’s grinning. I’m… soft-edged. Unarmored. Lit in blue.

She tugs me closer, small hand gripping mine again like it’s no big deal. Like this is normal.

Before I’m even ready, the flash hits us in the face—bright and clumsy and perfect.

I blink through it, still squinting when I turn to her. But she’s not squinting. She’s smiling. Beaming, actually. Like she couldn’t be happier about standing in front of a fish tank—with me of all people.

Something swells in my chest, sharp and full. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just hold it there. Let it glow a little.

“What are those called?” she asks, still pointing at the tank, her voice small but curious.

“Those are Cherub Pygmy Angelfish,” I tell her, leaning in a little. “They’re small, usually no more than three inches long, and they like hiding in coral reefs.”

She presses her nose to the glass again, breath fogging the surface. “They look like they’re glowing.”

“They do,” I nod. “It’s a kind of iridescence in their scales. They reflect light in a way that makes them look… almost electric.”

She hums thoughtfully, eyes tracking the flicker of blue and gold. “They’re really pretty.”

I glance at her—at the way her face lights up just watching them—and something tugs behind my ribs.

“They are,” I say. But I’m not looking at the fish anymore.

I’m looking at her.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go look at the rest of the fishies.”

Before Maddie can respond, I slide an arm around her tiny waist and lift her effortlessly onto my shoulder.

She squeals—pure delight—her laughter echoing through the dim, glowing corridor as her hands grab hold of my hair for balance.

“Higher!” she giggles, voice ringing out like a bell.

“You’re going to make me go bald,” I tease, steadying her legs with one hand.

Her little fingers pat the top of my head like I’m her personal steed, and I can feel her happiness radiating through every wiggly bounce.

Y/N turns to look back at us—her smile soft, fond, a little in awe. Like she’s seeing something she didn’t know she needed until just now.

“Let’s go look at the pink fishies!” Maddie exclaims from above my head, bouncing slightly with excitement.

“Those are Squarespot Anthias” I tell her, adjusting my hold on her legs as we walk. “Very popular in coral reef ecosystems.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“They're so cool,” Maddie says in awe.

I feel my heart twist, soft and sudden.

“They’re usually found around reefs at depths of 10 to 180 meters,” I add, because I can’t help myself. Facts are my fallback when feelings start to rise too quickly.

But Maddie hums in response, like she’s genuinely impressed, and leans forward on my shoulders to get a better view ahead. Her small hands tighten in my hair, not painfully—just to stay close. Like she trusts I won’t let her fall.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Y/N watching us again. Not saying anything. Just… looking. Like maybe she’s memorizing something she never wants to forget.

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something there that makes my throat go tight. Not because it’s overwhelming—but because it’s kind. Steady. Sure.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice low. Almost cautious. Like if I speak too loud, the moment might dissolve.

She nods slowly, then breathes out a laugh—soft and shaky in the way something honest usually is.

“Yeah,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. You’re really good at this.”

“At what?” I blink, genuinely unsure.

She lifts one shoulder, glancing toward Maddie, still perched on my shoulders, still humming under her breath. “Being with her. You just… get her. Like it’s easy.”

I swallow hard. “I… I think she’s the one who gets me.”

Y/N looks over, curious now. “What do you mean?”

I glance forward, pretending to watch Maddie’s little feet swinging gently by my chest, but the truth is I’m buying time. It’s not easy to explain—how much that tiny kid has somehow cracked open parts of me I didn’t know were still reachable.

“I’m used to people… shutting me up. Or dismissing me when I say—well, stuff. The facts. The science. The things that spill out when I’m nervous or excited or trying to connect,” I say, my voice quieter now, almost like I’m admitting to a flaw.

“But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t make me feel like I talk too much or like I’m boring her. She listens. She asks questions. Like she’s actually amazed.”

I let out a soft breath. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like that before.”

There’s a pause.

“I think that’s ‘cause she’s as curious as you are,” Y/N says softly.

I glance at her, caught off guard by how much those words land. They’re simple. But something about the way she says them—calm, steady, like she’s not just talking about Maddie—makes something stutter in my chest.

Curious.

She could’ve said smart. Or kind. Or sweet. But she said curious. The same thing I’ve been called my whole life, usually as an excuse. A reason I don’t fit. A label slapped on like it’s a fault.

But Y/N says it like it’s a good thing. Like it’s something worth matching.

And in that second, I wonder—is she talking about Maddie… or herself?

I don’t ask. I just keep walking.

But the warmth in my chest doesn’t fade.

“Spencer! Spencer! Can we go on the fish tunnel?” Maddie calls, already wiggling in place on my shoulders like she’s halfway there.

“Oh?” I say, shifting her weight a little to keep her steady. “Are you sure, Mads? That tunnel has sharks. It can get scary.”

She gasps—not in fear, but in pure delight. “Real sharks?”

“Real ones,” I nod solemnly. “Sand tiger sharks. Sometimes they float right over your head. Rows of teeth and everything.”

“Cool,” she whispers with awe, like I just told her she was about to meet a dragon.

Y/N laughs under her breath beside me. “She’s braver than I am.”

I glance at her, smiling. “Well, you’re gonna have to be plenty brave too, ‘cause the only way out is through.”

She lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Are you trying to psych me out?”

“Absolutely not,” I say, but my tone’s already too light, too teasing to be convincing. “I’m just stating the facts. We’re entering a thirty-foot tunnel filled with circling apex predators. No big deal.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but she’s grinning.

And Maddie? Maddie cheers like we’ve just announced the next leg of an epic quest.

I adjust her on my shoulders and nod toward the entrance, where the tunnel dips under the tank, glowing blue and lined with ripples of reflected light.

“This way, brave explorers,” I say, slipping into that familiar rhythm I use when i’m with them. “Past the coral reefs, beneath the predator’s patrol, through the belly of the beast...”

And as we step inside, the world goes quiet. Water hushes overhead. Light bends.

For a moment, it really does feel like we’re somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

“Mommy! Mommy, take a picture!”

Maddie’s voice cuts through the stillness, bright and breathless. She’s already wriggling to get down from my shoulders, practically vibrating with excitement. I set her down gently, and she darts a few feet ahead, stopping right beneath a sand tiger shark gliding silently overhead.

She throws her arms out wide, face tilted up, bathed in shifting shades of blue and silver. “Look! He’s smiling!”

Y/N laughs softly behind me and lifts her phone. “Hold still, baby. That one’s definitely going on the fridge.”

I step back and watch—Maddie framed by glass and water and wonder, Y/N holding the moment still with a quiet kind of reverence.

“Get in the picture with her,” she says, voice warm, almost teasing.

I glance over, expecting the familiar flutter of panic, but… it’s quieter this time. We already did this once—by the fish. And the world didn’t fall apart. No one looked at me like I didn’t belong in the frame.

So I nod. Not awkward, not overthinking. Just… yeah.

Maddie beams and tugs me down beside her before I’ve even fully knelt. She wraps one arm around my neck and points the other straight up at the shark overhead.

“Ready!” she declares.

Y/N lifts the phone again, her smile impossibly soft.

“Perfect,” she murmurs.

The flash goes off, and this time, I don't flinch. I just stay there—under glass and glowing water, beside a girl who’s too brave for her size and a woman who keeps letting me in—and I let myself be part of the picture.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Maddie beams, already taking off down the curve of the tunnel. Her footsteps echo, light and fast, as she darts forward, eager to see every shark, every stingray, every flicker of movement through the glass.

“Slow down, baby,” Y/N calls after her, laughing lightly. “And remember to stay close!”

“I am close!” Maddie yells back, without slowing down at all.

Y/N shakes her head, but there’s no real worry in her eyes. Just that soft, maternal knowing—the kind that lives in practiced patience.

We walk side by side, the tunnel arching above us like the inside of a deep breath. Schools of fish dart past, silver ribbons in motion. A stingray glides overhead, casting shadows that ripple across Y/N’s face.

I glance at her—just a second too long.

The light curves around her features, soft and blue. Her mouth is slightly parted, her eyes reflecting some quiet thought I’ll never be brave enough to ask about.

And I realize I’m staring.

Too long.

Again.

I tear my gaze away just as we step out of the tunnel and into the next room—darker, quieter. The ceiling disappears here, and everything shifts into something slower, softer.

Jellyfish.

They float behind tall glass in pulsing clouds, their translucent bodies glowing in gentle waves of lavender, blue, and pale gold. No sound but the hum of the tank filters and the occasional shuffle of other visitors. It feels reverent, almost sacred. Like we’ve walked into a cathedral of light.

Maddie presses her hands to the glass, whispering, “Whoa…” like it’s too beautiful to speak at full volume.

Y/N moves beside her, close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I just… tried.

“They look like ghosts,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

I nod. “Jellyfish don’t have a brain, or a heart. They don’t even swim the way most creatures do. They just… drift. Glow. Survive.”

I step a little closer to the tank, my voice quiet, instinctive.

“These are moon jellies. One of the most common jellyfish species. Fun fact: they’re made up of about ninety-eight percent water.”

Maddie’s nose is nearly pressed to the glass now, her breath fogging a little circle in front of her.

“They’re glowing,” Y/n whispers, enchanted.

“Uh—well, approximately fifty percent of jellyfish species are bioluminescent,” I explain, slipping into that space I always go to when I’m overwhelmed—when things feel too big, too good, too close. “Bioluminescence means they can produce light through a chemical reaction within their bodies. Usually as a defense mechanism. Or as a lure.”

Y/N looks at me again. Not like I’m talking too much. Not like I’m a museum guide she didn’t ask for. She just listens. Really listens.

Like maybe I’m glowing, too.

“That’s really beautiful,” she murmurs, eyes still fixed on the drifting jellyfish.

I nod, then shake my head. “I think it’s sad.”

She glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Sad?”

“Not the bioluminescence,” I clarify. “That part’s… amazing. But the rest of it? They just float. All day, every day. No brain, no heart. No real control. They just go wherever the water takes them.”

She tilts her head, thinking. “I don’t know… I think that sounds kind of peaceful.”

I blink. “Peaceful?”

“Yeah.” She smiles softly. “They don’t fight the current. They’re not in a rush to get anywhere. They’re just… being. Existing. And still glowing while they do it. I think that’s kind of beautiful.”

I look back at the tank, watching the jellyfish pulse through the water like slow, weightless thoughts.

“To me, it feels more like surviving than living,” I admit. “No direction, no agency. Just drifting because there’s no other choice.”

She hums under her breath, not disagreeing—just considering. “Maybe. But I think there’s something kind of bold about existing quietly. About not needing to fight all the time to be worth looking at.”

That catches me off guard. Her voice. Her certainty. The idea that softness could be brave.

I glance at her again, really look.

“I never would’ve thought of it like that.”

She shrugs, a little shy now. “Well, you tend to think too logically,”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… probably the nicest way anyone’s ever called me rigid.”

She laughs. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just… you see the world like a pattern to be solved. I don’t. I think some things are meant to be felt, not figured out.”

I want to disagree. Reflexively. Defensively. But I don’t.

Because she’s right.

And because I like the way she says it—not like a criticism, but like an invitation. To loosen. To soften. To wonder, instead of always needing to understand.

“I like that about you,” I say, surprising even myself. “That you don’t need everything to make sense.”

She looks over, smile still tugging at her lips, and for a moment neither of us says anything.

Then, without a word, she reaches down and takes my hand.

It’s not dramatic. Not a grand declaration. Just her fingers sliding between mine like they’ve always belonged there.

But it stops something in me—stills it. That buzzing under my skin, the constant thrum of needing to prove myself or protect something or pull away before I get hurt.

I don’t pull away.

I squeeze, just a little. She squeezes back.

And we stand there like that, quiet in the glow of drifting ghosts, different in all the ways that matter, and maybe for the first time…

not drifting alone.

“Maddie, you can’t take your shark with you to the bathroom, honey. Put it on the bed.”

She pouts from the hallway, cradling the plush like it’s a living thing. “But he’s scared without me.”

I arch a brow. “He’ll be fine for two minutes. I promise.”

With great dramatic flair, she sighs and gives the shark a little pat on the head before placing it gently on the bed—like she’s tucking him in.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers to it.

Spencer chuckles softly from behind me, and I swear I can feel the sound in my spine.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing by the bookshelf, holding the jellyfish I picked out for myself at the gift shop—turning it over in his hands like he’s still trying to figure out why I chose it.

I’m not sure I could explain it to him even if he asked.

I just liked it.

The softness. The quiet glow.

Maybe I liked that it reminded me of something sad, but still beautiful.

Maybe I liked that he looked sad sometimes, and still beautiful too.

“I never said thank you,” I say, gently breaking the silence between us.

He looks up from the jellyfish, brows knitting together in that soft, confused way he does when he's unsure if I’m being serious.

“For what?”

“The other day,” I say, turning back toward the kitchen to busy my hands with the mugs on the counter. “When you came over to take care of little old sick me.”

“Oh,” he says, like he forgot. But I know he didn’t. “I think you did.”

“I didn’t…” I pause, fingers curling gently around the ceramic. “Thank you, Spence.”

I turn to face him, letting the words settle between us. “And thank you for today.”

He shifts slightly, still holding the jellyfish plush in both hands like it might float away if he lets go. His eyes flick to mine, then away.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, soft. Almost shy. “I wanted to be there.”

“I know,” I nod, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”

Something about that seems to catch him off guard—like he doesn’t quite know what to do with being appreciated so directly. Like he’s used to doing the caring, but not receiving the gratitude.

We just stand there for a moment. The kitchen feels smaller than it did before. Warmer. Like the quiet is holding both of us gently in place.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else—something important—but then:

The toilet flushes.

And just like that, the moment drifts.

“Mama, Can you tuck me in?” Maddie yells from the bathroom like it’s a code red.

I exhale a soft laugh through my nose, glancing toward the hallway. “One second, baby!”

I just touch his arm lightly as I pass, and say, “Come on. Help me tuck her in.”

He follows without a word, quiet footsteps padding behind me down the hall to Maddie’s room. The light’s low, casting everything in a soft golden haze. Her little shark plush is clutched tight in her arms, its face squished into her cheek like it’s part of her now.

When she sees us, she lights up—eyes still heavy with sleep, but joy unmistakable. “Spencer,” she whispers, like it’s a secret just for him. “Did you see my shark? His name is Thunder.”

“Thunder,” he repeats, crouching beside the bed with a smile so gentle I feel it behind my ribs. “That’s a very serious name for such a squishy guy.”

“He’s fierce,” she explains, yawning mid-sentence, “and cuddly.”

“That’s a powerful combination,” he says, and somehow I don’t think he’s just talking about the stuffed animal.

I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a curl away from her forehead. “Okay, cuddly girl. Eyes closed.”

“But Spencer has to say goodnight.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He leans in close, voice a quiet warmth. “Goodnight, Maddie. Sweet dreams.”

She reaches out and touches his wrist, fingers barely grazing his skin.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

It’s soft. Sleepy. But it cuts right through the air.

Spencer stills. His eyes meet mine.

There’s a question hanging there.

So I answer it for him. For both of us.

“We don’t know, baby,” I whisper, tucking the blanket higher up her chest. “But he’ll see you really soon.”

She nods, eyelids drooping. “Okay. goodnight, Thunder. goodnight, Mommy. goodnight, Spence.”

Her voice fades with the last syllable.

And then she’s gone—drifting into sleep like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

We don’t move for a moment.

Just watch her breathing, soft and even, arms still wrapped around her ridiculous plush shark.

I reach for the nightlight and click it on. The room floods with a soft blue, and gentle stars all over the walls.

We step out into the hallway together.

And this time, when I close the door, I swear the whole world hushes behind it.

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s thick with something neither of us names. That almost-conversation still lingers between us—unspoken, but fully present, like the echo of a song that never finished.

Spencer exhales quietly beside me. His hands are in his pockets now, shoulders just slightly hunched like he’s unsure what to do with all this softness.

“She really wanted me to stay,” he says, voice low.

“I really want you to stay,” I say before I can second-guess it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.

He looks at me like I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

Not because he didn’t want to hear it. But because he didn’t expect to. Like it never even occurred to him that he could be wanted that plainly.

I don’t fill the silence. I let it sit there—between us, warm and steady. An open door instead of a question.

“I…” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.” My voice is steady, but soft. “You’ve stayed before. Remember pizza night? It’s no different.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust the moment yet.

“Pizza night was different,” he says. “There was a movie playing. Maddie kept falling asleep on my shoulder. I was fell asleep too… It would’ve been really difficult for me to mess that up…”

I should tell him it’s not different. I should say that he couldn’t mess this up even if he tried. But instead I just look at him—at the hands in his pockets, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for rejection he hasn’t even been offered.

And I feel it rise in my chest like a tide I can’t hold back.

I want him to stay.

Not just for Maddie. Not just for the comfort of a third mug on the table or a voice reading bedtime stories.

I want him to stay because I ache for the feeling of his hands on my waist again—gentle, tentative, like he’s afraid I might break if he holds too tight. Because I’ve replayed the sound of his laugh from the other side of my couch more times than I want to admit. Because every night I lie in bed and imagine what it would be like to fall asleep with my head on his chest and his voice humming low against my ear—not reading, just being.

I want him to stay because when he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet. Too hollow. Like something essential walked out with him.

And I know what it’s like to be left. I know how to survive that.

But I don’t want to survive tonight.

I want to feel something.

I want to feel him.

My throat tightens. My fingers curl slightly at my sides. And when I speak, my voice is low and aching and raw.

“Please… stay with me.”

Spencer just stands there, frozen like he’s trying to convince himself he heard me right.

For a moment, he says nothing.

But his eyes—God, his eyes. They look at me like I just handed him something precious. Something he's not sure he deserves to hold.

And then he whispers, “You mean... tonight?”

His voice cracks on the last word.

I nod. It’s all I can manage.

He swallows hard. His hands leave his pockets, hovering slightly at his sides like they don’t know what they’re allowed to do.

“I don’t want to misread this,” he says quietly, “I’ve been wrong before. And if I get this wrong with you…”

“You’re not wrong,” I cut in, stepping closer. “You’re the only thing that’s felt right in a long time.”

His breath stutters.

“I keep thinking about your hands,” I admit, voice barely a whisper now. “On my waist. How they felt like... I mean, it was just for a moment, to help me up when I fell the other night… but… it was like something I didn’t know I was starving for.”

He closes his eyes like it physically hurts to hear that. When he opens them, they’re shining.

“I think about falling asleep on your chest,” I go on. “Not even for anything more. Just… to be held. To stay.”

For a second, I think he might cry.

But instead, he closes the space between us and brings one shaking hand to my cheek—light, like a question. His thumb brushes just under my eye.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” he breathes.

And then, finally—finally—he kisses me.

Not like he’s been waiting.

Like he’s been holding his breath for years.

He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

Like the moment his lips touch mine, everything fragile between us might crack open—so he starts gently. Reverently. Just a brush, feather-light, barely pressure at all. Testing. Asking.

I answer by leaning in.

My hands slide up his chest, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his shirt—like he’s holding himself together with sheer will. His heart is pounding. I can feel it in the space where our bodies almost touch. Not quite. Not yet.

The second kiss is deeper. He tilts his head slightly, adjusting, learning me like I’m something to be studied. There’s a kind of hesitance in him—his lips move with patience, like he’s trying not to ask for too much. But I can feel the ache beneath it. The hunger he’s too polite to let loose.

When my fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders, I feel his breath hitch.

That’s when he lets go.

His hands find my waist, slow at first, then firmer—still careful, always careful, but no longer afraid. His thumbs press into my sides like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still half-convinced this isn’t real.

I press closer, and that’s all it takes for something to shift.

He exhales into my mouth, the kind of sound people only make when they’ve been carrying silence too long. His lips part. Mine follow. The kiss deepens, warm and slow and wanting.

He kisses like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.

And I kiss him like I’ve already decided I’ll never let that happen.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frenzied. It’s tender. Intimate. Two people discovering, not devouring. His nose brushes mine. One of his hands slides up, fingers threading into my hair. And when I sigh against his mouth—soft, involuntary—he pulls me just the slightest bit closer.

Because he needs to know I’m real.

And I am. I’m here.

We both are.

When we finally pull apart, it’s not dramatic. There’s no gasp for air, no cinematic swell of music in the background. Just… quiet.

His hands linger on my waist. Mine on his shoulders. We’re close, still, like we’re not quite ready to let go yet.

And we just look at each other.

Really look.

His lips are a little pink from kissing. His eyes—God, his eyes—search mine like he’s still trying to figure out if this really just happened. If I meant it. If he gets to keep it.

I don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But something shifts between us—like the air just got warmer. Lighter. Less afraid.

Then, like we’re on the exact same wavelength, we both let out these little half-laughs at the same time. Not loud, not nervous. Just… soft. Disbelieving.

A beat passes.

“I’m probably a terrible kisser,” he says, deadpan, almost embarrassed.

I snort. “You’re the worst,” I tease, grinning now. “Absolutely terrible. I barely survived.”

His smile breaks through slow and stunned, like it’s climbing out of a place he forgot existed.

“…you’re a great kisser, Spence.”

“You mean that?” he asks quietly.

I nod, still smiling, but it’s softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

He breathes out through his nose, almost laughing, but I see the shift in him—like the compliment settled somewhere deep, somewhere that’s been starved for that kind of gentleness.

“You know,” he says, eyes flicking down for a second, voice suddenly a little shy, “I can probably count the number of people I’ve kissed with just one hand.”

There’s no bitterness in it. No pity. Just fact.

Honest and raw.

I don’t tease him. Don’t make light of it. I just watch him, and I see the flicker of vulnerability behind his glasses—like he’s bracing himself for me to pull away.

Instead, I step closer, until our fingers brush again.

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t good at it,” I say, quiet but certain.

His breath catches.

And then, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t know how badly I wanted it to be you I was kissing… until I was actually kissing you.”

I feel my heart twist in the best possible way.

“So,” I whisper, smile tugging at my lips again, “you gonna make me guess how many it was, or…?”

His cheeks flush.

“Less than five,” he says. “More than one.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Very specific.”

“It’s a statistic,” he deadpans, but he’s smiling again—soft and lopsided and completely unguarded.

And God, I want to kiss him again.

“I really want to kiss you again,” I admit, quiet but sure.

His eyes flick to mine, startled for a second like he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud.

Then he exhales—relieved, maybe. Or maybe just undone.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it twice to believe it.

“Yeah.”

We’re so close now I can feel the warmth of his breath, the tiny pull in the space between us like gravity’s getting tired of being subtle.

“Okay,” he says, softer than before.

And I lean in.

This kiss is different.

It’s not hesitant like the first, or breathless like the second. It’s slower. More certain. Like we’re settling into something. Like we’re giving ourselves permission.

His hands slide around my waist again, more sure this time. My fingers find the back of his neck, and when I sigh into him, I feel his whole body soften in response—like he’s been waiting to exhale.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

It’s just him and me.

Wanting the same thing at the same time.

And this time, we don’t stop just because the moment ends.

We let it stretch.

Until—thunk.

We both jerk back at the same time, foreheads colliding in a soft but unmistakable headbutt.

“Ow—shit, sorry!” he blurts, one hand flying up to his forehead.

“Oh my God—Spence!” I’m already laughing, covering my mouth with both hands as I double over slightly.

He winces, blinking like he’s making sure he didn’t give himself a concussion. “Wow. That was… that was supposed to be a kiss.”

“Yeah?” I tease, breathless from laughing. “Because it felt a lot like a full-contact sport.”

He groans. “I swear I have decent coordination in literally every other area of my life.”

I step forward, still grinning, resting my hands lightly on his chest. “You okay?”

“I’ll live,” he mutters, cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, looking so adorably flustered I want to kiss him even more.

And somehow, that makes it even sweeter.

Because it’s not perfect.

It’s real.

And it’s us.

Two dorks, breathless in a hallway, trying not to fall too hard—and failing beautifully.

“C’mon,” I say, grinning as I reach for his hand. “You’re finally gonna get to see my bedroom.”

He blinks at me like I’ve just offered him access to a top-secret vault.

“Is this... a trap?” he deadpans.

I laugh, tugging him gently down the hall. “Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Reid. You’re getting clean sheets and maybe a spare pillow, not a grand seduction.”

He follows, and I feel the hesitation melt from his grip. He’s still blushing a little—still stunned from the kiss and the headbutt and the fact that this is actually happening—but his hand in mine feels like a promise.

“I mean, I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says as we reach the doorway. “I’m just happy I got invited past the living room.”

“Yeah, well,” I murmur, glancing at him over my shoulder, “I think you’ve earned it.”

I open the door, flick on the bedside lamp. The light is warm. The bed’s a little messy. There’s a book on the nightstand and a hoodie draped over the footboard.

“I think I have some pajamas that can fit you nicely,” I say, heading toward the dresser.

Spencer pauses just inside the doorway, eyes trailing over the room like he’s trying to catalog every detail—like this, too, might be something he’ll want to remember.

“Pajamas, huh?” he says, brow lifting. “You have a stash for emotionally repressed men who show up in button-downs and sweater vests?”

I laugh, pulling open the drawer. “Actually, I have a stash for when emotionally repressed men finally decide to stay the night instead of running off after one kiss.”

He has the decency to look sheepish at that. “Sorry.”

"Don't apologize," I toss him a folded pair of soft, plaid sleep pants and one of my old T-shirts. It’s worn-in and slightly faded—navy, with a little white constellation graphic on the chest.

He catches it, holds it up like it might be holy. “Is this… yours?”

“Technically. But don’t worry, it’s seen many nights of existential crisis and leftover takeout. You’ll be in good company.”

He smiles at that. A real one. Small but bright, like he’s letting himself believe this is okay. That he’s okay here.

“I’ll change in the bathroom,” he says, still holding the shirt like it means more than it probably should.

And maybe it does.

Because tonight isn’t just about staying.

It’s about being welcomed.

“Yeah,” I say, backing toward my dresser, already tugging off my top layer. “I’ll change here, so don’t come out until I tell you.”

His eyes widen slightly, like his brain short-circuited at the implication, even though I’m halfway in pajama mode and he knows it.

He nods a little too quickly. “Right. Okay. I’ll just—bathroom.”

And then he’s gone, vanishing down the hall like he’s fleeing a high-stakes negotiation. I bite my lip, smiling to myself as I change into my softest sleep shirt—one that hits mid-thigh and smells like fabric softener and familiarity.

When I hear the door click shut behind him, I pause for a second—looking at my bed, now made for two.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel too big anymore.

“Okay, you can come out,” I call, voice light but a little breathless.

A few seconds later, the door opens. Spencer reenters the room wearing the constellation shirt and the plaid sleep pants—and looking every bit like he belongs in both.

And maybe, just maybe, here.

With me.

“Wow…” I chuckle at the sight of him, eyes trailing from tousled curls down to the constellation on his chest. “You look great.”

He shifts awkwardly in the doorway, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “It’s a little short.”

“It’s perfect,” I grin, stepping closer, tilting my head as I take him in. “You look like someone who drinks tea and stares out windows and has devastating thoughts about the moon.”

“I do have devastating thoughts about the moon,” he replies, almost defensively.

I snort. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s blushing now. Fully. And the way he looks at me—it’s not shy anymore. It’s open. Still a little uncertain, but undeniably present.

Like he wants this.

Like he wants me.

I walk past him to turn down the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of how intimate this all is—sharing a room, a bed, a night.

“You can take the side closest to the door if you want,” I offer, fluffing one of the pillows. “Just in case you need a fast escape.”

He laughs under his breath, stepping toward the opposite side. “Very funny.”

We climb in at the same time. Careful. Slow. Our movements quiet in the low light, like we’re both waiting for this to feel strange.

But it doesn’t.

It feels… calm.

Undeniably right.

The sheets are cool against my legs, the room quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling floorboards. He lies beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

I turn onto my side, facing him. He’s lying on his back, hands folded neatly on his stomach like he’s trying not to take up too much space.

“You always this tense when you sleep over at someone’s place?” I tease gently.

He glances at me, lips twitching. “You say that like it happens often.”

“You mean to tell me this isn’t a regular Thursday night for you?”

“No,” he says, voice dry but soft. “This is… new.”

“Yeah.” I nod, smiling. “It is.”

We go quiet again. It’s not awkward—it’s full. Like the silence has shape. Weight.

My fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket. I don’t know how long I lie there, watching him in the dark—his profile soft, his breathing steady—but at some point, the thought becomes undeniable.

I want to kiss him again.

God, I really want to kiss him again.

Not because I need to. Not because it would make the night more romantic or meaningful. But because I can.

Because he’s here, in my bed, and the way he’s looking at me like I hung the stars on his borrowed shirt makes my heart thrum in my throat.

We lie there, a few inches of space and a whole ocean of awareness between us. The sheets rustle gently when he shifts, turning onto his side to face me.

“I read once that people sleep better next to someone they trust,” he murmurs, voice low and a little hoarse from the hour. “It has to do with cortisol levels and body temperature regulation—there’s this study from 2018 where they tracked heart rate synchronization between couples sharing a bed, and apparently—”

I kiss him.

No warning.

No pause.

Just—him.

Soft and talking and warm and trying to science his way through something so achingly human, and I just can’t help it.

My hand slides across the sheets to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek as I press my mouth to his—slow, certain, reverent.

He goes still, for half a second.

Then exhales into the kiss like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night.

His hand comes up, fingers finding my waist under the blanket, tentative but grounding.

He kisses me back like he’s still catching up to the idea that this is real—but he’s trying. And the trying is what undoes me.

When I finally pull back, just a fraction, his eyes flutter open.

“…sorry,” he breathes.

I blink. “For what?”

“I was talking about cortisol.”

I grin, still close enough to feel the ghost of his breath on my lips. “You can talk about anything and everything… Just know, every time you start your little rambles, I get this huge urge to kiss you.”

His eyes widen, like I just flipped the stars inside him upside down.

“You do?” he asks, voice caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to wonder.

I nod, still smiling. “It’s endearing. And hot. But mostly endearing.”

He makes a strangled little sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well,” I murmur, my fingers tracing slow circles against the fabric at his side, “get used to it.”

His hand slides to rest over mine, warm and steady. And for once, he doesn’t ramble. He just looks at me like he feels every word I haven’t said yet.

And when he kisses me this time, it’s slower.

There’s no rush in it—just warmth, just care. His lips press to mine with a kind of quiet awe, like he’s still a little surprised I’m letting him. Like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment in case he never gets another.

His hand slides from over mine to my waist, fingers splaying gently, like he’s reminding himself I’m real. I lean into him, let him pull me a little closer across the sheets. Our legs brush. Our noses bump again—barely—but this time we both smile into it.

Previous Chapter |

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lynnimini · 15 hours ago

Text

₊⊹ 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 ₊⊹

description: red string au ⋆ fluff ⋆ minor angst ⋆ hurt/comfort

in which two people are intertwined by fate, together and perfect by choice

pairings: k. woonhak x gn!reader

words: 2.9k

warnings: angst if you squint really hard

tags: @onedoornet @blossomnet

roommates: @nineooooo

───────────୨ৎ───────────

“mama? what’s this thing stuck to me?”

“that’s your red string. it’ll lead you to your soulmate someday and then you’ll get married y/n!”

“red string? it’s so long, how will i ever find my soulmate?”

“it might take a long time, but i know you’ll find them if you believe it! if you met them immediately, you’d be really lucky!”

“well then i’m gonna be lucky and i’m gonna find them right now!”

that conversation was when you were five years old, and you still haven’t found your soulmate.

“aww, cheer up y/n! just imagine, what if your soulmate is one of our classmates this time? at least you know they go here!”

you glanced up at moka’s bright face as she tried her best to cheer you up.

“i really hope i find them this year. i don’t wanna be going crazy searching for them throughout university where we’re probably even further apart”

you groaned as you buried your face in your hands, the minor session of self wallowing cut short by the teacher walking in and insisting everyone take their seats.

it was all the same stuff as last year. new people, new seats, and cliche fun facts that were probably reused from the last year.

you halfheartedly clapped after everyone’s introductions, mostly zoning out while staring at the back of your other friend, jaehyun’s, head.

“i’m woonhak, and i don’t believe in following the red string!”

that caught your attention fast.

when the teacher asked him to elaborate, he simply said,

“i think i should be able to settle with anyone as long as we’re happy. the red string doesn’t matter much to me”

you looked at the boy who was facing the teacher, his confident posture conveying his beliefs loud and clear before he slumped down in his chair again.

you didn’t miss the way the red string insistently pointed in the boy’s direction, weakly pulling you towards him. in other words, your string tied you to none other than kim woonhak.

your soulmate happened to be the boy who didn’t even believe in following the red string.

great.

just great.

that night you tossed and turned in your bed, just thinking about what to do now. you’d dreamed of meeting your soulmate for years, but never imagined he’d have no interest in you. not to mention that you actually had never thought of what to do once you actually met.

“guys he’s cute but he doesn’t even care about soulmates. what if he doesn’t like me because our strings are connected”

you ranted over the phone to moka and jaehyun, who were both brainstorming ways for you to sway woonhak into falling for you.

“y/n, you guys are connected for a reason. no matter what i’m pretty sure your guys’ fates can’t be avoided”

moka said convincingly as jaehyun nodded in agreement. you chewed on your hoodie strings out of pure nerves. what if woonhak chose to reject fate itself? your soulmate was so close but so far at the same time. you couldn’t afford to lose this chance.

you couldn’t even take your eyes off woonhak the next day. he was just scrolling through something on his phone and eating lunch by himself, seemingly unbothered in his own little world.

“just go up to him. say hi or something”

“no- jaehyun that’s awkward! wait-“

jaehyun ignored your cries and pushed you towards woonhak. you immediately hid your hand behind your back, hopeful that woonhak wouldn’t notice where his string led in the mess of strings across the classroom.

“hi woonhak..”

you said hesitantly, waving awkwardly with the hand with no string attached.

“hey, y/n right? what’s up?”

he flashed a bright smile, thankfully not noticing your slightly panicked behavior.

“just wanted to say hi, you know, since i haven’t had a class with you before and i don’t think we’ve met”

you scratched your head awkwardly as you prayed the conversation would end fast without issue.

woonhak furrowed his brow and looked at you with familiarity written all over his face.

“i just moved here so you wouldn’t have seen me last year, but i think i live down the street from you, right?”

he smiled after the realization hit and your eyes widened, vaguely remembering how you hid in your room and looked out your bedroom window when the boy and his mom came to introduce themselves.

that was when you should’ve noticed your connection, but you were too busy being socially awkward to notice the faint tugging of your string.

“did i hear you say you just moved here?”

jaehyun slung an arm around your shoulders to which you threw his arm off and stuck your tongue out at him. all while woonhak laughed at your guys’ antics and moka apologized.

“yeah this is my first year going to school in this area”

jaehyun pretended to think for a moment before giving you a subtle wink and saying,

“why don’t you hang out with us then? we’ll show you around”

woonhak looked surprised, expression shifting to happiness after processing jaehyun’s proposal.

“yeah? that’d be cool. where we going first?”

woonhak sprang up and the four of you set off to go show woonhak around the school.

“…and this is our favorite spot to go whenever we want to get away. moka’s in the astronomy club so she always has the rooftop keys”

you smiled proudly as moka waved the keys that were dangling from her finger.

“it’s so calm up here”

woonhak peered down at the school garden in awe, breeze swaying his hair to the side as tried his best to keep it down.

“it really is. i love coming up here when i feel like i’m lost in my head”

you said brightly, soft undertones shining through your eyes and revealing a more delicate aspect of your admission as you walked to stand next to the boy.

you, too, were holding your hair down single handedly while giggling about the sudden gusts of wind blowing wildly at you four.

so you didn’t see the way woonhak looked at you with a slight sense of longing, his heart empathizing with your admission.

“do you come here often?”

he asked hesitantly, to which you looked up at him and nodded with a tender smile.

“more often than i’d like to admit, but i do”

you sighed softly before turning around upon hearing moka’s shouts.

“come on! lunch is ending soon you guys”

moka called from the rooftop door, to which you smiled brightly at woonhak, shifting the softer mood into a mischievous one before running to moka, daring woonhak to catch up.

and he ran with you, with moka and jaehyun following from behind bearing knowing, yet sad expressions upon seeing the way you kept hiding your hand in your sleeve.

“hey y/n, wanna walk home together?”

woonhak came bouncing up to your desk after the last bell had rung for the day, sitting next to you while you packed your stuff up.

“yeah just give me a second. i gotta talk to jae and moka real quick”

you gave him an apologetic smile while he gave you a reassuring thumbs up, watching you make your way over to the pair.

“are you insane? i’ve been going this entire day managing with one hand”

you whispered frustratedly at the two of them who looked at each other and sighed.

“y/n just show him your string. he seems like a nice guy. i don’t think he would purposely ignore you out of some soulmate rebellion”

moka reassured while you still looked nervous.

“he seems to really like you anyways~”

jaehyun whispered teasingly while wiggling his eyebrows at you. you groaned and just bid them goodbye before walking back to a waiting woonhak.

“ready to go?”

he stood up and you nodded, slinging your bag over your shoulder before heading down to the school gate.

“sooo how do you like it here?”

you tried your best at making small talk to which woonhak smirked at the awkward attempt, but humored you all the same,

“it’s nice. much more peaceful than my other school. and the people seem really friendly”

you hummed in acknowledgement, looking down at your shoes as you kicked a rock along the way to your guys’ neighborhood.

“got any hobbies?”

woonhak thought for a moment, answering with slight hesitance in his voice.

“yeah, i like songwriting”

you looked up at woonhak in surprise, the energetic boy not seeming like the type of person to sit down and write songs.

“really?”

“yeah! wanna listen to this song i wrote?”

woonhak said with enthusiasm, gaging your reaction and offering one of his earbuds to you after sensing you wouldn’t judge him.

“this is so beautiful”

you whispered while looking over at woonhak, who was now sitting beside you on your doorstep as you two listened together.

it was purely peaceful. the soft love song contrasted woonhak’s outward energetic behavior towards everyone else. it felt intimate in the sense that woonhak was able to trust you almost immediately with his passion, revealing another part of him to you.

“i like writing love songs. they make my songs feel whole in a way, more emotional”

he admitted as you looked at him, who was staring off into the horizon absentmindedly.

“have you ever been in love woonhak?”

you blurted out without thinking, internally regretting the question.

“no. most people are caught up in trying to find their soulmate, so i’ve never been able to love someone”

he said with a somewhat melancholic tone, standing up abruptly before you could ask him any more questions.

“i have to get home now, but i’ll see you tomorrow y/n”

he stood up with a bright smile, pretending as if the ambiguous tone didn’t exist before waving and heading off.

still, the lingering intensity remained and continued for the duration of your walks home together.

for months, the days went by similarly without much change. you, woonhak, jaehyun, and moka would hang out at school, you’d walk home with woonhak, and one of you would make an excuse to leave before the tension got to be too much. never explained, never addressed. it just lingered under the fading sun.

“today’s the day y/n will finally confess to woonhak”

jaehyun declared while moka cheered in the background, you quickly looking around the classroom and sighing in relief that woonhak hadn’t arrived yet.

“you say that every day and it hasn’t come true”

you scoffed as jaehyun waved your claim away.

“i can feel it this time”

jaehyun wiggled his fingers in the air as if he was some magical being while you rolled your eyes at him.

“it won’t!”

and you were right up until the end of the school day. right before you and woonhak were about to leave.

“watch out y/n!”

a classmate shouted from the doorway and you turned to see a soccer ball flying towards your face, instinctively catching it with both hands.

your face fell upon realizing that your string was no longer covered by anything, just hanging out in the open.

and it would have been okay had woonhak had been anywhere other than next to you.

you dropped the ball, looking at woonhak with a panicked expression once you noticed him staring at the thin string on your pinky finger, watching waves of realization crash over his face.

“i.. gotta go”

“y/n, wait-“

you ran off before even listening to what woonhak had to say, tears welling up in your eyes as you ran up the stairs towards the rooftop.

your body felt numb from sheer exhaustion and emotional turmoil, collapsing in the corner of the rooftop in a ball to just cry at the thought of losing your soulmate. the boy who probably wouldn’t want you after seeing your forced ties.

you shifted your body away from the door as you heard the click of the door opening and closing, correctly predicting that woonhak was the culprit.

“hey, y/n? can you look at me?”

woonhak’s hand gently landed on your shoulder, patiently waiting for you to look at him.

and when you did, woonhak felt like his heart broke into pieces.

your eyes were sad and glistening with regret, cheeks stained with tear tracks that were smudged from you wiping them away.

“why are you crying?”

he softly asked, thumbing away any tears falling down your cheeks, patiently waiting for you to be ready.

“because i’m your soulmate woonhak. and you don’t believe in soulmates but there’s been this weird atmosphere between us and i want to be yours so bad but we’re tied together and there’s nothing i can do about it but hope you change your mind and love me too”

you choked out as coherently as you could, breathing shakily. woonhak dropped his gaze down to his lap before bringing his eyes back to you.

“can i tell you a story?”

you looked at him, puzzled by the timing and the question before hesitantly nodding.

“when i was a kid, my parents taught me about why we all have strings on our fingers. they showed me too. they were such a perfect match, a good example of why people have soulmates”

woonhak sighed softly before continuing,

“then my dad cheated on my mom. his supposed ‘soulmate’. and that’s the moment i stopped believing in the notion that the red string itself can bring me happiness”

he finished before glancing at you, who had stopped crying and was now fully engaged in his story.

your hand with the string, which clutched your sleeve tightly, was gently pried and prodded at by woonhak’s own.

he engulfed your smaller hand in his, red string intertwining around your wrists.

“i believe that we were tied together because we are soulmates, not the other way around. we’re not magically soulmates because a stupid string said so. we’re made for each other because we’re simply us, and the string just helped me find you”

woonhak adjusted both your hands, now intertwining your pinkies to symbolize a promise, something unbreakable between you two.

“i do believe in soulmates, and i know you’re mine and that i love you more than words could say y/n”

another, singular tear fell from your eye. not out of sadness this time, but out of sheer love for the boy you’ve been tiptoeing around for so long.

he cupped your face with his palm, wiping away the tear as he leaned his forehead against yours.

“knew you were my soulmate from the day we met, even if i didn’t realize our strings were connected immediately. see, we didn’t even need ‘em. i just needed you”

woonhak let out a small, sheepish laugh as you finally cracked a smile for the first time on that rooftop.

“hey, look at me?”

you tilted your head slightly, eyes widening upon feeling woonhak’s lips press against yours.

the kiss was soft, slow, and a little clumsy. it was filled with all the emotions neither of you had the will to express for so long, all finally coming to light.

after a minute, woonhak pulled away, letting you both catch your breath while he leaned his forehead against yours once again, smiling widely with the newfound relationship between you two.

it was poetic really. it was right there in plain sight, the biggest indicator that you two were made to be together tied right between your fingers. and yet you still danced around each other just because you wanted to be sure of the person you wanted to spend the rest of your lives with.

and now, more than ever, you were.

“see? knew you were made to be mine”

#onedoornet #blossomnet #boynextdoor #bnd #bnd x reader #boynextdoor x reader #kim woonhak #myung jaehyun #bnd woonhak fluff #bnd woonhak #kim woonhak x reader #woonhak x reader #boynextdoor woonhak #woonhak

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sir3n-s · 8 hours ago

Text

Summer school

@steddiebingo | Splash into summer event prompt: summer school| Gen | 641 words

Eddie was stuck in summer school, again. Because he failed math, again.

And he was sitting in the library doing his work alone, trying not to make too much sound because the lady watching all the summer school kids had already shushed him twice for his loud huffing.

He looks around to see if there was a way he could sneak out without getting caught, but instead, he spots Steve Harrington sitting alone with papers closed to his face and his eyes squinting so hard it must hurt.

He could tell the guy needed help with whatever he was reading. Eddie tried to go back to finding an exit plan, but he couldn’t help glancing back at Steve every time he looked away.

“Do you need help?” Eddie asked before he even realized he had gotten up and made his way over to Steve’s table,” It looks like you’re struggling.”

Steve looked up at him,” I’m fine,” he said sternly before looking back down at his papers.

Eddie just sits down on the chair next to him. “It doesn’t seem like it, let me help you,” he says, grabbing Steve’s papers to see what he’s reading.

Steve doesn’t even put up a fight; he just scoots his chair closer to Eddie’s and allows him to help.

He soon figures out that Steve was probably dyslexic, with how he described his struggles with reading and spelling. Eddie knew how to help him since his younger cousin had the same problem.

They sit close to each other as Eddie quietly reads the passages to Steve and helps him write his answers to each question. They quickly get through Steve’s work and are done sooner than either of them expected.

“Thank you,” Steve says while putting his work away, “I didn’t know that was even a thing, but I’ll look into it,” he says with a smile.

“No problem,” Eddie grabs his work out of his backpack,” you don’t mind if I stay here and do my own work, right?”

Steve shakes his head,” Go ahead, I’ll keep you company.”

They continued to softly talk as Eddie tried to solve his math problems. Steve eventually leaned over to look at Eddie’s paper, “you’re doing that wrong,” he states.

“What?”

Steve points at his work,” You did it in the wrong order, so you got the wrong answer,” he explains.

“Does it need to be done in a certain order?” he asks, but the face Steve makes answers his question.

He lets Steve explain to him what he did wrong, he even lets him give him tips so he doesn’t mess up again,’ You’re really good.”

“Hm?”

“At math, you’re really good. How do you know how to do math from a grade higher than yours?”

Steve shrugs, “I enjoy math, I used to take honors classes before I joined the basketball team, but sometimes I check out a math book from the library,” he says it as if it’s something to be embarrassed about.

“Why did you stop taking honors classes?”

Steve sighs, “It’s embarrassing, the guys on the team would call me a nerd and tease me, so I stopped applying for the classes.” Eddie frowns, “It’s fine, I like sports more.”

“I think you should take whatever classes you want, even if they laugh at you. It’s not your fault their dumb,” Steve snorts.

“It might be my fault since I’ve accidentally thrown the ball at their heads a few times,” he jokes, and they both burst out laughing loud enough that the supervisor shushes them. Their laughter turns into hushed giggles.

The bell rings and the other kids start gathering their stuff, “Hey,” Steve says before Eddie gets up from the table, “do you mind helping me tomorrow? I’ll help you again in exchange?”

“You got yourself a deal.”

One more!!!

#steddiebingo2025 #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie

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xpulchritudinousx · 21 hours ago

Text

Family is a stamp of your love

Warnings: Family, very minor mentions of fertility issues and bullying, pregnancy.

Word Count: 1.3k

This is supposed to be a part of a series I'd planned with this fic, but it can also be a stand alone. I will mention that I really want to give a back story to the original fic, since most of my stories are little blurbs lol. Please enjoy :)

You’d always thought you’d done a pretty decent job at being a mom to your daughter Naomi—sure you were coddling at times, but you taught her to be kind. So how on earth did your sweet little girl end up being sent home with a paper telling you about her bad behavior?

Of course it made you feel like a horrible parent, especially when you found out why. “Could you do Naomi’s pickups for me?” The question had Katsuki freeze up, looking at you with furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes. “Did you hurt yourself?” He asked, moving to shift you around, hands feeling out your back for anything noticeable, before analyzing your face.

Katsuki didn’t mind you asking him to pick her up, he’d move countries for you if you asked. But he was worried when you asked “No, but-” Katsuki looked more confused, checking over your hands before looking you in the eyes.

“Your hands are dry and your eyes are puffy, what happened?” How did he even figure out something was wrong through that?

“You forget to do things when you’re upset.” He concludes, making you wonder if he had a second quirk or something that could make him read minds with how quick he was in this moment. “I’m okay, I’m just worried Naomi’s getting bullied because of me…”

That statement left Katsuki completely caught off guard, shooting up and looking at you with wide eyes, voice coming out more serious. “What?” Suddenly his nose was bumping against yours, looking furious at your words.

You just gulped nervously, looking at him with wide eyes as you lean back on the couch. “Things have just been weird, I don’t know. Maybe the moms at her school just all ended up being mean or something.” That didn’t reassure him at all, grumbling under his breath before petting your hair in comfort, pressing a kiss to your forehead before pulling back and calling Naomi loud enough to make you jump. She came over, looking completely distraught as she looked at her dad, worried she’d done something wrong. “Yes daddy?” The meekness of her little voice, smothered all anger your husband had.

Shoulders relaxing as he sighed, looking at her with an expression that just begged her to work with him on this. “Come here.” He simply says, waving her over to him, smiling just a bit when she climbs onto his lap, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“What’s been going on at your school?” He asks, looking at her with furrowed eyebrows, hands resting on her little shoulders. Not even bothering to hide his concern when she looks away for a second, looking back at him as she fiddles with her fingers.

“Some girls in my class keep calling mama fat, but I kept trying to tell them she was just pregnant.” Katsuki’s expression just completely fell, not expecting their five year old to be so emotional over the situation. Then again, there’s more to the story than what he’s being told.

Not noticing your expression being apologetic until you take Naomi out of his arms and hug her tight, smushing your cheek to the top of her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make things harder for you. But Naomi, you’re not supposed to put your hands on other people.”

The little girl looks down in shame, hands falling down to her lap as she nods, looking up to you as you settle her back onto your lap. “I know, I’m sorry.” That was enough for you to tear up a bit, smiling softly when she lets out a gasp and tries wiping them away, gently resting your hand over hers. Looking into her eyes lovingly as you reach to move her hair away from her face, running your thumb across her skin, tracing your fingers over until you cupped her cheek, watching her shoulders slump. “Why are you crying?” She whispers out, scared to somehow make it worse. That makes your heart melt, leaning closer to her face, pressing your forehead to hers. “I just don’t want you to be hurt. You’re the sweetest girl in the world, I know that. But don’t hurt anyone to protect me, okay?” Naomi nods quickly, her own tears forming on her face as she jumps up and wraps her arms around your neck.

Katsuki just watched, not sure how to handle things, before sighing, getting up and grabbing his phone. You and Naomi both look over to him in confusion, not sure what he was doing until he finally looks up from his phone. “I’m taking Naomi to school for once, I’m not dealing with this.” That was how he ended up marching through the daycare, just looking pissed as he followed his tiny little daughter through the halls as she toddled around with her little bucket hat on her head to protect her from the sun.

Giving everyone they passed a dirty look, especially a specific mom when Naomi gasped, not so subtly showing off her concern over him seeing the lady. Giving away everything he needed to know.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t do anything other than keep his eyes on her as he handed Naomi her little bag to hang at her cubby. Simply speaking to the teacher before looking back at the woman, doing what he does best, act petty.

Did he even do anything? No, he just psyched her out, he was very aware of how little bullying mattered to teachers, having been the bully at some point he knew they just stood by.

So he wouldn’t do anything, he’d just make sure to join you anytime you’d pick up your daughter from now on. Reminding anyone that had something to say that you weren’t just a hopeless moron, you were his hopeless moron. When he’d come back home he spent the whole time with you, building pillow forts and kissing away your problems. Letting you eat whatever you wanted even if it made him flinch a bit out of concern, not wanting to risk harming the baby when it’d been so much work for you guys to be able to have another.

But the way you looked enjoying yourself at the diner as you ate together made him too happy to even regret it. Grinning as you stuffed your face and rant about how much you missed specific deep fried foods, admitting his homemade versions were good, but the lack of grease just made it different.

Things were just so perfect in this moment, regardless of the weird comments some of the moms at Naomi’s kindergarten class had to share. “Could we get more? I kinda want noodles too.” The request left him amused, shaking his head with a sigh as he brought his hand to the top of your head. “Fine, as long as you don’t hurt your little tummy. I’m sure Naomi’d want some too anyways.” The sweet little look on your face made him grin watching you nod in agreement. Pausing with wide eyes before bringing a hand to your tummy, looking down to it with a grin. “She’s been kicking a lot.” The revelation made his eyes soften the smallest bit, looking around stiffly before bringing his hand to your stomach.

His heart racing when he feels it, looking at you with misty eyes. “I can’t believe it…” He muttered out, letting out a shuttered breath as he moved to your side. Hugging you tight without a care in the world, nearly smothering you into his chest out of the pure joy of being able to have this, not once but twice.

He could kiss you absolutely silly right now.

But first he needs to make sure you don't repeat what happened yesterday night. Pulling back to look down at you with a small frown on his lips, rolling his eyes with an amused scoff when you smile up at him sheepishly. "You're so stupid sometimes, you know that?"

The rhetorical question was left unanswered for a second, with him bringing his hands to hold your face and look down at you. As bewildered as you looked at the sudden insult—but you stayed quiet, looking up into his eyes with baited breath as you waited to hear the rest of what he had to say. Nothing could make him think low of you, but he didn't want you to keep things in. "I don't want to come home to you upset like that again. Next time something happens, you better tell me straight up, got it?"

A little annoyed groan leaves your lips as he pinches your cheeks in reprimand, laughing a bit at your reaction before hugging you again. Looking down to you as he rubs your back soothingly, already aware of how hard it was for you to verbalize your feelings.

"I'm serious, I know you go all quiet when you're upset. But you can't just cry by yourself, that shit's gonna get to you and you know it." As intimidating as your husband could come off as to others, he came off as just as sweet to you. Smiling up at him as your eyes flutter half lidded, looking absolutely lovesick, words coming out breathily in agreement. "Okay."

Katsuki never thought before he’d met you that he’d even care enough to start a family—something about loving someone whole heartedly, to the point where you're overflowing and have more than enough to give to another tiny person.

It never seemed like that to him before, with you touching his soul’s deepest crevices, not because you needed to be special or beyond imagination, but because you became special to him.

Being able to love the way he did now was one of the greatest gifts anyone’s ever given him and he’ll spend the rest of his life thanking you for it.

#katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki fluff #bakugo x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #fluff #drabble #one shot #Katsuki's such a family man to me tbh #he gets it from his mom lmaooo #starting a family with Katsuki <3 #im trying to learn how to use the em dash so watch it slowly become more common in my writing #if anyone has advice on using it properly pls lmk!#im trying to work on my writing skills so pls be patient with me :)

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yuutaok · 1 year ago

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I am trying to cope with life soooo hard I’ve gone back to school LOL

#in other words I’m taking classes again……………..#I started med microbio and immunology classes :’)#its funny bc at my uni as a biochem & molecular bio major they prioritized more of me learning a lot of lab techniques #like solely current lab techniques on how to identify and isolate proteins + biophysics + new modeling softwares that scientists use #they said human body who? we only give a fuck about proteins dna rna and metabolism #so it’s been so interesting learning more of other systems we completely ignored #I am so sad and deep in grief but at least my mind stimulated 😎

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always-a-slut-4-ghouls · 8 months ago

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I don’t get why people feel like the Duolingo owl is threatening, if I ever feel like he is I just get mad at him. I could fight an owl. I don’t know if I’d win, but I don’t think I’d lose (two things that can apparently coexist). I think I’d survive at least and that’s not really winning but also not losing.

You wanna be so threatening? Da bør du drepe meg!

#emma posts #I used google translate for help because they haven’t taught me the phrase ‘kill me’ yet #taught me the word for beer øle but not the more important words like ‘kill’#as far as I can tell everything else in that sentence checks out so I figured the translation was good enough #not sure if it’s in the right order or if you use better that way in Norwegian. but good enough for a tumblr flop post #Emma’s adventures in using Duolingo #I should honestly use that as a tag for it #I post enough venting about that app #until I find out if I’m dyslexic for sure and there’s a way to help that with other languages. I’m not going to pay for Babbel yet #Babbel has Icelandic lessons too I think and that is my final boss tbh #I’ve been going from easiest for English speakers to hardest as my plan #and it turns out that I forgot how much some of my issues affect learning new languages #last time I learned another language it was Spanish and I’m not fluent but I’ve had classes and been around it for so long #that i kinda forgot what it’s like to start from scratch #I didn’t start trying to learn Norwegian until I was 26 #or was it my 27th birthday? I could check my streak #I was like ‘psh. it will be harder with my disabilities. but I should be able to read. my top priority with this language’#and then I realized I had been somehow adapting to the other two languages since childhood and forgot how much I had to work around #I mean. I knew I was worse at language arts in school than I was in literature and writing. but still #I also already knew I was worse at making new sentences in other languages than I was figuring out ones that someone else made #but I thought that was just because I hadn’t used Spanish much for several years now #every time I try to re-learn Spanish it just ends up with me being able to figure out what someone said to me but not how to answer #if i brushed up on it again i could probably have a conversation with someone who understood English but better spoke Spanish #someone with the same problem as me but reversed language wise #please don’t take this as me saying I could currently have an entire conversation with someone speaking Spanish #I’m better than someone who never learned it and didn’t encounter it’s use a lot. but I really don’t think I could have a real conversation #not at the moment at least #I have been meaning to brush up on Spanish again too. there are at least real classes in my area for it and not just an app #the last time there were Norwegian classes around here my dad was in college and old people still spoke it #no one around here speaks it anymore

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i2sunric · 3 months ago

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𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌 (s.jy)

PAIRING: nerdy!jake x reader (f)

SUMMARY: well, it’s not your fault that your boyfriend is perfect, good at school, kind enough tutor you in math and so skilled in bed chem.

WARNINGS: smut. freshman college (they’re 19), jake lives with his parents, grinding, dirty talking, pet names (baby, jakey), manhandling, overstimulation, protected sex (wrap your willies guys), missionary, doggy, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 18th April 2025.

WC: 2.7k

TAGLIST: (permanent) TAGLIST: @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @slut4hee

Jake’s room smelled of books, fresh laundry, and that faint scent of cologne he always wore— clean, crisp. It smelled like home.

His desk was cluttered but organized in a way that made sense only to him: thick textbooks stacked neatly, a cup overflowing with pens and mechanical pencils, and his laptop open to what looked like an impossibly complicated physics simulation.

You, on the other hand, were sprawled across his bed, your maths textbook abandoned beside you as you dramatically flopped onto your stomach.

"Jake," you groaned, voice muffled against his pillow. "I’m going to fail this test, you have to accept that."

You thought that after high school, all you problems would be resolves. What you didn’t expect, though, was to be forced to take an extra curricular trigonometry lecture that made you want to smash your head against the wall.

Jake, who was sitting at his desk, barely looked up. "You’re not going to fail," he said. "You just need to focus."

"I have been focusing," you argued, rolling onto your back and stretching out like a starfish. "For, like, fifteen minutes."

"Exactly," he deadpanned, finally turning to look at you. "That’s not nearly enough."

You pouted. "But I hate math, it’s stupid and unnecessary. When am I ever going to need to find the limit of a function in real life?"

Jake sighed, closing his book with a quiet thump. "Math is everywhere," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, a habit of his that you found way too attractive. "It’s in physics, engineering, technology, everything that makes the world work."

You rolled your eyes, sitting up. "Okay, Professor Sim, but I don’t want to make the world work.” You scoffed, “i just want to pass this stupid class and never think about numbers again."

Jake gave you a pointed look. "And I want to make sure my girlfriend doesn’t flunk out of college."

You grinned, crawling off the bed and walking over to him. "Speaking of your genius brain," you murmured, sliding into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thighs as his chair rolled back slightly from the sudden weight. "How’s your project going?"

Jake tensed for half a second before exhaling, hands automatically settling on your waist to steady you.

"It’s going well," he said, though his voice was already shifting, lower, rougher. "But I’ll never finish it if you keep distracting me."

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "I’m just curious," you purred, looping your arms around his neck. "Tell me what you’re working on, baby."

Jake sighed, but you could see the way his lips twitched, like he knew exactly what you were doing and was helpless against it anyway.

"Fine," he said, adjusting his glasses again. "I’m designing a new type of microprocessor, something that can process data faster and more efficiently than the ones currently in use..." Blah blah blah.

You weren’t really listening, if you were being honest.

You liked hearing him talk, loved the way his voice got all passionate when he explained something he cared about, but the actual words? They went right over your head.

Instead, you focused on the way his hands, so warm and steady, were resting on your waist. Absentminded, like he wasn’t really paying attention, he traced slow circles against the fabric of your sweater, fingertips dipping just beneath the hem to brush against your bare skin.

You bit your lip, shifting slightly on his lap. "Mmm, keep going."

Jake didn’t seem to register what you were doing at first. "Right, so, the idea is that instead of using classical bits, ones and zeroes, you use qubits—" Again more smart words.

You rocked against him, slow, almost imperceptible, but enough. Jake inhaled sharply, fingers digging into your skin.

You smirked. "Go on," you teased.

His jaw clenched. "You’re evil."

You hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "No, I just really like hearing you talk, baby."

His hands flexed on your waist, like he was debating something. Then, as if giving in, he exhaled a low chuckle. "You’re such a fucking brat," he muttered, and the way his voice dropped made heat pool between your thighs.s

He moved one hand up, running it along your spine, pushing your sweater up just enough to expose more of your skin to the cool air. The other hand slid lower, gripping your thigh as you ground against him again.

"You’re not even listening, are you?" he murmured, his lips grazing your ear now. "Not really," you admitted, breathless.

His grip tightened, guiding your movements now, encouraging you to move against him with more purpose. "You just like teasing me, huh?"

"Mmh," you hummed, pressing another kiss to the corner of his lips, then his jaw, then his throat. "I like how worked up you get."

Jake let out a soft curse under his breath, his hips shifting up just slightly to meet yours. "You’re lucky I love you," he muttered, voice strained.

You grinned. "I know."

Then, finally, he broke. His lips crashed against yours, his hands gripping you tighter as he deepened the kiss, swallowing the little sounds you made as you melted into him.

His glasses pressed against your cheek, cool against your flushed skin, but neither of you cared.

"You drive me crazy," he murmured against your lips, his breath warm, his hands wandering. "Always so fucking needy."

You whimpered, rolling your hips again, and he groaned "Jakey," you breathed.

He exhaled shakily, then kissed you again, hungrier this time, like he couldn’t get enough. "You should be studying," he muttered between kisses, even as he ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your sweater higher.

You smirked. "Make me."

And, oh, he did.

Jake groaned against your lips, his grip on your waist firm as he lifted you from his lap, standing up with you in his arms.

Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, and you buried your face in his neck, feeling his pulse race under your lips. Your core pulsated with need, and he could feel it even through your shorts.

"You’re gonna be the death of me," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration and desire as he carried you across the room.

Jake pushed your math book on the floor, and he laid you down, his body pressing against yours as he kissed you again,, like he’d been holding back for too long.

His hands roamed, slipping under your sweater, pushing it up over your ribs. You arched your back, helping him, and he pulled it off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes raking over you. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he pushed them up absentmindedly before leaning down to kiss you again.

His hands moved with practiced precision, knowing exactly where to touch, where to squeeze, how to make you shiver beneath him.

His fingers brushed over your thighs, pushing up the fabric of your shorts before he hooked his thumbs in the waistband and dragged them down along with your panties,leaving you bare beneath him.

"You really don’t like making things easy for me, do you?" he murmured, fingers tracing up your inner thigh.

You smirked, breathless. "Where’s the fun in that?"

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, but it was strained, like he was barely holding himself together.

He sat back for a second, pulling off his sweater in one swift motion, revealing the toned muscle beneath.

His skin was warm under your fingers as you reached up, running your hands over his stomach, his chest, feeling him tense beneath your touch.

"Condom," he muttered, reaching into the drawer of his nightstand. You groaned, letting your head fall back against the pillow. "You always do this."

"Yeah," he said, tearing the foil packet open with his teeth, "because I’m not stupid."

You pouted. "I’m on the pill."

"And I like knowing you’re safe." He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours, his glasses sliding down again. "Quit pouting."

You sighed dramatically but let him roll the condom on, watching as his long fingers worked quickly.

Then he was over you again, lips on your neck, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he lined himself up. "You have to be quiet," he murmured, his voice rough as he kissed along your jaw.

"Or what?" you teased, just to test him.

Jake exhaled sharply, then pushed into you in one slow, deep stroke. Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping his shoulders as your back arched off the bed.

"Or I’ll make you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he started moving, slow at first, like he was savoring every inch of you, but then he set a pace that had you struggling to keep quiet.

He knew what he was doing, exactly how to angle his hips to make your breath stutter, exactly how to roll his hips so you were gripping at his arms, trying so hard not to moan too loudly.

His glasses fogged up from how close he was, the heat between you making them useless, but he didn’t stop to take them off.

You did it for him, reaching up with trembling fingers and sliding them off his face, setting them aside on the nightstand.

He thanked you with a warm smile.

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, met yours as he thrust deeper, harder, stealing the air from your lungs. His hand came up, covering your mouth as you let out a soft whimper, muffling the sound.

"Shh," he murmured, his voice like gravel against your skin. "Don’t want my mother hearing how good I’m fucking you, do you?"

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, your nails digging into his back as he snapped his hips into you again. It was all too much.

You clenched around him, your thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. Jake cursed under his breath, feeling you squeeze around him, and his grip on your hip tightened as he sped up, chasing your release.

"Come for me," he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. "I wanna feel you."

That was all it took.

Your body tensed, pleasure hitting you like a tidal wave as you bit down on his hand to keep from crying out. Your vision blurred, your fingers digging in his skin as you came undone beneath him.

Jake groaned, his movements faltering for half a second before he found his rhythm again, his thrusts rougher now, more desperate.

He grabbed your leg, hooking it over his hip, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that had you gasping against his palm.

He hadn’t slowed down. His rhythm was deep, fast, relentless. the bed creaking under both of your weight, the headboard softly hitting the wall in time with his thrusts.

You were still whimpering from your second orgasm, your thighs trembling around his waist, your nails digging red crescents into his shoulder blades. Your breath hitched, another moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it. “Jakey! oh—”

His hand came up instantly, covering your mouth again, palm warm and firm.

“Quiet,” he hissed against your cheek. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

Your body arched off the bed beneath him, mouth smothered by his hand, eyes rolling back from the sheer pressure, the stretch, the heat. Your muffled cries only made him thrust harder.

“You like this, huh?” he breathed, watching your every twitch, every gasp, every time you tried to cry out under his hand. “You like when I fuck you like this.”

You nodded desperately, the pleasure building again even though your body felt like it couldn’t take more. Your skin burned, your thighs ached, but none of it mattered. Jake was everything— all you could feel, all you could hear, all you could take.

You released against him, hard, back arching as your whole body seized up and shuddered. Your vision blurred. You felt tears sting your lashes, your voice cracking beneath his hand as your second orgasm ripped through you.

He grunted, letting his hand slide away from your mouth only when your cries became soft gasps His lips found yours in a hungry, breathless kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance.

“Shit,” he panted, pulling back just a little to brush his hair from his eyes. He kissed your jaw, your throat, sucking a mark just below your ear before whispering, “Turn over for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Jake, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said firmly, kissing you again. “Just one more, baby, you’re doing so good.”

And because it was him uou obeyed.

You turned, limbs shaky, chest pressed to the mattress, ass in the air as you grabbed onto the pillow and buried your face into it. Jake groaned softly behind you.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he muttered, dragging his fingers over your lower back, down to your ass, squeezing firmly. “Messy and fucked out… all for me.”

You felt him line himself up again, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your slick folds before pushing into you in one hard thrust that had you biting into the pillow to stifle a scream.

“Oh my God… Jake.”

“Shhh,” he hushed you, hand curling around your hip to pull you back into him, setting a brutal pace that left your legs shaking, your voice broken into helpless sobs. “You have to be quiet.”

“I can’t,” you cried into the pillow, half-laughing, half-sobbing from how good it felt, how completely he wrecked you. “Jake— it’s too much—”

“You’re taking it so well,” he said, voice strained, one hand gripping your waist while the other slid up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades to press you further into the mattress. “So fucking good for me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, dragging cries from you no matter how hard you tried to bite them back. You fisted the sheets, knuckles white, body trembling as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot over and over again until your legs gave out.

Jake leaned down, chest against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, “You pretend to be all innocent, all shy in front of everyone… but in here? With me? You just want to be ruined.”

You moaned, louder than you meant to, and he growled, his hand flying to your mouth again, fingers pressing your cheek into the pillow.

“You don’t listen,” he hissed, thrusting harder, until the sound of skin against skin echoed through the room. “You want my mother to hear how desperate you are for my cock?”

You shook your head wildly, sobbing beneath his hand as he slammed into you again, and again, and again, until your entire body clenched and your mind blanked. One last orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and dizzying, tearing a scream from your throat that was completely muffled by his palm.

Jake groaned into your neck, biting your shoulder as he came hard, his body collapsing against yours, twitching with aftershocks as he held you tightly, his breath loud and shaky in your ear.

You both stayed like that for a moment, tangled, gasping, hearts pounding like they wanted to leap out of your chests.

Jake pulled out gently, sighing contentedly as he rolled to the side and took the condom off, tying it quickly and tossing it into the bin beside the bed.

He turned to you immediately, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your exhausted body. Your skin was damp with sweat, your legs trembling, your eyes heavy with sleep and satisfaction.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, your bodies tangled together, sweat-slicked and trembling.

Jake finally lifted his head, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed. He looked wrecked, but somehow, still devastatingly handsome.

"You okay?" he murmured, pushing your hair out of your face.

You nodded, still catching your breath. "Mh.. It was so good.”

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "You are a menace."

You smirked. "You love it."

"You’re exhausting," he muttered, but his arm was already tightening around you, pulling you close.

You grinned, snuggling into his chest. "You love that too."

Jake sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Yeah," he admitted softly. "I really do."

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xoxojisu · 3 months ago

Text

"LALALALA"

synopsis: yapper reader x listener katsuki. in which you finally get to see katsuki!

notes: grumpy x sunshine also. basically just yap yap yap reader and bro stfu katsuki. based on some prompt i remember seeing forever ago. deviating from my usual 'reader and katsuki childhood friends go to ua tg' bc this is such a cute idea

the field is buzzing, students from different hero schools gathering in small groups and instructors calling out over the noise generating quite the racket. there’s tension, excitement, and a bit of rivalry in the air. class 1-a stands off to the side, eyes scanning the new arrivals. bakugo stands isolated from the group with his arms crossed, mouth already in a deep scowl.

he hates group exercises. hates surprise training simulations. hates-

“katsuki!!”

and then it happens.

a blur comes flying in from the other side of the field. he hears it before he sees it, and by the time he turns his head, it’s too late. you launch yourself at him from behind, tackling him in a full-body hug that actually makes him take a step forward. his body tenses immediately, hands twitching instinctively like he might throw you off-

but he doesn’t. he would never.

“kats! kats!” you giggle, climbing halfway up his back like he’s your personal jungle gym. you hook your chin over his shoulder, big goofy grin stretching across your face as you hug him tight. “hi!!”

there’s a long pause. bakugo doesn’t move. doesn’t shout. doesn’t blow anything up. the whole world stills in suspense.

eventually, he sighs, a hint of a not-angry expression present on his face. "hi."

“uh… are we… seeing this?” kirishima says under his breath, eyes wide.

“kats, i swear, it feels like it’s been forever since i’ve seen you! i mean, seriously, how is it that we’re both doing this hero thing and still barely getting any time to hang out? it’s like the universe just hates us or something. i’ve been stuck in this crazy hellfire intensity training like all week, and it’s not even the fun kind, it’s just endless drills and lectures and like ugh ohmygod, i’m so over it. anyway, i missed you kats!! how are you? healthy? well? making friends? wait, who am i kidding. youre definitely healthy because youre like a health-conscious old man, and definitely no friends."

you’re talking so fast he doesn’t have time to respond to anything. he just stares down at you, not saying a word or moving an inch.

eventually, he reaches out, drops a heavy hand onto your head, and mutters, “shut up.”

you beam like he just handed you flowers. “there he is,” you giggle, grabbing his arm and hugging it to your chest. “so grumpy. so cute. i miiiissed you!”

he grumbles something pissy under his breath, but makes no move to pull away.

aizawa’s voice cuts through the air. “pair off.”

despite you already hanging on him, bakugo grabs you immediately. “we’re teaming up.”

“wait, what?” mina says from behind him. “you’re not gonna work with us?”

“we’re teaming up,” he snaps again, louder this time, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“but you always-”

“shut up. all of you. shut. the fuck. up.”

you’re already bouncing beside him, eyes bright. “oh my god, kats, i have so many ideas. okay, okay—what if you blow a hole in the wall and you know how i texted you last week about that new feature on my costume? i could use that to- wait! or we could climb over the roof and-”

“you talk too much,” he mutters, dragging you along gently despite his annoyed expression.

“you love it,” you sing, completely unbothered.

he doesn’t answer.

but the tiniest corner of his mouth tugs up.

masterlist

#jisu writes!#bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo katsuki #katsuki fluff #katsuki x reader #mha fluff #mha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #katsuki drabble #bakugo drabble #bakugou drabble

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cathnospam · 4 months ago

Text

Bakugo wants sex, but doesn’t know how to ask

You’re fresh out the shower, too lazy to put on anything else so you throw on one of your boyfriend’s shirt that still lingered his scent you loved so much with nothing under and a bit of lotion on your arms.

Absolutely too weak to do your legs you plop on your side of your bed and sigh inching towards your Blondie that decided to spend the night in your dorm.

“Who would’ve thought a lecture would be exhausting. Ugh. Can’t wait to graduate from this damn uni.” You grumbled to yourself tracing against the scars of his biceps, smirking everytime he subconsciously flexes them.

Bakugo just grumbles, mindlessly playing on your gaming console and eyes fixated on the TV he actually wasn’t even paying attention, his mind was on auto pilot and you were the reason:

He’s horny.

All damn week he’s been trying ways to figure out how he can just….

Simply put: Fuck you.

Bakugo never actually initiated sex. You both only have done it 3 times and each time you’ve been the one to start it off. Whether he wants to admit it or not he’s a pussy when it comes to intimacy sometimes. But that doesn’t surpress his needs.

Last time you both had a moment of restless touching was a month ago and it was reasonable since you both been busy with classes and internships, but now that spring break is around the corner and your schedules have began to sync again he almost forgot how fine of a girl he had as a girlfriend.

“Can you lotion my legs oh sweet, strong and great Dynamight?”

He flinched, your words laced with honey even though you were just half joking as you threw your thigh over his bare legs, the contrast from his toned muscle thighs vs your thicker softer ones made him look down, but still not missing how your ass jiggled a little under his top.

“Whatever.” He snatched the bottle from you shaking it and rubbing it against his hands to half assly rub it on your calves.

“Uh helloooo I have a whole leg to prevent being ashy.” Wiggling your thighs against made him huff, are you doing it on purpose? Do you know how badly he wants to lay you on your back and stuff his head between your thighs right now?

His palms began to warm as they slid their way up and down , it was borderline a massage at this point and you wasn’t complaining since he did have a way with his hands.

And fingers.

You noticed his ministrations slowing down, thinking he wanted you to roll on your back to get the other leg he instead kept rubbing extremely close to the bottom of your ass.

“Y’know, you can touch it.” Catching his eye he stopped moving his hand, “You’re always free to touch me whenever….or wherever .”

He lips parted, almost like he wanted to speak, but instead pulled you closer to him to kiss the corner of your lips, it was so soft you nearly couldn’t feel him until he whispered in your ear, “….Are you sure.”

“Of course.” You nod, rubbing your hand on his arm as reassurance “my body….your choice.”

Bakugo’s eyebrows creased, confused why’d you even say that, “No it’s still your choice and rules, dumbass. You’re too trusting.”

“I’m only too trusting for you…” pecking his pouted lips you reposition yourself to allow your big Blondie to hover over you, “I trust you with my life…and my body. It’s all yours.”

Blood filled his ears and cheeks as well as his dick. Something about your trust in him drove him absolutely insane. His body moved before he could respond back latching onto your lips, adjusting his way in between your legs.

You trapped him inside earning a groan out of him when his body weight fell on top of you, “I could’ve crushed you.”

“So?” You tease. You damn tease. That fucking look in your eye gets him everytime when you get like this, wanting him almost as much as he wants you.

It didn’t take long until your laughs and jokes turned into cries and moans of his name.

It was probably one of the most intoxicating nights filled with taboo touches and loves bites everywhere. His hands captured yours when he let you on top, his eyes not tearing from yours, The way his mouth never left an inch away from your body, he actually felt way more needier than usual.

Surely everybody will question and tease you both in tomorrow’s lecture, but it was worth it.

Bakugo now had a new level of confidence when it came to asking you for sex.

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mcrdvcks · 10 days ago

Text

bergamot

chapter summary: You haven’t seen Bucky in almost two months because you’ve been away on a mission for the UN. Bucky is miserable—the team has only known him for two weeks, but they can already tell that something on his phone is making him smile. word count: 8.2k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: here is the request that inspired this! i had a lot of fun writing this. i just wanna curl up with bucky (and hold onto his arms like a koala) and run my fingers through his hair, and— warnings/tags: reader works for the UN, mention of reader having wet hair, soft!bucky, clingy!bucky, loverboy!bucky, fluff, thunderbolts, yelena is suspicious, light violence, mention of injury, references to tfatws, post-thunderbolts

Alexei leaned back in the couch, gesturing broadly with a half-eaten pretzel. “So there I was, hanging from the side of the Khrunichev rocket, no harness, only my teeth and a stubborn cable—”

“Again with the rocket story?” Ava muttered, phasing a hand through the coffee table on instinct. Bob perked up, wide-eyed, as though picturing the whole scene.

Bucky barely looked up from his phone. A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as his thumbs flew over the screen. Yelena caught it immediately. She nudged Ava’s ankle and jerked her chin at Bucky. “Did the Winter Soldier just smile?”

Ava arched a brow. “Maybe Alexei’s comedic timing has finally evolved.”

John, propped against the doorway, snorted. “Pretty sure that’d require the universe bending its own rules.”

Alexei glowered. “You Americans have no appreciation for true heroism.” When no one rose to defend him, he sighed and continued anyway. “Point is, the launch director screams, ‘you will die, Red Guardian!’ and I—”

Bucky’s phone chimed again. He angled the screen away, shoulders hitching in a short laugh before catching himself. Yelena’s eyes narrowed like a laser sight. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Barnes, who’s making you look like a Golden Retriever with a new squeaky toy?”

“No one.” He tapped the screen off, expression settling into its usual guarded set. Too late—the damage was done.

Ava kicked her feet up on the table. “Is ‘no one’ some kind of new social app?”

“Or a codename?” Bob asked, genuinely curious.

John cleared his throat. “Leave him alone.”

Yelena’s gaze snapped to him. “Why so defensive, Walker? Do you know something?”

“Don’t drag me into it,” John said, folding his arms. “Some of us respect privacy.”

“Some of us are lying,” Yelena shot back. She rose and sauntered toward Bucky’s armchair. “Come on, Barnes. Two weeks living in the Watchtower, we’ve seen you brood, we’ve seen you pace, we’ve seen you out-bench the gym equipment. But a genuine smile? That’s new content. Share with the class.”

Bucky pocketed the phone and stood. “Getting coffee.” He pushed past her, metal fingers clinking softly against the mug rack as he filled one.

Ava phased through the counter to peer at him from the other side. “Is the coffee machine texting you too?”

He exhaled through a tight grin. “It’s just... a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Yelena pressed.

“The kind who doesn’t need to be part of story time.”

Bob’s voice drifted from the couch. “Do you think they like rockets?”

“Bob,” Yelena said, “focus.”

Bob nodded, solemn. “Focusing.”

John pushed off the doorway, intercepting Yelena. “Seriously. Drop it. We’ve got enough on our plates without interrogating Bucky’s social life.”

“His social life is our plate now,” Yelena argued. “Trust is key to team cohesion.”

Bucky set his mug down with a soft clink. “I trust you, Yelena.”

She perked up. “Then tell me.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of the cup. The phone buzzed again. The grin resurfaced—small, private, and impossible to hide.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “You’re impossible.” She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at him. “I’m watching you, Barnes. One day, I will know.”

“Good luck,” he said, taking his coffee and heading for the exit. “Alexei, finish the rocket story without me.”

Alexei puffed out his chest. “As I was saying—”

The automatic door slid shut behind Bucky, muffling Alexei’s booming voice. In the quiet hallway, he pulled the phone back out.

You: Flight got moved again. Landing tonight after all. Can’t wait to see you.

Bucky’s shoulders softened. He leaned against the wall, thumb hovering for a beat before he typed.

Bucky: Counting the hours, doll. I’ll be there.

He stared at the message until the screen dimmed, that rare smile lingering. Then he slipped the phone away, squared his shoulders, and headed back toward the lounge—mask firmly in place, ready to fend off Yelena’s next round of questions.

---

Of course, his luck was having a meeting with Valentina he couldn’t get out of at the exact time you were landing.

You promised him it was okay, that you were going to go to the apartment and take a nice shower after spending three and a half weeks in Guinea-Bissau with only four bucket showers.

The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh paint when you stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair shoved into a towel‑turban. Your suitcase still yawned half‑open in the bedroom, shoes sticking out like protest signs after the forty‑hour trip home. You tugged one of Bucky’s sweatshirts—soft navy cotton you’d stolen months ago—over your head and padded toward the kitchen.

Keys scraped the front lock.

You froze, toothbrush still in hand, the door cracked open just wide enough for a familiar metal fingertip to tap against the frame.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost cautious.

“Bathroom’s on the left, Sergeant,” you called, grinning. “But fair warning—hot water’s depleted.”

The door swung wider. Bucky stepped inside wearing a charcoal henley rolled to his forearms and a pilled cardigan that made his shoulders look unfairly broad. The cardigan hit the floor the second he saw you.

He crossed the room in three strides, pulling you straight against his chest. His nose tucked into the damp bend of your neck. A low, shaky breath escaped him. “You’re here,” he mumbled. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked.” You squeezed his waist, feeling muscle tremble under the fabric. “Thought you had a debrief.”

“I threatened to walk out if Val kept talking.” He nuzzled closer, the words muffled. “She got the hint.”

You laughed. “That might be a new record for shortest Barnes‑Fontaine meeting.”

“She shouldn’t schedule anything on your landing day.” His flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing water droplets from your jaw as though they offended him. “You good? Flight okay? Anyone sneeze on you?”

“Only everyone in coach.” You tapped his chest. “I lived.”

He lifted your left hand in both of his, studying the calluses on your fingertips like they were precious intel. Then he laced your fingers with his human ones and didn’t let get, even when he tried to flip the kettle on with his metal hand without releasing yours. He misjudged the angle, and bumped the counter.

“Bucky,” you laughed, tugging gently, “two hands are useful for tea.”

“Fine.” He let you go… for half a second. Then his palm found the small of your back, guiding you nowhere in particular, just touching. “Missed you.”

“Month and a half,” you reminded. “I kept count.”

“Thirty‑nine days,” he corrected softly.

Your heart stuttered. “You counted hours too, didn’t you?”

“Two thousand. Give or take.” He swallowed, shoulders hitching as though the admission cost him. “When you were in the field and comms went dark that first week… I—”

You reached up and brushed hair from his forehead. “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

He nodded, but the tension didn’t ease. He bent suddenly, hooking an arm behind your knees and lifting you. You yelped, toothbrush clattering onto the countertop.

“James Buchanan—”

“Shush.” He settled onto the couch with you cradled sideways, both hands banded around your ribs. “Grounding exercises, remember?”

Your brows lifted. “Thought that was when you were having nightmares.”

“They’re preventative tonight.” His metal thumb tapped a light rhythm against your spine. “Body heat. Your heartbeat. Works better than any breathing drill.”

You exhaled, letting muscles uncoil. His chest expanded under your cheek with each slow inhale. After a minute his pulse evened out, but he still didn’t loosen his hold.

“I should order food,” you murmured.

“Later.”

“Brush my teeth?”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Mint’s overrated.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “What about bathroom breaks?”

“I’ll escort you.” The deadpan delivery cracked you up, and the faintest smile curved his mouth—one that actually reached his eyes. “Not letting go yet, doll. I need another minute.”

“Take five. Or fifty.”

He sighed, forehead dropping gently to yours. “Gonna need more than fifty.”

“Take all night.”

A soft noise—half laugh, half relief—escaped him. The kettle clicked off behind you, steam curling upward, ignored. Outside, city traffic whooshed three stories below, but inside the apartment everything had narrowed to the weight of his arms and the solid, steady drum of two heartbeats syncing after far too many hours apart.

Bucky brushed his lips across your knuckles. “Welcome home.”

---

The bedroom was gray with winter light when your alarm buzzed. Before you could reach for the phone, Bucky’s arm tightened, hauling you the last inch across the mattress so your back fit the curve of his chest.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice sanded rough from sleep.

“You’re due at the Watchtower at nine,” you reminded, twisting enough to see him. His hair was everywhere, soft and ridiculous. “And I’ve got a briefing at the UN.”

“Virtual.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Can do it from here.”

You laughed. “Pretty sure Val expects you in person.”

“That’s her problem.” His grip didn’t loosen. “Could stay like this forever.”

“Barnes.” You nudged his metal fingertips where they were splayed over your stomach. “Breakfast.”

“She can brief John first.”

“John will murder you.”

“Let him try.” He pressed his face into your hair. “Smell better than flapjacks anyway.”

“Flattery isn’t protein.” You jabbed an elbow—gently—into his ribs. “Up.”

He groaned but finally released you. Sort of. He followed you down the hall like a very large, slightly sleepy puppy, his hand sliding back into yours before you’d even crossed the doorway.

---

You cracked eggs into a bowl while Bucky stood behind you, both arms caging you in against the counter while still managing to breathe down your neck.

“Need a whisk,” you said. He fetched it—without letting go—so your joined hands performed an awkward baton pass to the utensil drawer. “Buck, I need two hands.”

“Negative.” He kissed the side of your temple. “One hand’s enough. I’ll be your sous‑chef.”

“My sous‑chef usually chops, not holds hands.”

“Multitasking.” He reached around you, grabbed a spatula with his metal hand, and flipped a pancake. Terribly.

You bit a smile. “That’s the cutting board, champ.”

“Details.”

---

Laptop open on the coffee table, your UN briefing countdown read T‑23:04. You tried to review bullet points while Bucky tried to fuse himself to your side. His sweater sleeve pooled over your fingers where they stayed laced.

You nudged the trackpad with your free hand. “Can’t scroll like this.”

He scooted nearer, draped his arm across your lap. “Dictate. I’ll scroll.”

“You don’t know the acronyms.”

“Then you’ll have to brief me first.” His thumb stroked the veins at your wrist like he could memorize your pulse.

You went for stern. “James. I have to appear competent in twenty‑three minutes.”

“You’re always competent.” He lifted your hand, kissed the back of it. “I just need contact.”

“You were literally on top of me twenty minutes ago.”

“And it was great.” He kissed your knuckles again. “Just… humor me, okay?”

The quiet plea in his eyes melted whatever resolve you’d been pretending to hold. You exhaled. “Okay. But if I bomb this call—”

“I’ll hack their email and delete the recording.” The grin he flashed was boyish mischief carved onto a war‑worn face. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”

---

The ring lights were on, and you had a blazer shrugged over Bucky’s sweatshirt that you had borrowed. You were live with six UN security advisers, none of whom could see the six‑foot supersoldier crouched just out of frame, one hand wrapped around your ankle like a magnetic cuff.

“Current intel indicates the smuggling corridor shifted west,” you said, clicking to the next slide. Bucky’s thumb traced slow circles above your sock line. “We’ll need to re‑route surveillance assets accordingly.”

A message pinged at the top corner of your screen.

Bucky: Proud of you.

You pressed your heel lightly into his palm in reply. He squeezed once, grounding himself—and you—in the silence between your words.

---

After the call ended, you ditched your blazer and grabbed your backpack. You reached for the door handle but Bucky’s fingers hooked your belt loop.

“Walk me downstairs?” you asked.

“Farther.” He shrugged into a heavy coat, still holding you. “All the way to First Avenue.”

“That’s two blocks past the subway.”

“Exactly.” He laced your fingers again, gaze skimming your face like he expected you to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Need every extra minute.”

You brushed his sweater collar flat. “Meet me for lunch? Midtown. One o’clock.”

“Done.” He kissed you quick, chased it with another slower one like a punctuation mark he didn’t trust. “Text me when you get through security.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He groaned. “Why’s that hot?”

“Because you’re impossible.” You opened the door. He tightened his grip anyway, escorting you down the hall as though the space between heartbeats was hostile territory.

Halfway to the elevator, his phone buzzed.

Yelena: Barnes. Where are you? Walker’s making Bob recreate a latte art swan and it’s getting weird.

Bucky typed back with one hand.

Bucky: Running late. Focus on team cohesion exercises.

“Team cohesion,” you echoed, trying not to laugh.

He kissed your hand one last time before the elevator doors slid open. “You’re my cohesion.”

“See you at one.”

The doors closed. Through the sliver of glass, you watched him press his palm to the metal until the cab whisked you out of sight. In the cab, your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Counting minutes already.

You shook your head, smiling like an idiot all the way to work.

---

Alexei was still mid‑swan demonstration when Bucky slipped through the sliding doors. Espresso foam mottled Bob’s chin, while Yelena perched on the counter like an irritated gargoyle, phone in one hand, and an evidence board of possibilities in the other.

“There he is,” John called from the coffee machine. “Barnes, you’re officially twenty‑one minutes late.”

“Traffic,” Bucky muttered, heading straight for the fridge.

“Traffic of what?” Ava asked, phasing a spoon through her cereal. “You’re the only person I know who can hop rooftops to work.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “I tracked five separate rooftop cameras. None caught your signature.”

Bucky’s neck stiffened. “You’re tracking my—”

“Team cohesion,” she sing‑songed. “We covered this.”

Bob looked up. “I thought cohesion was about lattes.”

“Everything is about lattes if you do it right,” Alexei said, still sculpting foam. “Observe the curvature—”

John rolled his eyes. “Enough. Barnes, you got Val waiting.”

“Already briefed her by phone,” Bucky replied, retrieving bottled water. The collar of his cardigan smelled faintly of your shampoo and he tugged it closer. “Any actual emergencies?”

“Just boredom,” Ava said.

“And speculation,” Yelena added. “You smell like bergamot.”

Bucky froze. “I switched laundry detergent. That illegal now?”

Yelena hopped off the counter, blocking his path. “Who was the text from this morning?”

“Not your business.”

She grinned. “So it was someone.” She opened her mouth to press further, but John cut in.

“Leave it, Belova. Val wants us in the gym in ten.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked between them. “Fine. But mystery texts will be solved.”

Bucky brushed past her, metal hand flexing. “Good luck.”

---

You chose a corner booth facing the door, laptop bag tucked beneath your feet. The place smelled of rosemary focaccia and printer ink from the little receipts machine. At 12:59 exactly, the bell jingled and Bucky ducked inside wearing a black baseball cap and a gray wool sweater that might have belonged to a Norwegian fisherman in a past life.

He spotted you, exhaled relief, and crossed the room so fast the waitress startled. The cap hit the seat first, followed by Bucky, who slid in beside you instead of across. His arm settled behind your shoulders, and his fingers immediately laced with yours on the table.

“Made it with a minute to spare,” you said.

“Fifty‑four seconds,” he corrected, gaze already soft. “Missed you.”

You tilted your head. “We parted three hours ago.”

“Still counts.” He kissed your temple. “How was the briefing?”

“Half of them think increased drones will solve everything. The other half wants a task force.”

“Let me guess—the drone faction has no ground intel.”

“Bingo.”

He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the base of your thumb. “Tell me what you really need.”

“More eyes in Dakar. And you.” You nudged his knee. “But Val would weaponize that.”

He huffed a laugh. “She already is.”

The waiter approached and Bucky ordered two grilled‑chicken salads without looking at the menu, eyes locked on you. After the waiter left, Bucky’s flesh hand rose to brush your forehead gently—a habit. You watched the knit lines of tension between his brows ease as he touched you.

“Sleep okay?” you asked.

“Better than the last thirty‑nine nights,” he said softly. “Woke up every hour just to make sure you were still there.”

“And?”

He ducked his head, almost shy. “You were. Every single time.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Planning to disappear at lunch?”

“Try it,” he murmured. “I dare you.”

The salads arrived and Bucky lifted your fork first, twirling lettuce like pasta before offering it to your mouth. You laughed, cheeks heating.

“This is not ergonomically sound,” you said around the bite.

“Fine.” He set the fork down—only to pick up your hand again. “Needed the tactile confirmation.”

“Bucky, eat.”

He kept hold of your fingers with his metal hand and maneuvered his fork with the other, awkward but determined. You shook your head, amused, and chewed.

Across the room a teenager whispered, eyes widening at Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky clocked it, then shrugged out of the sweater sleeve to cover the vibranium. You slid closer, pressing thigh to thigh.

“Hey,” you whispered, “they’re staring at the arm, not us.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He squeezed your knee. “This is my safe zone.”

You smiled into your water glass. “Safe zone has croutons.”

“And bergamot,” he added, nose brushing your cheek. “Missed that smell in the tower. Everything there reeks of disinfectant and Alexei’s cologne.”

“He probably bathes in that stuff.”

“Trust me, he does.” Bucky took another bite, chewed, and tried to drink without relinquishing you. “I ever tell you what happened when he sprayed Ava by accident?”

“No. But it sounds riveting.”

He chuckled and told you the story. You ate, laughed, and wiped a stray breadcrumb from his beard. All the while, his grip never faltered, as though letting go would trigger another world‑ending void.

---

The elevator doors slid open with a chime. Bucky stepped out, cap tucked under his arm, expression so relaxed it looked out of place against the glass-and-steel interior. His phone vibrated before he thumb‑typed a quick reply, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Ava phased through the adjacent wall, bowl of grapes in hand. “Look who’s finally smiling again.”

Bucky pocketed the phone, deadpan back in place. “Afternoon, Ava.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, falling into step beside him. “The neutral face after the happy one—it’s creepy.”

“Take it up with my face.”

They rounded the corner into the lounge. Alexei, sprawled on the sectional, tossed a foam stress ball toward the ceiling like a bored teenager. Yelena hunched over the coffee table, assembling what looked suspiciously like a color‑coded conspiracy web. John perched on a barstool, drinking black coffee straight from the pot. And Bob sat cross‑legged on the floor, building an elaborate domino maze out of coasters.

Alexei noticed Bucky first. “Hello, little comrade! Good lunch?”

“Fine.” Bucky headed for the fridge.

“Define ‘fine,’” Yelena said without looking up.

He grabbed a water bottle, cracked the seal. “Edible. Quiet.”

John’s brows rose. “That why you’re thirty minutes late?”

“Traffic,” Bucky answered. He took a long drink, then caught himself smiling again. He turned away too late—but Yelena saw.

“Aha,” she declared, pointing a red string at him like an accusation. “Mystery texter strikes again.”

Bucky capped the water. “String theory usually requires facts.”

“I have facts.” She tapped a sticky note. “Fact one: you left this morning smelling like bergamot. Fact two: you returned smelling like rosemary.”

Alexei sniffed the air theatrically. “I smell none of this.”

“Your cologne killed your nose in 1984,” she snapped. Yelena turned back to Bucky, “who serves rosemary at lunch?”

“A lot of cafés, Belova.”

“Which café?”

“Downtown.”

“Name.” She flicked the string.

“Not relevant,” he said. “What is relevant is that Val wants us in the gym at fifteen‑hundred.”

Bob accidentally toppled a coaster, setting off half the maze. “Fifteen‑hundred is three o’clock, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky answered automatically, still staring at his phone. The screen lit with a new message—the grin came back, small but unmistakable. He swiped it away and pocketed the device before Yelena could pounce.

John set the coffeepot down. “Let it go, Yelena.”

“Never,” she muttered. “Cooperation is built on transparency.”

“Trust works both ways,” John shot back, folding his arms.

Bucky ignored them, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the corridor. “I’m hitting the range before sparring. Anyone joining?”

Ava shrugged. “Sure, I’ll watch you obliterate paper bad guys.”

Bob raised a hand. “Can I finish my dominos first?”

“Ten minutes,” Bucky said. He started down the hall. Halfway there he paused, pulled the his phone out again, and typed.

Bucky: Made it back. They’re insufferable. Text when you’re done at the embassy.

A second bubble appeared before he could lock the screen.

You: Speech in 20 min. Survive your teammates.

He smirked, slid the phone into his back pocket, and continued, metal fingers flexing like they still held yours. Life at the Watchtower suddenly felt a lot less claustrophobic.

Behind him Yelena’s voice carried down the corridor: “We’ll figure it out, Barnes!”

“Good luck,” he called over his shoulder, tone almost playful.

In the armory he set out fresh magazines, checked the sights on his pistol, and let the rhythmic clack of loading rounds drown out the team’s chatter. Every third breath he felt the phantom press of your palm against his—clean, steady, grounding. The clingy ache eased, replaced by a quiet anticipation. Fifty‑one minutes until the embassy reception ended. Fifty‑one minutes until another message, another small confirmation that you were still on the map.

He’d counted less forgiving seconds.

Bucky clicked the last magazine home and holstered the weapon. “All right,” he muttered under his breath, allowing himself one quick smile at the thought of you before the mask slid back into place. “Let’s get this over with.”

---

When he got back to the apartment, the first thing he noticed was a vinyl playing old jazz music—a record you got him for his birthday last year. The second thing was the smoke detector going off.

Bucky dropped the grocery bag and sprinted for the kitchen. You were fanning a dish towel under the screeching smoke alarm, half‑laughing, half‑coughing.

“Surprise,” you said, waving at the haze. “Dinner’s… toasty.”

He tapped the detector with his metal hand; the shriek cut off. Jazz filled the silence, soft trumpet and scratchy vinyl. Bucky’s gaze flicked from the charred skillet to the table set for two—candles, fresh flowers, a folded letter.

“You okay?” he asked, stalking closer, hands already mapping your arms for burns.

“Minor smoke inhalation, major embarrassment.” You tugged his cardigan sleeve. “Come here.”

He stepped into your space, you hooked fingers in his belt loops, and pulled him closer until his chest hit yours. His arms wrapped tight—one flesh, one vibranium—locking you in place.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your hair.

“I saw you five hours ago.”

“Too long.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “What’s all this?”

You slipped a slim envelope from your back pocket and held it between you. “Official UN notice. Two‑month leave, effective immediately.”

His eyes lit, quicksilver joy. “You’re kidding.”

“Figured we could use a stay‑cation. Or, you know, any‑where‑cation.”

He didn’t take the paper. Instead, he clasped your hand around it, sealing both of your palms between his. “Best news this apartment’s heard in years.”

“You mean besides the ‘no more bucket showers’ update?”

He chuckled, but the sound wobbled. “I thought you’d be gone again by next week.”

“Not leaving.” You squeezed once. “Val’ll have to fight me for you.”

“She can try.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then another to your wrist, working his way up like a man starved of contact. “What’s for dinner—besides charcoal?”

“Option A: order Thai. Option B: salvageable garlic bread if you scrape the tops.”

“Option C.” He turned off the stove, slid the skillet aside, and laced your fingers together once again. “We forget dinner, dance to Duke Ellington, and order Thai after.”

“Music first?” You arched a brow. “You, Sergeant Barnes, requesting a dance?”

He tugged you toward the living room where the record spun. “Can’t lose track of you in take‑out chaos.”

You laughed, letting him guide your hands to his shoulders. His palms found your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles through the thin cotton of your shirt. Trumpet crooned as he swayed, small steps, no real technique—just motion. You settled into the rhythm, noses brushing.

He exhaled. “Grounded.”

“Yeah?” You rested your cheek against his sweater. “How’s the altitude?”

“Perfect.” He closed his eyes, holding you a little tighter. “Don’t plan to land anytime soon.” The song faded into soft vinyl crackle, but he didn’t let go. He brushed your lips with his, slow and certain as your fingers threaded through his hair, and he melted, knees bending just enough to press you deeper into the sway. “Two months together,” he whispered. “I’m not wasting a second.”

“You’re the clingiest supersoldier on record,” you teased.

“File the report.” He captured your hand again, spinning you once before pulling you flush. “Now, about option C…”

A fresh jazz track crackled to life. Bucky smiled—the soft, private one nobody else got to see—then set his cheek against yours, heartbeat steady, grounding both of you as the city hummed beyond your windows and the smoke curled harmlessly toward the vent.

---

The blinds still cast gray stripes across the bed when you heard the closet door whisper open. Bucky moved on bare feet, trying to sneak a shirt over his head without jostling the mattress. Fail. The hem got stuck around his shoulders and he muttered something about faulty cotton.

“Morning,” you croaked, rolling toward him.

He froze halfway through the maneuver. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did.” You sat up, tugging his bunched henley down for him. “Tower day?”

“Val wants drills at eight.” He glanced at the clock like it might bargain on his behalf. “I can call in ‘emotional support leave.’”

“Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

“Could be.” He dropped onto the edge of the bed, palm automatically finding your thigh. “Two months of you and nine‑to‑five superheroing don’t mix.”

“You’ll survive.” You stroked his jaw. “I’ll hold down the fort. Maybe fix last night’s skillet.”

His lips twitched. He leaned in, kissed you slow—until the alarm on his phone trilled. 06:45. He cursed softly against your mouth.

“You’re gonna be late,” you warned.

“Worth it.” Another kiss, then he stood, finally threading the henley right‑side‑out. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

---

The moka pot hissed. You buttered toast while Bucky hovered, hand at the small of your back even while reaching for mugs. “Barnes, I need elbow room.”

“Compromise.” He slid closer but kept his palm resting lightly against your hip. “Still counts.”

You set two travel cups on the counter. He filled them, then laced his fingers with yours while the coffee settled. “You’ll text?” he asked.

“Every hour on the hour,” you teased.

“Every half if you’re bored.” He took a breath like he might say more, but his phone buzzed again—07:05, Depart. His shoulders slumped.

You cap‑handed him his coffee. “Go save the world. I’ve got laundry.”

“Call if the detergent fights back.”

You walked him to the door. He kissed you once, stepped into the hall, then pivoted, and came back for another. And a third. Finally he groaned, resting his forehead to yours. “This separation thing is crap.”

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re actually going to be late.”

He huffed, gave a final squeeze, and forced himself down the corridor. You watched until the elevator doors shut, then exhaled, heart doing tiny gymnastics.

---

Yelena circled Bucky like a shark as he wrapped his fists. “You’re smiling again.”

“Drop it,” he warned.

She flicked a glance at Alexei on the treadmill. “He hasn’t seen daylight since 1987 but you, Barnes, look freshly sun‑kissed. Explain.”

“No.”

Ava leaned over the railing from the mezzanine. “He came back smelling like toast.”

John’s eyebrow shot up from the bench‑press station. “Toast?”

“Bergamot two days ago, rosemary yesterday, now toast,” Yelena listed, ticking fingers. “Either he’s dating an aromatherapist or he’s turned into a bakery.”

Bob piped up from the corner, arranging kettlebells by color. “I like bakeries.”

Bucky slid his phone into the locker, screen still lit with your recent text—Made pancakes. Missing ingredient: supersoldier. He shut the door, spinning the code. “Focus, team. Val wants sparring pairs.”

John clapped once. “Barnes with me. Maybe I can punch the perfume right out of you.”

“Bring it,” Bucky said, rolling his shoulders. He felt lighter even as he stepped onto the mat. The cling was a steady itch at his palms, but your hourly update already hovered on the horizon.

The first bell rang before John lunged. Bucky blocked, pivoted, mind half on the bout, half on the image of you in his sweatshirt icing a ruined cake you’d probably claim was “rustic.” A grin slipped and John nearly caught his chin.

“Head in the game, Barnes,” John barked.

“Working on it.” Bucky deflected another strike. “Just… motivated.”

“Must be some motivation,” Ava called.

Yelena’s conspiratorial smile widened. “Operation Mystery Texter continues.”

Bucky threw a roundhouse that sent John skidding, then shook out his wrist. “You’ll never figure it out.”

“I will.” She shot back.

“Good luck,” he said, and meant it. Because for once every secret, every code, every hidden life led to something good—someone good—waiting in a sun‑lit apartment with jazz spinning and pancakes cooling. He’d count the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he could fold himself back into that warmth.

The bell rang again. He reset his stance, vibranium palm open, already anticipating the next contact—on the mat now, but later, when it really counted, wrapped around your fingers where it belonged.

---

Rain slicked the rusted cargo containers. Bucky crouched behind a forklift with John and Yelena while Ava scouted through the walls up ahead. Bob hovered by the jet, humming nervously.

“Target bunker’s twenty meters,” Ava’s voice crackled through comms. “Three armed. Thermal says two more in back.”

“Copy.” Bucky flexed his metal fingers round the grip of his sidearm. “Yelena, flank left. John—”

“On your six,” Walker answered.

They moved. Two steps from cover, a pipe‑bomb arced out of nowhere. Bucky shoved Yelena aside, but the homemade charge hit the forklift mast near his shoulder. The blast rippled hard—enough to rattle vibranium. The shockwave threw him into a crate; pain spider‑webbed through his right side.

“Barnes!” Yelena slid beside him, checking for holes. “You bleeding?”

“Just ringing.” He pushed upright, but his flesh shoulder protested with a nauseating crunch. He kept his voice steady. “Got it.”

John’s shield clanged as he slammed an assailant to the deck. “Cover secured. Yelena, status?”

“Barnes is hit,” she reported.

“I’m fine,” Bucky snarled, standing too fast as the world tilted. “Finish sweep.”

Ava phased through the last container and waved. “All clear. Perps zip‑tied.”

Valentina’s voice sliced in over comms. “Asset report.”

“Minor soft‑tissue injury,” Bucky answered, grinding words through clenched teeth. “Nothing med‑bay can’t patch.”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Val said. “Your vitals say otherwise. Stand down—Walker takes command. Barnes, return to base for eval.”

Bucky rolled his shoulder, white sparks burst behind his eyes. “Copy,” he bit out. “Walker, bag evidence. Yelena, back him up.”

John approached, expression tight with worry. “You’re riding home with Bob.”

“I can fly.”

“Not with that shoulder.” John kept his voice low. “Look, just… let someone take care of you for once, okay?”

Bucky glared but didn’t argue. Pain radiated in hot pulses, every beat reminded him of you waiting two boroughs away.

---

Bob settled Bucky into a jump seat, buckling him with exaggerated care. “Does it hurt like nine out of ten, or six out of ten? I need scale.”

“Seven.” Bucky hissed as the strap brushed bone. “Thanks, Bob.”

Bob nodded solemnly. “Pain is temporary, but cookies are forever. I will bake later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Bucky tapped his earpiece off, then thumb‑typed one‑handed.

Bucky: Took a hit. Shoulder’s out. Coming home.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. You: I’ve got ice packs and soup. ETA?

He exhaled and the ache loosened. Bucky: Wheels up now. 20 min.

Another bubble. You: Door’ll be open. No heroics on the stairs.

He allowed himself the smallest smile, then slid the phone into his pocket and let the hum of take‑off blur everything but that waiting warmth.

---

Dr. Adler snapped Bucky’s shoulder back into place with a wet pop. He didn’t flinch—much. “Ligament strain,” Adler pronounced. “Sling, ice, thirty‑six‑hour rest. No combat.”

“Copy.” Bucky tugged his jacket over the brace. “I’ll recover off‑site.”

Yelena leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “Off‑site meaning… mystery apartment?”

“None of your business.” He brushed past.

“You know secrecy only fuels my curiosity,” she called.

“Happy hunting.” He headed for the exit, clutching his slinged arm to his ribs.

---

John intercepted him at the bike rack. “Need escort?”

“Got one.” Bucky swung a leg over his old Ducati, wincing. “Thanks, though.”

John studied him. “They must be something special.”

“More than you know.” Bucky kicked the engine alive, visor down. “See you tomorrow—if Val lets me out of bed.”

“Take two days. I’ll cover.”

Bucky nodded once, throttled, and sped into the falling dusk—toward vinyl crackle, soup steam, and the only pair of hands that could make the throbbing ease faster than any med‑patch.

---

The front door was propped with a slipper just like your text promised. Bucky eased the Ducati’s helmet off with one hand, nudging the door open with his boot. Steam from soup met him in the hallway, mingling with the faint hiss of the jazz record you’d forgotten to stop.

You appeared from the kitchen in socked feet and one of his Henleys that hit mid‑thigh. “Right arm’s grounded, Sergeant.” You pointed at the sling. “No sudden heroics.”

“Was planning none.” He leaned down; you met him halfway, bracing the back of his neck as he kissed you, slow and a little shaky. The scent of rosemary shampoo—yours, not his—settled the knot in his stomach. “Missed you.”

“You’re a mess.” You thumbed a smudge of oil off his cheek. “Come sit before you keel over.”

He let you steer him to the couch. The minute he sat, his good hand found yours, fingers linking tight. You brought a heavy bowl of chicken noodle, a spoon already plunged into the broth. Bucky attempted to angle it with his left hand and winced.

“Gimme.” You settled beside him, shoulders pressed. “Open.”

He grumbled, but opened. You fed him a spoonful; he chewed, then ducked his head in embarrassment. “Feel ridiculous.”

“Rule one of dating a UN liaison on leave,” you said, scooping another bite. “We weaponize bedside manners.”

“Didn’t realize that was classified.”

“Level seven.” You smirked and offered the spoon again. “Swallow, soldier.”

He did, then tipped his forehead to yours. “Thank you.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed. He ignored it as you raised a brow. “Work?”

“Yelena tracking my GPS again, probably.” He pulled it out, and glanced at the notification: Unknown Location Request. “I’ll disable it later.”

You set the bowl down and unfolded a blanket over his lap. “Think they’ll break down the door?”

“They can try.” He pulled you closer, even with one arm out of commission. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension melting as you tucked into his side. His vibranium thumb stroked your knuckles in a steady pattern. The record skipped once, then slid into softer brass.

“How bad’s the pain?” you asked.

“Manageable.” He kissed your temple. “This helps.”

“Clinginess as analgesic?”

“Doctor‑approved.” He squeezed your fingers. “Don’t let go.”

“Wasn’t planning.” You hooked your ankle over his shin, completing the pretzel of limbs. “Movie?”

“Anything.” He closed his eyes, letting your heartbeat set cadence. “Pick something with zero explosions.”

“Musicals?”

He groaned but didn’t argue. You queued Singin’ in the Rain. As the opening credits rolled, his breathing evened. Ten minutes in, he drifted, forehead pressed to your hair, spoon forgotten, and soup cooling on the table.

You answered the buzzing phone once more—Yelena, again—and texted back without waking him. Bucky: Barnes is asleep. Shoulder fine. No house calls tonight.

Three dots popped, then: Yelena: Who dis?

You smirked, locked the screen, and nestled deeper under his arm. On the TV, Gene Kelly twirled an umbrella. On the couch, Bucky held your hand like the world might tilt if he loosened grip. You listened to the sync of his breaths with the horn section and decided the universe could wait until morning.

---

Valentina’s hologram flickered over the conference table. “Barnes forgot to pull last night’s telemetry. The secure drive needs courier delivery—signature required. Who’s closest?”

Ava raised a brow. “Could overnight it.”

“Not fast enough,” Valentina snapped. “Barnes has forty-eight hours downtime. He can review while he’s iron-slinging his shoulder.”

Bob’s hand went halfway up, then Yelena slapped it back down. “I’ll drop it,” she said, voice too casual. “Fresh air, chance to stretch my legs.”

John shot her a wary look. “Stretching your interrogation muscles, you mean.”

Yelena blinked innocence. “He might need soup.”

“Pretty sure he’s covered,” John muttered.

Valentina didn’t care. “Fine. You have two hours. Use the gray SUV—tracking only, no comm chatter. Out.” The projection blinked off.

Alexei clapped. “Field trip! Want company?”

“No,” Yelena answered too quickly, already pocketing the encrypted drive. She headed for the elevator. “Be back soon.”

---

Yelena adjusted her leather jacket, eyeing the apartment numbers until she found 3C. Rain pattered on the stairwell windows, muffling her footsteps. She knocked twice then leaned back, notebook ready for mental observations.

The door opened a crack. You peeked out, barefoot, drowning in an oversized navy sweater that clearly belonged to someone built like a fridge. Your hair was a post-shower tangle; steam curled past your shoulder.

“Uh… can I help you?” you asked.

Yelena’s assessment gears spun. Not a neighbor—tone was too guarded. Not a delivery driver—no handheld scanner. Definitely not a random roommate given the Rolex peeking from your sleeve, likely a gift. She smiled, just a shade predatory. “Package for Sergeant Barnes. He in?”

“He’s resting.” You tightened your grip on the door edge to stop it drifting wider. “What kind of package?”

“Classified intel.” Yelena held up the drive. “Signature required. I can come in, or you can sign for him.”

You hesitated. From the living room Bucky’s voice drifted—rough with sleep. “Everything okay, doll?”

Yelena’s eyebrows nearly left her forehead. Doll? Her grin widened. “Sounds like he’s alive.”

You cleared your throat. “James, it’s just a delivery.”

Thudding footsteps, then Bucky appeared behind you wearing gray sweats and a sling. His hair stuck up on one side. A flush climbed his neck the instant he saw Yelena. “Belova. What are you doing here?”

“Bringing homework, obviously.” She dangled the drive. “Val says you forgot to download.”

He shot a look at the sling, then at you, silently apologizing for the ambush. You squeezed his good hand in reassurance—tiny gesture, not tiny at all to Yelena’s sharp eyes. “I’ll sign,” he said curtly.

“Actually,” Yelena drawled, “protocol says the courier gets visual confirmation of the recipient’s workspace. Prevents data mishandling.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Since when do you follow protocol?”

“Since this morning.” She swept past before he could object, gaze flicking over the apartment: jazz vinyl spinning, soup bowls drying on the rack, and an ice pack abandoned on the couch. She whistled. “Cozy.”

You shut the door, hugging the sweater tighter. Yelena offered the tablet for Bucky’s signature. As he signed it, she pivoted to you. “I’m Yelena. Teammate. And you must be…?”

“Y/N,” you supplied, calm but firm. “James’s partner.”

Bucky’s ears went pink. Yelena’s grin reached Cheshire levels. “Pleasure. Always nice to finally meet the classified files Val forgot to mention.” Mission satisfied, she backed toward the door. “I’ll tell the others you’re alive, Barnes. Expect… questions.”

“Tell them nothing,” he warned.

“Of course,” she teased, slipping into the hall. “My lips are sealed—mostly.”

Door closed, Bucky exhaled like he’d run ten blocks. You tapped his chest. “That went well.”

He groaned. “They’re never letting me live this down.”

You rose on your tiptoes, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Guess you’ll need extra grounding tonight.”

His hand tightened over yours. “Not letting go, doll.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

---

Ava clicked through drone footage on the holo-wall while Bob built a domino maze on the coffee table. Alexei bench-pressed the couch again—because apparently it counted as “functional training.” And John stood at the espresso machine, timing a perfect shot.

The elevator pinged. Yelena strode out, swinging her leather jacket like a trophy.

“Mission accomplished,” she announced, dangling her empty courier bag. “Also—news flash. Bucky Barnes is not single.”

The room froze.

Alexei dropped the couch mid-rep. It thudded. “Impossible. He is brooding, therefore single.”

Bob’s eyes widened and a domino toppled. “Is she a double agent? Maybe he’s undercover dating.”

Ava leaned one shoulder against the whiteboard, marker poised. “Name.”

“Y/N,” Yelena said, savoring each syllable. “Lives with him. Wears his sweater. Very pretty. Nice toenail polish.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Hold up—Y/N? As in Y/N L/N? That name rings a bell.”

Ava uncapped the marker. “Spell it.”

John set his espresso down. “I met someone with that exact name during the Flag-Smashers operation. Helped Sam and Bucky chase Karli. Intel liaison—sharp as hell. But there’s no way it’s the same person. Barnes was hitting on her the whole time, she rolled her eyes like he was a mosquito.”

Yelena smirked. “She is now a mosquito whisperer, apparently.”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe rolling eyes was spy code for ‘call me later.’”

Alexei pointed at Yelena. “Describe her.”

“Wet hair, smelled like shampoo, zero visible weapons. But the way she sized me up? Definitely trained.” Yelena tugged a sticky note off the conspiracy board and slapped it dead-center. “New subject: Mrs. Mystery Barnes.”

Ava scrawled Y/N? in bold letters. Underneath she drew two columns—Civilian? and Spy?—adding tally marks beneath each as Bob rattled off theories.

John folded his arms. “Look, even if it is her, there’s no guarantee they’re dating. Maybe she’s the roommate.”

“Wearing his sweater,” Yelena reminded.

“Laundry day,” John tried.

“Called him James,” she added.

Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is intimacy level eight.”

Bob flicked another domino. “So… not a spy?”

Ava tapped the marker against her chin. “Could be deep cover. We need data. John, pull the State Department file on Y/N L/N.”

John’s expression tightened. “If she is who I think, that file is classified past my clearance.”

“Then we hack it,” Yelena said, already flipping open her tablet.

“No,” John shot back. “We respect privacy until Barnes tells us otherwise.”

Yelena’s eyes glinted. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Where’s the trust?” John countered.

Bob cleared his throat. “Could bake them welcome muffins.”

Alexei perked. “Muffins and interrogation—classic Soviet hospitality.”

Ava started a flow chart branching from your name: Possible Covers: Analyst / Assassin / Accountant. She glanced at John. “Come on, Walker. You’ve got at least level four clearance.”

John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. I’ll request a redacted summary. But if Val finds out—”

Yelena snapped her fingers. “She won’t. Because we are stealthy.” She pointed at Ava. “Build the suspect board. Bob, muffins. Alexei, locate champagne. We’ll need it when Barnes admits defeat.”

John grabbed his espresso. “I’m telling you, he flirted with her and got nowhere. It cannot be the same woman.”

Yelena grinned, unsettlingly pleased. “Yet it is. And our Winter Soldier is currently cuddled on a couch with her somewhere in Brooklyn.”

Bob clapped, sending dominoes scattering. “Love mission!”

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “We assemble care package. Thunderbolts style.”

Ava scribbled a final line: Objective: Confirm Relationship Status. She capped the marker with a snap. “Operation Bergamot is a go.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need a better codename.”

“Fine,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling. “Operation Golden Retriever.”

Ava laughed, Bob cheered, and Alexei bellowed approval. John just prayed Bucky’s shoulder healed fast—he was going to need both arms to fend off this circus.

---

The jazz record had looped for the third time when the intercom buzzed. Bucky groaned, tightening his arm around your waist. “Ignore it.”

You shifted under the blanket. “Could be takeout.”

“Didn’t order any.”

Buzz. Buzz.

Bucky sighed, pushed to his feet—still slinged. He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

Bob’s cheerful face filled the tiny monitor. “Delivery for Sergeant Barnes!”

Behind him, Yelena waved a bakery box. Alexei squeezed in, holding champagne like a trophy. Ava lurked at the edge, phone out. John stood dead-center, arms crossed, glaring at the camera as if to apologize in advance.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

You bit a smile. “Invite them up. Better than them camping in the hall.”

“If they scare the neighbors, it’s on them.” He buzzed the door, then turned, shoulders tense.

“Relax.” You straightened his sweater collar. “We knew this was coming.”

“Didn’t think it’d be today.” He grabbed your hand, lacing fingers. “Ground me.”

“Always.”

A rapid knock. He opened the door and five Thunderbolts piled in like an ill-timed clown car. Bob thrust the muffin box forward. “Carrot walnut, low sugar!”

Alexei brandished champagne. “For pain management!”

Yelena beamed. “Recon mission complete. Hi again, Y/N.”

John blinked twice, disbelief morphing into exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Walker. Shoulder doing better?”

He ignored the question, pointing at you like a prosecution exhibit. “She shot me, you know.”

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. “You deserved it.”

John scoffed. “It was a bean-bag round—point-blank—right after I wrestled a Flag-Smasher off a truck.”

You tilted your head. “You were about to tase Sam.”

“Semantics,” John muttered, then jabbed a thumb at his ribs. “She also stabbed me in Riga. Still got the scar.”

Bucky’s smile was unapologetic. “She was being generous. Could’ve been a kidney.”

Yelena clapped like it was a reality-show twist. “So the tough UN liaison and the grouchy supersoldier are a thing. Adorable.”

Ava rolled her eyes, snagging a muffin. “I give it three days before Val adds this to our security clearance forms.”

Bob balanced a tray of paper cups. “Cranberry kombucha for everyone. Celebratory probiotics.”

Alexei tried to pop the champagne with his hands but you plucked it away. “Cork, first. Sofa, second. No glass shards.” He pouted but relented.

John shook his head. “Two years and no one noticed?”

“Three in November,” Bucky corrected, thumb stroking your knuckles.

Yelena whistled. “Barnes keeping secrets—what else is new?”

You squeezed his hand. “We kept it quiet for work reasons. Global politics, covert ops, the usual.”

Ava leaned against the fridge. “So how clingy is he, exactly?”

Bucky answered by sliding his arm around your waist, tugging you closer until your back met his chest. “Define ‘clingy.’”

Alexei laughed. “You look like octopus. Very muscled octopus.”

Bob offered a muffin. Bucky grasped it—still one-handed—then fed you the first bite while holding eye contact with the team like a dare. Crumbs dusted your lip; he wiped them with his thumb, and kissed the same spot before stepping back half an inch—no farther.

John exhaled. “Unbelievable.”

You smiled at him. “Want coffee?”

He opened his mouth, thought better, then nodded. “Please. And maybe an explanation for the knife thing.”

“Later.” Bucky guided you toward the kitchen, fingers still locked with yours. Over his shoulder he tossed, “no interrogations until I’m off medical.”

Yelena lifted her phone. “We’ll settle for pictures.”

He shot her a look that promised retaliation. She grinned wider.

In the small kitchen you filled mugs, Bucky hovering so close his sling brushed your side. Under the counter’s edge, his vibranium fingers traced calming circles on your palm—tiny grounding sparks only you could feel.

“Doing okay?” you murmured.

“Now that you’re here,” he answered, eyes soft. Then louder, to the team: “Nobody break anything. Deposit shoes by the door. Alexei, that includes boots.”

Alexei sighed but complied, unlacing loudly.

Ava sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell bergamot and smoke?”

Yelena grinned. “The scent of romance—and burnt skillet.”

John raised his mug in mock salute. “To the happy couple.”

Bucky squeezed your hand once more, holding on like the room, the day, and the world could spin as it pleased—as long as this point of contact stayed fixed.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #thunderbolts fanfic #yelena belova #ava starr #alexei shostakov #john walker #bob reynolds #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mydearzero · 7 months ago

Text

Bribes | Stiles Stilinski x Reader

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Summary: You get paired with Stiles to write a paper for Coach's class. But when had Stilinski grown into his awkward features? When had he grown out his buzzcut? Why was he suddenly so insanely fuckable?

Contents: NO Y/N, afab!Reader, smut, Stiles is a bit cocky lmao, fucking in the jeep, reader is related to Coach (wether adopted or not doesn't matter), vaginal fingering, p in v sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, clumsy sex, playful banter, oral sex (v receiving), casual sex, coming inside, mentions of birth control, making out if I missed any warnings please let me know!

3.5K words

Had to get Stiles out of (pls into plEASE) my system SOMEHOW, so here you go. This one is dedicated to @uglypastels for indulging my obsession and continuously sending me Dylan O'Brien thirst edits <3 <3

“Just so you’re aware, this paper is as high on my list of priorities as the Pope is in Amsterdam,” Stiles dropped his binder on the table, startling you out of your daydream. He was exactly 4 minutes late, not that you were counting. It was still impressive, seeing as he just came from practice.

“Believe me, I, too, would rather be hanging around with Isaac Lahey, yet we’re both here. Let’s just get it over with.” Stiles snorted a laugh, but didn’t comment.

You didn’t not get along with Stilinski. You weren’t sure if you could be called friends, exactly. You’d known each other pretty much all your lives, just like the majority of your school. Beacon Hills wasn’t exactly a metropolis.

You sighed and laid out your notes, Stiles following your example. You raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Those are your notes?”

There were only doodles, random calculations and sporadic keywords scribbled on the loose piece of crumpled paper he straightened out next to your notebook.

“I’m surprised, too. There’s actual words. I don’t usually get that far.” The smirk on his face could only be described as smug. You groaned. This was going to take forever. You divided the topics for the paper amongst yourselves and silently got to work. The ‘silently’ part didn't last long, however. It never did with Stiles.

“Are you still living with your uncle?” He questioned suddenly. You frowned at the question, confused, but nodded either way.

“So can’t you just, I don’t know, cook him dinner and have him give us a good grade?” The gleam in his eyes nearly made you laugh. Nearly. Instead, you flicked him on the side of the head. He whined something about unnecessary violence, but it fell on deaf ears.

“I’m not bribing my uncle just so you can slack off, Stiles. Besides, I’m never really sure if he even likes me,” you wondered out loud.

“You and me, both…” Stiles grumbled.

You glanced at Stiles as he scribbled furiously, seeming to finally get some of his research done. His knees wiggled excessively as he wrote about the economic effects of pandemics. You wrote down a few key parts of the paragraphs in your book before turning to your laptop and beginning the outline of the paper. Stiles hummed quietly as he read the entry he’d just written, tapping his pen furiously against the table.

“Can you stop that?” You requested, his incessant movement distracting you more than his general being already did. He glanced up, an amused expression on his face.

“What,” he tapped his pencil faster. “This?” You contained the urge to roll your eyes and stared at him blankly. He stopped the movement for perhaps one whole minute before picking it back up again.

You only glanced up pointedly this time. He added a jiggle of his knees in challenge. You rose from your chair, leaned over and snatched the pen out of his hand, throwing it across the library. “Fetch.”

Stiles gaped up at you in surprise. The timing of it was very unfortunate, but you’d never really noticed how Stilinski had grown into his awkward features. Something must’ve shown on your face, because Stiles now looked just as confused, perhaps intrigued, as you felt. While you’d been confident in throwing his pen across the room in annoyance, having him look up at you like that made it so you weren’t sure if you wanted him to get up. You cleared your throat and sat back in your chair.

“Unbelievable…” Stiles muttered under his breath as he got up to get the pen. It gave you time to recompose. You didn’t look at him as he sat back down, but felt his eyes burn a hole through the side of your head.

An unfamiliar tension hung in the air while you worked in silence. You snuck glances at Stiles, who was finally focussed on his writing once more. His hair was longer, still messy and unstyled from practice. The grey workout gear perfectly accentuated his broadened shoulders. He bit his lip after reading a complex entry, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they’d feel like on your own, or on your neck while your hands tugged on his now perfectly tuggable locks.

A few times his eyes met yours. You’d quickly dart them back to your notebook, pretending you hadn’t been looking, knowing damn well he’d seen.

Oh my god. Get. it. together.

“Did you finish?” You dared ask after a while, having completed your own part. All you had to do was put your parts together, wrap it up and finish.

“I’ll give it to you, but you have to give something to me first,” Stiles spoke in a challenging tone. For a split second back there you’d wondered how he was still single after all this time, but now you were reminded. He was insufferable.

“What could you possibly want from me, Stiles? Just give me your damn part.”

“A kiss.”

“What? No!” You sputtered. Stiles’ tongue poked the inside of his cheek cockily as he raised an eyebrow, pointing to his lips.

“Guess you’ll have some explaining to do to your uncle why you’re only handing in half an assignment, then.”

“This is coercion, Stilinski! Should I call your dad?” You crossed your arms, refusing to look him in the eye. The librarian shushed you loudly. You could feel heat rush to your face, but didn’t relent. Asshole.

Stiles leaned closer, running a finger over the side of your face. Your heartbeat increased what seemed about tenfold.

“It’s not coercion if you want me to.” His breath hit your neck as he spoke, sending goosebumps down your arms. “And I’m getting the feeling you really want me to.”

You jerked away from his reach, coming to your senses. You gathered your things into your bag, mumbling something about your GPA being fine, anyway. You stomped away from the table, heart racing. You were mad, not because he was suggesting something you didn’t want, rather that he’d clocked exactly what you wanted so easily.

Concerned Stiles would follow you out of the library, you hid behind a few bookshelves in a section nobody usually visited. You caught your breath, placing your palm on your chest. You dropped your bag on the floor, turning to peek around the bookshelf to see if Stiles was still stationed at the table. Relieved, you saw he’d indeed decided to follow you out of the library.

You turned back to grab your bag and head out, but were met with Stiles’ face mere inches from your own. You were startled, but he grabbed your waist before you could fall over. His hold was strong. Your hands instinctively went up to his chest, steadying yourself. Had he always been this tall?

One of his hands wandered slightly lower, rubbing small circles on your lower back. Your eyes met his, which were just shining with mischief and an underlying sense of self-satisfaction. His tongue darted out, licking his lower lip.

“Can I be frank? You’re incredibly annoying,” you stated, slinging your arms around his neck, finally giving in.

“You can be whoever you want as long as I get to kiss you, Frank,” Stiles laughed. You groaned but pulled him close either way.

“Shut up.”

Stiles obliged and put his mouth to yours aggressively, tugging your body against his. One of his hands wandered up, cupping the back of your head to bring it closer. You tugged at the small locks at the back of his neck, eliciting a sighed moan from Stiles.

“You’re so hot,” he confessed when you broke apart for a second. He turned you so you were pushed with your back against the bookcase, a few books falling to the floor. Neither of you cared as your kiss continued, deepening by the second. His hands held your hips as he started grinding against you, sweats low on his hips. His mouth made its way down your jaw, moving to suck hasty kisses on your neck.

“Stiles…” you sighed blissfully. Heat gathered in your stomach at the soft, breathy noises coming from his lips combined with the sound of them against your skin. He put his knee between your thighs.

“Knew you wanted this as much as I did, fuck,” Stiles groaned. The pressure from his knee was delicious, but not enough. It was almost as if he could read your mind as he slid his hand into your bottoms, working your underwear out of the way somewhat clumsily.

“God… so wet for me,” he moaned. You could only reply with breathy whimpers, trying to make as little noise as possible. Stiles shushed you, placing his unoccupied hand over your mouth as the other started rubbing small circles over your clit. You closed your eyes and let your head fall against the bookcase. Your knees went weak at the sensation, not much holding you up besides Stiles.

He slipped his hand out of your underwear, bringing a finger up to his mouth. He casually licked it clean. He hooked his thumbs into your bottoms, seeking eye contact and asking for non-verbal permission to tug them down. You bit your lip and nodded enthusiastically. When your underwear hit the floor, so did Stiles’ knees. Your eyes darted around your environment, but the school was nearly empty at this time, especially the library.

You had to slap your hand over your mouth when Stiles made contact with your clit, his tongue tentatively licking between your folds. Your breathing was laboured, chest heaving as Stiles took his time exploring. Your bottom lip found itself between your teeth, holding in your moans. Your hands shot to Stiles’ hair. Perfectly tuggable, indeed.

He groaned when you gave an exceptionally sharp tug, taking the time to look you in the eyes. The vibrations of his lowered voice felt good. You had seemingly no control over your hands, fingers tightening their grip the closer you got to the edge.

“Shit, baby… So good for me. Gotta stay quiet…” Stiles mumbled. A small, high pitched keen left your lips. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep the silence up. You looked down once more and saw Stiles palming himself over his sweats as he continued eating you out, rhythmically grinding his hips in time with his mouth.

The sound of a bag zipper closing got your attention. You smacked Stiles’ shoulder to stop, wanting to whine in frustration at just how close you’d been. Stiles paid you no mind, lost in giving you pleasure. You put both your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, careful not to tip him over. It was only then Stiles noticed the noise of someone packing up to leave. He scrambled to stand up, trying to help you get redressed.

“I got it, I got it,” you hissed quietly.

“Who’s there? You can’t be here anymore! Library’s about to close!” It was the librarian who’d shushed you earlier. You grabbed your bag in a hurry.

“Would you still rather be hanging out with Isaac?” Stiles asked jokingly, wiping his chin. You whacked his arm, storming past him to the doors. He followed quickly, arm wandering over your shoulders as you walked out of the now deserted school. You didn’t speak as Stiles led you over to the Jeep, insisting on driving you home, at least.

You sat in the passenger seat as Stiles ran around to the drivers’ side. You wiped your hands on your thighs, huffing a frustrated breath. You hadn’t even finished the paper, and now you got cock-blocked on top of it. So not worth it. You turned to Stiles as he put the keys in the ignition. He’d never looked hotter than that very second, lips bruised, hair tousled and still pent up, besides maybe when he looked up at you with his face buried between your legs. Okay so maybe a little worth it.

“If you keep looking at me like that I’m gonna pull over and we’re gonna have sex in the back seat like right now,” Stiles joked. Or at least, you assumed it was a joke.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, threat or invitation?”

“Option D? All of the above? I mean, D is definitely an option.”

“Pull over and we’ll see how much of an option it is.”

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice, pulling over in a small clearing as soon as he saw the opportunity. He took off his seatbelt, scrambling to get out of the car. He opened the door for you, closing it and letting you in the back seat. You laid back across the seats and manoeuvred your top off, throwing it at Stiles. He caught it, quickly discarding it somewhere in the car. He shimmied his pants down his legs, not bothering to take off his shoes. You did the same, leaving you in your underwear. Stiles stopped to take a proper look.

“You’re gonna kill me. You’ve already killed me and this is my pre-hell Heaven trailer of what could’ve been. God iwantyousobad.” You pulled him on top of you as you laughed.

“Less talking, more fucking, yes?”

“Yes, I agree. Wholeheartedly,” Stiles nodded furiously, tugging his shirt over his head with only one hand. Hot. He finally closed the car door behind him before he could forget.

“I’m going to assume you don’t just casually keep condoms in your car?” You questioned. Stiles closed his eyes and tightened his lips in frustration, mentally scolding himself. He finally had you in his Jeep, half-naked, ready to fuck, and he didn’t have a freaking condom??? He finally shook his head no, sighing and pulling away from you slowly.

You leaned up on your elbows and whispered in his ear. “Hmmm… Guess you’re just gonna have to come inside of me… Wouldn’t want to make a mess of the car…”

Stiles pounced at that, kissing you like his life depended on it. He tugged your underwear back down your legs, now very familiar with your pelvic region. He struggled to undo your bra, cursing under his breath. You laughed and lended a hand, undoing it and slipping it off your shoulders.

“Holy shit,” Stiles groaned. “Promise me to thank Coach for pairing us up.”

“You did not just mention my uncle as a reaction to seeing me naked,” you complained.

“I did. Not sorry. He did me a favour.”

You ignored the comment and decided to kiss him to shut him back up. Him and his mouth… God his mouth. You were still pent up from the library, and if he didn’t fuck you soon you were pretty sure you’d go crazy.

“Stiles, want you,” you whined impatiently. He was too busy paying attention to your nipples, taking one between his teeth as he made eye contact. “Shit,” you gasped.

Your hands wandered down his torso, stopping at the hem of his boxers. You tugged them down, setting his very hard cock free from its confinement. The tip was red, dribbling with pre-cum. He was obviously just as pent up as you felt. You gave him a few experimental tugs with your hand before lining him up with your entrance.

Stiles took over, taking his time to slowly push inside you. You put your hands on his shoulders, holding your breath at the stretch. He was so much bigger than you’d expected. You both moaned when he bottomed out. You felt so full, it was insane. You dug your nails into his shoulders and gave him a nod, indicating he could move.

He set a slow pace, testing the waters. He was enthralled by the jiggle of your tits with every movement. Typical. His hands moved up to hold them, almost as leverage, as he picked up his pace.

“Fuck, so good,” Stiles moaned. You were about to move a hand down to touch yourself, but Stiles stopped you.

“Let me make you feel good, let me make you come.” He put one hand on your shoulder to steady himself and brought the other down to where you were joined. He continued to thrust, putting his fingers on your clit. It took him a second, but he found a rhythm where he could thrust and stroke at the same time.

“Oh my god, Stiles!” You moaned, the added sensation feeling amazing. The sound of his hips slapping against yours was filthy to say the least. You moved to hold onto something above your head as Stiles sped up. Your hands soon found the little ledge, and you gripped it to the best of your ability.

Stiles bent down to kiss you, pace still unrelenting. The new angle of him bent forward sent his cock exactly where you needed it.

“Shit, oh my god.” It was all the confirmation Stiles needed to keep it up.

“So pretty, so tight around my cock. Such pretty tits. You feel so good,” he mumbled against your lips.

The pace of his hips became more erratic, both of you nearing the edge. Your knuckles turned white with how tight you were gripping the car door.

“Gonna come inside you,” Stiles moaned. “Fill you up so nice.”

“Yes, Stiles, please!”

“Fuck, so good, so good for me,” Stiles was becoming more talkative and less coherent as he lost himself in the pleasure. He was mouthing at your jawline, sucking another hickey where there were already plenty.

“Fuck, Stiles, gonna come,” you whined. You could feel his smile against your neck. Smug idiot. He then started rubbing your clit exactly the way you liked it. Combined with him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over again, you were seeing stars.

“Don’t stop, please,” another moan left your lips.

“Come for me. Come on my cock. So pretty, so good,” Stiles blabbered.

“Fuck! Stiles!” You keened, tightening around his dick as you came. He kissed you again as his hips stuttered, thrusting a few more times before painting your walls with his cum. His head fell on your chest as you both caught your breath.

When his breathing had slowed, he groaned before lifting himself off you, chuckling as he pecked both your nipples, then your lips before looking for something to clean you with. He settled on the shirt of his lacrosse uniform.

“Ugh, gross,” you mumbled as he wiped you clean. Stiles shrugged. “It was going into the wash, anyway.”

Stiles put his underwear and sweats back on, opening the door and getting out so you could have the space to redress yourself. When you reached under the seat for your bra, you pulled out a baseball bat. “Why do you have a baseball bat in your car?”

“No… Particular reason. Safety. Lots of dangerous animals… out there.”

“So you settled on a bat?” You wondered, holding the object. Stiles nodded, not meeting your eyes, his locked on your still naked chest. You threw the bat at him and laughed, reaching under the seat again and this time pulling out your bra.

When you were finally dressed, you got back in the passenger seat so Stiles could drive you home. It wasn’t a long drive, as you’d already been halfway there before pulling over. He drove up the driveway, and you cringed on the inside, hoping your uncle wouldn’t see who dropped you off. You took your bag and got out of the car, walking around to the drivers’ side where Stiles was already leaning out the window.

You looked at him and gave him a small smile. You leaned forward to give him a kiss goodbye. “You better email me your part of the paper tonight, Stilinski.”

“You bet, babe,” he winked and gave you a salute, watching as you laughed and turned to walk inside the house.

You closed the door and took off your shoes, hanging your coat and leaving your bag by the door. “I’m home!”

Coach took one look at your appearance and frowned. Right… maybe you should’ve straightened yourself out before walking into the living room. Disheveled hair, hickeys on your neck, it wasn’t exactly rocket science as to why you were home later than usual.

“If you’re gonna be having boys over, do it when I’m not around, please? I have enough of them to deal with at practice and in class. And at least have the decency to tell an uncle who he’s dealing with.”

You cringed as the Jeep’s headlights very obviously flashed through the window at that very second, Stiles driving home. It was anything but unrecognizable.

“Stilinski!? You’re sleeping with STILINSKI?! God, kill me now. If I’m now expected to have him over for Christmas dinner you better throw me off a bridge. And you BETTER use protection because I’m NOT gonna have Mini-linski’s running around.”

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lokissweater · 8 months ago

Text

a million more novembers

{mlb!megumi fushiguro x f!reader}

summary: its you and megumi’s cute little two year anniversary! a car picnic at a stargazing hotspot in the city— snacks, drinks, your loving baseball man, and gifts galore? yes please!

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, cursing, FLUUUUFFF GALOOREEEE AWWWUUHHH!!, sexual themes, mostly sfw except for like one steamy part ;), boobie sucking, grinding, soft loving megumi OFCCC, sliight angst but really nothing, all characters are aged up, mentions of reader having ‘pink cheeks’ is only to amplify and over-exaggerate feelings of embarrassment, shyness, and everything in between, and not to be taken literally! this is a work of fiction, and you can imagine many things for yourself :)

word count: 8.8k

authors note: ANNIVERSARY SPEECCCIIAAALLL I AM CRRRYYIINNNGGG!!! i hope you guys enjoy this little side fun mini chapter of sir gumi and reader’s anniversary day, and their endeavors with yuji and readers best friend :333 wanted to give you guys an extra mlb!megumi chapter in celebration of their LUUUUVVV !!! MWAAAHHHHH I LOOOVEE YOUUUU !!! TAKE CAAAREEEE !!! <3333333

i highly advise you to read the other parts of this series or else you won’t be able to understand some of the storyline and references :( you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

if you could, you’d fake pass out at this very moment so that way you’d be excused by your professor and get the fuck out of your afternoon lecture right this instant.

but you couldn’t, because attendance was mandatory and you’d lose points upon missing out… and you had an exam next week— which is something you normally just grumbled about and dealt with seeing as it was just a part of being in college, except right now? it was criminal to even think about an upcoming exam like this.

because it was you and megumi’s two year anniversary.

and the only thing you wanted to do was be there with him for the entire day… but because of your classes and megumi having abnormal back to back practices again due to the upcoming world series, you both agreed that you’d drive over to the stadium after your afternoon class and leave together for your little date after he was done.

but even though megumi had practice, you wanted to be at the stadium so fucking badly— watching him pitch and swing and just do what he does best one of your absolute favorite hobbies, the way he plays never getting old and actually illegal to even think that something like that could be a possibility.

you shrunk down in your seat, arms crossed as your professor went over topics about something and guidelines about whatever, you usually paying more attention to the material if it was any regular day but wanting to strangle yourself because the education system was preventing you from being with your man.

your phone lit up suddenly with a notification, you smiling softly to yourself upon realizing who it was and sitting up, grabbing your phone to unlock it.

(gumi <3): how’s class baby

you quickly typed back a response.

(you): do you think if i pretend to pass out right now my professor will excuse me and i can just leave

(gumi <3): lol

(gumi <3): you only have thirty minutes left though right?

(you): okay but gumi what does that have to do with me wanting to pretend to pass out so i can go see you faster

(you): and make fan edits of you while i wait

(you): I— I MEAN—

(gumi <3): omg

(gumi <3): you’ve made enough of those

(gumi <3): no more

you quietly scoffed in your seat, thumbs rapidly typing away.

(you): gumi i can’t believe you’re not supportive of my extra curricular activities rn

(you): after EVERYTHING i’ve done for you

(you): after all the times i’ve sucked your dick

(you): and i thought you liked my edits :(

megumi took a minute to respond before your phone buzzed again.

(gumi <3): LOL

(gumi <3): i do baby i’m kidding

(gumi <3): and don’t put that image in my head rn

(you): oh??????

(you): and why not???? ;))

(you): boner alert perhaps??? ;))

(you): maybe today during our cute little date you can take me to pound town in the back seat of your car and make me cum and cry all over your dick gumi!!

you shrunk further down in your seat and snickered quietly, funnily shielding your phone to prevent anyone else seated around you in your lecture from seeing the absurd messages on your phone.

(gumi <3): jesus fucking christ

(gumi <3): why are you doing this

(you): because i loooveee youuuu <33

(you): and i can’t wait to seee youuuu <333

(you): maybe i should go to the bathroom rn and send you a boobie pic :P

(gumi <3): please

(gumi <3): fuck wait my breaks over i have to go

(gumi <3): fuck

you mushed a hand over your mouth to prevent yourself from laughing out loud, typing a response.

(you): BAAAAHAHAHAH

(you): OMG IM SO SORRY GUMI

(you): HAVE A GOOD REST OF YOUR PRACTICE OKAY ILL SEE YOU IN A BIT! <3

(gumi <3): do you think if i pretend to pass out coach will excuse me

(you): NO GUMI

(you): GOOOO

(you): GO PLAY GO PLAY

(gumi <3): god

(gumi <3): fine

(gumi <3): i love you pretty baby i’ll see you

(gumi <3): and pay attention

(you): i love you too gumiiii !!! <333

(you): NO PROMISES BYE !!!

(you): SMOOOCCCHHHH

you breathed out softly through your nose and set your phone back down, one leg crossing over the other as you impatiently waited and practically glared at the powerpoint slides in front of you, your ankle bouncing and mind drifting off again— double checking over the list of things you and megumi needed for your date instead repeatedly in case you forgot something.

since your anniversary couldn’t be an all day thing, the two of you planned a cute little car picnic date at a star gazing hotspot out in the hills of the city, a place megumi had actually been to before in his childhood with gojo and his sister, and one he said he remembered to be nice and quiet with a good view of the stars, similar to how they looked like when you all went on that trip in the mountains a few months ago with his dad, yuji, and your best friend— the fact only making you overly ecstatic, since megumi suggesting something like that without a little gruff and huff was always a special rare sight to see.

and the only things megumi literally allowed you to bring were the fuzzy blankets and pillows and such, him forbidding you from buying absolutely anything else like snacks, drinks, and the food, saying that he had it and it was okay— simply only chuckling and lightly flicking your forehead when you grumbled and fought with him over it in the hopes that he would let you take care of at least half of the things.

he did not.

“alright i think i’ll stop here for today and let you guys go a little earl—”

you shot up from your desk and shoved your books in your bag, not even letting your professor finish before you were already up and speed walking out of the lecture hall and down your building, thanking the gods above for the thousandth time that megumi’s stadium was only a fifteen minute drive from your campus, and therefore made it so much easier for you to drive on over without difficulties and pretty much whenever the fuck wanted… which was all of the time.

just as you plopped in the drivers seat and chucked your bag to the passengers side, an apparent buzzing vibrated through the right back pocket of your skirt as you reached in to pull it out, your best friend’s name flashing at the top.

“hellooo!” you answered, swinging the door shut and turning on the ignition, the heater unit blasting through the vents and warming up the spiking chilly temperature in your car.

“hi babe!” your best friend greeted. “how far away are you?”

“i just got out of class! i should be there in about ten if i go over the speed limiiit.” you grinned, putting your phone on speaker and setting it down on your lap, backing out of your parking space.

“SHE SAID TEN MINUTES GOING OVER THE SPEED LIMIT MEGU— what?! i can’t— i can’t hear you idiot you’re across the fucking field!—”

you laughed loudly as you drove out of your campus parking lot, zooming down the street and going the usual route to his stadium.

“oh my— megumi ordered and yelled at me to call you to see how far you were babe.” she sighed. “when is this man ever gonna treat me fairly this is ridiculous— WHAT?! TELL HER WHAT?!—”

“i’m about eight minutes away now!” you laughed. “tell him that please i’m almost there—”

“WAIT SHE SAID SHE’S EIGHT MINUTES AWA— oh my god okay megumi says not to go over the speed limit and to park next to him in the players parking lot.”

“tell him i said watching him play baseball is more important than the law i don’t give a—”

“SHE SAID WATCHING YOU PLAY BASEBALL IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE LAW— oh he’s coming. save yourself and hang up y/n he’s coming— YUJI GET HIM HE’S GONNA TAKE MY PHONE— ARGH STOP!—”

“—go over the speed limit and see what happens.”

a different deeper voice muttered over the line, partially out of breath and one you instantly recognized to be megumi’s as you giggled.

“gumi the speed limit is a social construct and if i don’t get to watch you play for the last thirty minutes of practice i’m gonna gauge my eyeballs out.”

“baseball’s also a social construct.” he deadpanned. “and you watch me play all of the time baby don’t speed you drive like a fucking street racer sometimes.”

“but isn’t it cool and sexy that i do? eehh?” you quipped in a silly way. “and i don’t care how many times i’ve seen you play gumi… i still need to be admitted into a mental facility each time it’s embarrassing.”

he chuckled softly.

“you almost here?”

“yeah! i’m just pulling into the stadium i’m going over to your structure right now.”

“okay.” he spoke. “park next to me please.”

“—megumi i told her that already—”

“can you not eavesdrop—”

“—if it has to do with y/n fuck no—”

“—okay!” you sputtered while shifting your gear to park and turning off the ignition, cutting their bickering off. “i’m here gumi i’m gonna walk to the stadium now.”

“alright i’ll see you baby.”

“i’ll see you!—”

“your phone time’s revoked asswipe give me my device right now—”

“—can you mind your fucking business for two seconds—”

“NO!—”

you winced and hung up the phone, shaking your head amusedly as you grabbed your keys and stepped out of the car before locking it, walking your way over across the parking structure and to the entrance of the stadium, maneuvering through various hallways and corners like muscle memory and politely saying hello to some of the team’s staff that you recognized as you walked.

you passed through the main hall— megumi’s giant glorious handsome portrait still displayed proudly against the wall amongst his other teammates, prestigious awards and trophies in glass frames and casings littering the room from practically top to bottom as you happily moved through the hall, passing by the same bench that you first unknowingly and officially met megumi in while you were embarrassingly crying your eyes out over him— a treasured memory that you swoon over every now and then at the way he kindly gave you his sunglasses to hide your big fat tears.

you hoped that megumi’s management never replaced that freaking bench, as you wanted to put a plaque on it in commemoration of you and your emo man, knowing that if they ever did you’d be at those stadium doors first thing in the morning to grab and take it home with you to keep.

upon opening the doors to the stadium, you continued on down the steps as you looked on ahead and squinted your eyes, distant hollers and the clanking of bats echoing through the otherwise peaceful atmosphere, several players out on the field practicing and pitching but none being megumi as you reached the bottom and went inside the bullpen, expecting to see your best friend sitting there and possibly still fighting with your boyfriend, but faltering instead.

because megumi was sat there on the bench by himself with his baseball cap on… waiting for you, a bouquet of pretty pink tulips in his arms as he looked straight over the field with an emotionless gaze, his head snapping to you once he heard you coming in and standing up, his face gradually warming.

pink tulips were your favorite.

“gumi…” you spoke softly, astonished and mushy inside as you grabbed the bouquet from him, it neatly tucked in brown paper wrap and pretty pink tule with a little matching bow around the stems to tie it off, the paper crinkling in your arms.

“hi.”

“oh my— these are gorgeous baby thank you!” you gushed, your cheeks hot and you absolutely beaming as you swung your unoccupied arm around his neck and brought him in, pecking his slightly sweaty cheek repeatedly as he huffed out a breathy laugh and pulled you to him.

“you’re welcome.” he murmured, cheek lightly resting against the side of your head as you smiled.

“you really didn’t have to gumi you bought basically everything for today…” you spoke softly, bringing your head back a bit to look at him.

he shrugged.

“so.”

you scoffed. “so? you don’t let me do anything and i feel oppressed.”

he snorted, playfully rolling his eyes and kissing your forehead.

dramatic.

“it’s fine baby.”

“okay but it’s not.” you grumbled lowly, and the corners of his lips quirked up, taking a tiny step back as he released you and lifted a hand, gently pinching your cheek.

“you look really pretty.”

your pout slid into a cheeky smile, a cute blush rising to your cheeks.

“thank you gumi!” you readjusted the bouquet in your arms and shyly looked away, his direct dark blue eyes on you still nerve wracking even after two years.

“h— how come you’re not on the field?”

“oh.” megumi’s gaze shifted to his playing teammates. “i wanted to give you the tulips before going back out.”

your eyes softened, chest clenching as you stood up on your tippy toes and gave him a little kiss.

“you’re so nice…” you murmured.

“i—”

“fushiguro i need you back on the field!”

megumi huffed and rolled his eyes at his coach interrupting his time with you, hands reluctantly dropping from your waist as he took a step back.

“m’sorry baby...” he sighed tiredly, lifting his cap up from his spiky hair and adjusting it back on. “practice is almost over i promise.”

you frantically shook your head. “no gumi it’s okay don’t apologize! go please though i don’t want you to get in trouble.”

he nodded, quickly pecking your cheek before stepping out of the bullpen and back out on the field, turning his body slightly just as he reached the home plate and raising a hand to you as a little goodbye, shifting his attention to his coach and the rest of his teammates once he saw you give him one back.

you walked over to the benches then and sat, your eyes happily watching the mock game unfold as you settled your pretty bouquet carefully over your lap.

“please tell me you guys are done it’s fucking cold up here in the stands—”

your head shot to the side and you instantly smiled, your best friend popping her head in from the bullpen entrance and shivering.

“heyyy! oh my god yes come come—” you scooched over and patted the spot next to you, her trodding over and plopping down.

“let me seeeee!” she squealed and nudged your shoulder with hers, gesturing to your tulips as you lit up and turned the bouquet in her direction, her jaw dropping.

“i hate him but he’s good.” she muttered, shaking her head as you laughed and lightly hit her arm.

megumi ran through a few bases, passing by the bullpen and stopping at a base closest to it with remnants of brown dirt puffing and swirling through the air, him looking over his shoulder at you briefly before turning back to the game.

“he does so much for me that i feel like a big fat loser that does mediocre for him.” you spoke worriedly, and your girl friend looked at you bewilderedly.

“are you kidding? y/n you being with him is enough jesus that man is an ogre—”

you flicked her forehead and she cackled, pushing your hand away.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry i’m joking… kind of…whatever— babe you literally do so much let him dote on you like this… that man loves you.”

you pursed your lips to suppress a giddy smile.

“plus after the pain and torture we both went through with your high school boyfriend christ—”

“oh my god don’t remind me.” you mumbled, shifting your attention back to the field. “he sucked so bad.”

she laughed. “and it took you forever to realize that he was a loser y/n… you gave him too much and he gave you absolutely nothing.”

you solemnly nodded, the feeling of miserable regret filling your body.

“granted i think megumi’s also a loser.” she continued, and you playfully glared. “but! he’s a different kind of loser. he’s good for you babe… and you’re super good for him.”

you grinned brightly at her, set your bouquet to the side, and threw your arms around her shoulders, bringing her in a tight hug as she laughed loudly and held you back with just as much love.

“have fun on your anniversary date tonight!” your girl friend exclaimed. “you guys are still going to that stargazing spot right?”

“mhm!” you nodded. “we’re going up in his car and setting up the backseat once we get there.”

“are you guys getting freaky too back there?—”

your head snapped ahead to find yuji leaning against the gate of the bullpen on the other side, your eyes wide and mortified as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestingly.

“h—huh?—”

“eehhh?” your best friend matched her boyfriends expression, her eyes twinkling and mischievous. “valid question yu! what are you wearing under your outfit let me see—”

you yelped as your best friend pulled and tugged at the collar of your chunky knitted sweater, basically shoving her head through to see what you had on and you pushing on her shoulders to try and get her away.

“stop you sicko!—”

“y/n why the fuck don’t you have a lingerie set under here—”

“oh my god shut your mouth right now—”

megumi curiously turned his head over to the commotion by the bullpen, jaw dropping and eyes growing big in absolute dumb struck horror as he watched your best friend basically trying to strip your sweater off of you, and yuji just standing there and watching like a fucking pervert—

“itadori!” he barked, and yuji jumped a whopping fifteen feet in the air, swiveling around to face him.

“oh hey man!— WHAT THE FU—”

megumi hurled a literal baseball at him and yuji dove out of the way, the ball hitting against the gate of the bullpen as you and your best friend jumped at the slamming noise.

“the fuck are you guys doing?!” megumi yelled, arms out in emphasis as he quickly strode over with pinched brows.

he looked to you as soon as he properly reached the bullpen, the collar of your sweater stretched out over an exposed shoulder with your black bra literally peeking out, your pretty eyes wide and downright alarmed as your best friend still had an iron tugging grip on your sweater.

megumi’s gaze hardened, switching to your girl friend.

“get off.”

he looked to yuji, his legs wobbling in fear as he used the gaps of the bullpen gate to lift himself up from the dirt.

“close your fucking eyes—”

“yes sir fushiguro sir!—”

“what?!” your best friend exclaimed. “megumi if you guys are gonna fuck in the backseat she needs to be looking scrumptious—”

his face paled and his cheeks turned a vibrant pink simultaneously.

“why are you guys always like this?” he muttered exasperatedly, stepping inside the bullpen now and pushing her off of you, your girl friend scoffing as megumi pulled your collar back over your shoulder and fixed your sweater for you, your lips clamped shut as you tried your best to refrain yourself from laughing.

“oh my bad. thought the perv in you would thank my services—”

“why the hell would i thank you for stripping my girlfriend in front of the entire fucking team—”

“—y/n i literally think i have a lingerie set in my car i’ll give it to you it’s new i just bought it to show yuji—”

you gasped.

“wait really?! what color? i wanted to wear one but i didn’t want to show up to class with it—”

megumi’s eyes bulged and shot to you, mouth opening and closing like an idiot.

“i think it’s red but i’m pretty sure your tits are bigger than mine lemme see—”

your best friend yanked your collar again and you screamed as megumi grabbed you and pulled you up against his chest, shielding you away from your lunatic girl friend as she cackled and pointed at megumi.

“megumi’s getting a boonneeerrrr!—”

his eyes frantically switched between her and yuji— his hands still tightly clasped over his eyes.

“what kind of sick fucks are you both?!”

you giggled uncontrollably over his appalled menacing face, your laughter muffling up against his uniform.

“us?!” your best friend yelled. “don’t get me started on you! i saw that text you sent y/n last week asking to send a video of her fi—”

“oh god babe don’t finish that sentence also can i open my eyes now you guys—”

“itadori! fushiguro! huddle up!”

yuji timidly seperated his fingers and looked at the group, hands dropping and a wide smile spreading once he realized you weren’t half naked anymore.

“off we go fushiguro!” he quipped, turning and the dirt crackling beneath his cleats as he walked. “boss man wants us—”

“i heard him.” megumi grumbled, arms loosening from their hold around you as they slid and fell at his sides, his face just plain out annoyed and over it, and you smiled sweetly at him.

“it’s okay!” you poked his cheek. “i’ll wait for you here while you guys finish up? or do you want me to go inside the locker rooms already?”

“go to the locker rooms baby.” he mumbled. “it’s cold.”

you nodded, and he placed a hand on your head with the tiniest smile, heading out of the bullpen after and jogging up to the rest of his teammates for regrouping and final announcements.

your best friend swung a heavy arm around your shoulders and you both made your way to the exit just as you grabbed your bouquet again, walking up the steps of the stands and down a few corridors and pathways until you reached the echoey hallway, the teams locker room coming into view as you pushed the heavy door open and went in.

“do you still want my lingerie set?” your girl friend asked, fixing her hair in front of one of the big mirrors. “we could still try and see if it fits but your boobs are huge compared to mine—”

you laughed and waved her off. “it’s okay babe! thank you though… i don’t think we’re gonna do anything like that out in the open and in the middle of nowhere…”

she shrugged, sending you a little smirk through the mirror. “megumi’s a weirdo. so i think you in fact will.”

you shot her a funny glare and walked to your boyfriends locker while placing your pretty bouquet down on the bench— turning the little knob around and hitting the numbers that made up his locker combination, the metal clinking open and you opening it to organize his clothes and equipment like you usually did.

you dragged his heavy duffel bag out and unzipped it, rummaging around a little to find the clothes that he had packed for your date today— spotting his thick black crewneck and gray cargo pants as you took them out and folded them neatly on the bench in front of you, setting the rest of the things he needed to the side and perking up once you heard distant chattering and banter, several players starting to pile in as you shot a few polite smiles, stepping over the bench and plopping down to wait for megumi.

“i said no.”

“pleeeaaasee!” yuji begged, the two of them emerging from the entryway as you lit up at the sight of your grumpy man, his agitated eyes to the floor as he trudged over. “i thought we were best friends fushiguro. brothers if you will—”

“no.”

“pleaaaseee!—”

“what does he want?” you laughed softly, megumi’s eyes coming up and moving to his tidily folded clothes that you had set for him on the bench, his gaze softening.

“nothing bab—”

“wrestle!” yuji wailed, dramatically leaning his entire weight on your best friend in a hug as she dumbfoundedly reciprocated, patting his back. “i wanted to see who’s strongest…”

“babe go change you’re sweaty—”

“not until fushiguro wrestles with me—”

“no.”

“whyyy?!”

you giggled loudly, hand over your mouth as megumi sent you a small close lipped smile and stepped over the bench to his locker, taking off his baseball cap and hanging it inside.

“because it’s stupid.” he mumbled, and yuji scoffed.

“wrestling is the ultimate sport for strategy, discipline and character how could any of that be stupid—”

“yu change i wanna go homeee!” your best friend whined, trying to pry him off of her. “i’ll wrestle with you.”

yuji sprung up and grinned. “will you actually?! i won’t go easy babe i can’t play favorites—”

“yes now move—”

“if i win can you suck my di—”

megumi flung his deodorant at yuji’s head and rolled his eyes as he cried out and pouted, the little container clattering against the ground.

“gumi!” you gasped. “be nice please.”

he sighed softly through his nose, unbuttoning his jersey as he begrudgingly and briefly looked over his shoulder.

“sorry.”

“oh wait what was that?” you girl friend spoke up. “i think you need to speak up a little megumi! can’t hear you.”

“i said sorry.” he spat, and she smiled, satisfied.

“you’re forgiven! thanks!”

megumi grumbled as he shook his jersey off and long sleeve underneath with it, his little chain with his promise ring dangling out around his collar, and you shamelessly and obviously drooling over his bare toned frame then as he sorted through his clothes and got his things ready for the shower— the locker room emptying out now and only one or two players remaining besides the lot of you.

you extended a hand out, wanting megumi to give you his jersey and long sleeve as he shifted his attention to you.

“what baby.”

“i’ll put it in the laundry bin for you!” you spoke sweetly. “so you can go shower.”

his heart squeezed as he shook his head. “s’okay. just wait for me.”

“gumi the laundry room’s just down the hall.” you laughed, taking his uniform from him. “i’ll be quick.”

he pursed his lips, feeling like you’ve already done more than enough for him and him just dicking around and playing ball for hours this entire time, wanting to get your date started so he could spend time with you and give you the things he wanted to give you, and not be around idiot insane people anymore (yuji and your best friend).

“sit down please.” he mumbled.

your jaw dropped.

“i’m being oppressed again—”

“we’ll see you guys tomorrow!” your girl friend smiled, coming over and giving you a hug as yuji went to put a hand on megumi’s shoulder. “have fun on your date! and happy anniversaryyy!”

“thank youuuu!” you responded kindly, hugging her back and swaying funnily, letting her go after and looking to her boyfriend. “drive safe yuji okay?”

“will do!” he smiled brightly, wrapping a friendly arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. “have fun you guys. and don’t get mauled by bears.”

you snorted, the both of you pulling back and waving at each other with final goodbyes before they turned and began walking to the exit, now the only ones left in the locker rooms being you and megumi.

“text me if you have sex in the back y/n!”

“oh my god!—” you miserably dropped your head in your hands as your girl friends vulgar sentence literally echoed throughout the hallway outside, anyone within a one inch radius able to hear it as megumi laughed quietly, the doors to the locker room officially closing.

“your best friend is clinically insane.”

you giggled, nudging him away playfully and him catching your wrist just as you did so, tugging you in and wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“no she’s not.” you smiled cutely, your little cheek pressed up against the warm skin of his chest as he looked at you. “she’s honest. and lovely.”

“and deluded.”

“gumi!”

“sorry.”

he craned his neck down and kissed you, every tense muscle in his body giving away and slowly oozing into a state of peace as your soft lips moved with his, megumi finally having you to himself for the night so he could properly get your anniversary going.

he pulled away and patted your head.

“m’gonna shower really quick baby.”

“okay!” you smiled. “can i sit by the shower with you? heh.”

he chuckled and nodded, interlocking his fingers with yours and pulling you towards the shower room— a spacious and modern area with individual stalls and little plushy sofas across from them, megumi leading you to one as you sat down and took his fresh pair of clothes from him to set on your lap.

“remember when i fucked you in here.”

“gumi!” you gasped as your face grew red. “okay but which time because my favorite time was two weeks ago when you bent me over th—”

he laughed, the boyish sound bouncing off the tile walls as he shook his head with a little faint blush to his cheeks, fingers coming down to unbutton his pants and your hands flying to cover over your eyes, him pausing and looking at you quizzically.

“what.”

“i’m giving you privacy gumi. something you wouldn’t know about in regards to me.”

he scoffed.

“kay fine. i’ll stop asking—”

“no!” you yelled, hands clasping together like a prayer. “don’t finish that sentence i don’t wanna know i don’t need to know whatever it is continue doing it—”

megumi rolled his eyes with a smile, taking off the rest of his clothes and you squeaking as you covered your line of sight again, the sound of the shower running with the door closing an indicator to you that the coast was clear for you to look, hands coming down as they settled over megumi’s clean clothes.

and he literally took less than five minutes to shower… or maybe it was because your little endless chattering made the time go by faster or the fact that you always took close to an hour, but he was out of there with a towel around his delicious waist before you could even realize and on the way out to change into his outfit.

megumi straight from the shower was always an interesting sight to see, for the usual spikes in his jet black hair were nonexistent for the time being as his hair just laid flat, and he almost looked like an entirely different man as you stood on the other side of the bench behind him while he sat tying his shoe laces, you drying his hair with a small white hand towel.

“i’m really excited for tonight gumi!” you cheesed. “oh! and i brought my laptop too incase you wanted to watch a movieeee.”

he straightened up from his hunched over position and stood, turning around to kiss your head in gratitude before taking the towel from you and drying off the last bit of his hair.

“sounds good baby.” he grabbed his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder, keys hooked from one of his belt loops on his pants as he offered his hand out to you on the way out of the locker room, you happily taking it and interlacing your fingers in the hallway, the both of you walking on to leave the stadium with your bouquet in your arm, making a quick pit stop at the laundry room first to toss his uniform and towels in one of the various hampers, leaving and going through the main hall hand in hand after with the building basically vacant now— not a single player, staff, or management member around as you moved your way down corridors to the exit, entering the parking garage.

megumi grabbed his keys and clicked a button upon reaching the players parking lot area, his shiny black car beeping and flickering its lights and him opening the door to the backseat to throw his stuff in, you catching a glimpse of the piles of grocery bags filled with chips, snacks, pastries and such as you smiled, unlocking your own vehicle and opening your trunk as megumi did his.

he swiftly stepped in and grabbed your blankets and a few pillows, transferring them over to his car and you setting your bouquet down in the back, throwing in a few other things.

“oh gumi!”

“hm?”

you opened your drivers side door and reached in, megumi peering around from his open trunk to look at you.

“i got us a little lunchbox cake!” you pulled out a small white cake carrier and showed him. “and a number two candle too so we can light it!”

“oh nice baby.” he calmly smiled, reaching into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulling out his wallet.

you blinked.

“what are you doing?”

he gave you a confused look, opening the folds and taking out a few twenty dollar bills.

“for the cake.”

“what?!” you frantically shook your head. “no i got this for us—”

he scoffed, extending his arm out to you regardless with a pile of bills in hand that was way over the initial cost of the little cake, your jaw running slack.

“oh absolutely not sir i’m not taking that—”

“take it.”

“nope!”

“y/n.”

“nuh uh.”

megumi sighed and retracted his hand. “i’m putting it in your purse—”

“if you put it in my purse i swear to god i’m never letting you see me naked ever again—”

he froze and narrowed his eyes at you, you standing there with a shit eating grin as you tilted your head.

“just get in the car.” he grumbled, slamming his trunk shut and doing the same with yours, you cheering in your head and lighting up over your win as you opened his passenger side door and got in, completely unaware of megumi choosing to take his chances and shove the bills in your purse anyways.

the car ride there was a whopping one hour, seeing as the stargazing hotspot was in the middle of the bustling city where megumi’s apartment was around, your boyfriend making frequent stops at various food places to pick up the food he had ordered for the picnic, and you still fighting with him over the fact that he should let you pay at least half, him just laughing at your huffs and puffs until he simmered you down to a mere grumble with a kiss to your cheek.

“i don’t care how many times i’ve done it there isn’t a limit.”

megumi backed in reverse once he found a good spot for you both on the hill, looking behind through his rear view window with a hand on the back of your headrest.

“but you have to let me pay sometimes gumi.” you sighed softly. “i feel like im freeloading off of your millions and doing fucking nothing.”

he gave you a bewildered look.

“first of all.” he shifted his gear into park. “you do everything so don’t give me that. second of all—”

he unlocked the car and you both got out, the trunk latching open on its own as you walked over.

“you’re not supposed to pay baby.” he stared at you sincerely, a little crease in between his brows. “ever. i don’t care.”

he unhooked the backseats and pushed them down, the trunk now extending even wider and leaving plenty of space for the two of you to set up your picnic, your shoes off and down below next to the car.

“i just—” you struggled, shaking out the blankets and splaying them out. “i worry that it’ll bother you eventually…”

“it won’t.” he responded firmly, yet still gentle. “did your ex-boyfriend make you feel bad about it? is that why?”

you froze.

“no…”

he looked over his shoulder just as he set a pillow down, dark blue eyes staring you down.

“wow i’m so hungry right now gumi are you—”

“i heard what your best friend said during practice about him.” he set a few more pillows down. “she talks like a linebacker.”

you laughed, grabbing the box of fairy lights you had brought and pulling them out, untangling them by sections.

megumi never really asked too in detail about your ex, just because he knew he’d get bitter and bothered by the thought of it, and the only things he really knew was that he was a moron who said you were a blabbermouth and didn’t treat you right at all, your three and a half year relationship with him in high school one megumi wished he could erase entirely.

but now with the way you squirmed and stared off into space in avoidance over this particular topic… he was curious.

just how bad was he?

“did he pay for your dates or did you.”

you fiddled with a little fairy light bulb.

“well— he did… but then we started splitting it… and then i started paying…”

megumi shook his head, reaching for the grocery bags and taking out the snacks he’d bought.

“why.”

you finished untangling the cord and reached up, looping the lights around through the grab handles of the car.

“i don’t really know…” you mumbled. “but i felt bad because he always did initially pay… so i was just giving back. but then—”

you looped it through the last handle and grabbed the battery box.

“i remember one time he asked me if we could split the bill on our anniversary dinner.”

megumi stopped.

“and then every time he did pay for me he would say side joking comments like— ‘are you gonna pay this time? are you gonna take care of the bill? since i bought you dinner are you gonna buy me this?’ blah blah—”

megumi was looking directly at you at this point, eyebrows furrowed and with slightly parted lips as he slowly set up the food and listened.

“and i don’t mess around when it comes to things like money.” you finished off screwing the battery box after putting a fresh pair in, switching the small lever and the fairly lights twinkling to life. “i appreciated so much every time he did pay so i just felt like i was— i don’t know i just felt guilty. his side comments made me feel a little awkward…”

you scooched over and sat back on your ankles next to megumi, helping him with the groceries.

“i remember one time too for valentine’s day, we had gone out to eat dinner and he paid with his usual side comment… but when we got back to his place i had given him his gift and he hadn’t gotten anything for me at all.”

“huh?” he spoke up. “did he give you flowers at least?”

you shook your head, a little sad look on your face.

“he told me my gift was dinner… which again i did really appreciate that he paid. and he never really got me flowers either unless it was for special occasions like anniversaries… so once a year?”

megumi was in complete and utter disbelief.

how in the ever living fuck were you ever with a guy like that for so long? a girl like you whom he literally worshipped the shit out of the ground you walked on, the thought of you being so incredibly sweet and doting and selfless for some dumb fuck who just took advantage of your kindness again aggravating megumi, him chucking the pastries he bought out of the bags one by one bitterly and you blinking at him.

“what a fucking idiot.”

you giggled, nodding in agreement as you both finished setting up, you crawling and sitting down by the mountain of fluffy pillows as you extended an arm out for him.

“that’s why i just get nervous gumi…” you spoke softly, pulling him to lay down next to you as you looked at the beading stars through his open sun roof, the view and landscape of the sparkling city below insane as megumi slid an am around your shoulders, nudging you to lay on his chest. “i don’t wanna end up bothering you or upsetting you about it and repeating the cycle so—”

“oh god baby no…” he looked at you, squeezing your shoulder. “you realize all of that was because he’s a loser right.”

“yeah to an extent—”

“no not to an extent.” megumi cut you off. “i know for a fact he never did anything for you… and for him to do shit like that on top of it is crazy.”

you slid a slow arm across his torso and held him tighter.

“i do what i do because i love you… and because you deserve it. and because i’m supposed to.”

you smiled big, your heart hammering in your chest as you slung your leg across his lap and straddled him then, megumi’s hands instantly coming to settle on your waist as you gave him a cute wicked look.

“i’m tired of talking about him, but you know what else you’re supposed to do?”

the side of his lip curled.

“what pretty baby.”

“make out with me.”

he laughed, a shiny smile on his face as he reached a hand up and brushed your hair over your shoulder, cupping your face after and bringing you down to his level.

“if you tell me you love me.”

you giggled.

“i love you gumi.”

megumi brought you in then and kissed you, light little smacks and wet lips parting and moving as your noses brushed against each other’s delicately, his thumb running gently over your cheek as you readjusted and leaned in, deepening the kiss and megumi parting his lips wider as a result to drink more of you down.

your hips subconsciously rutted downward, him taking a sharp breath in through his nose as he responded and lifted his crotch up, meeting with yours and grinding sensually with every steamy exchange of your soft plush lips on his, both of his hands quickly going down to grab your smooth thighs and knead them.

megumi suddenly slid a fast hand up your chunky sweater to cup your tit, you squeaking and trying to pull your lips off of his so you could speak, but him only chasing after your mouth and trapping you in.

“wait what if— mmph!—”

“hm?”

he forced your hips down again and you both moaned at the stimulation.

“what if someone walks by there’s a— fuck— there’s a few cars not too far—”

“don’t care.”

“gumi!—”

he yanked your bra cup down and your tit spilled out, his head diving in under your sweater and popping your nipple in his mouth, both of your hips still grinding and rocking against each others as you dazedly tried to look around for any passing people.

you tried to pull off and megumi yanked your other bra cup down, jerking you roughly to him as your weight gave out underneath you and you basically fell on him, his face fully submerged and stuffed in your puffy tits that he nearly lost it and came in his pants.

lewd slobbering sounds filled the car as he sucked and laid his tongue flat all over your boobs, your shuttering gasps and whines making his dick rock fucking solid in his pants as he continued to make out with your chest, relishing in the feeling of your panties running up and down his crotch and your pretty little skirt exposing your ass.

“baby i’m flashing the city please—”

“m’gonna stick my dick in.”

“no!” you whined, your clit pulsing with every rut from his hips. “when we get home when we get home please it’ll be so obvious we’re having sex if we do—”

he bit the fat of your tit and you yelped.

“it’s our anniversary.”

“i— i know gumi but there’s people!—”

he groaned and let your tits go with a pop, head falling back on the pillows as he looked at you with a dead look— knowing you were completely and absolutely right but refusing to believe it because he was fucking horny, the only conscious brain cell that he had left telling him to just wait and that he’d actually cum in his pants if he kept going.

a tiny smirk spread across his face.

“thought you texted me that i could take you to pound town in the backseat of my car.”

you blushed, totally forgetting you did that.

“y—yes but—”

“and that you were gonna send me a picture of your tits.”

“i—”

“you lying to me baby?”

“no!” you sputtered. “no gumi we’re still gonna have sex just not here!”

he laughed loudly and nodded, pinching your cheek as he fixed your bra and pulled your sweater down, sitting up a bit.

“i’m kidding s’okay.” he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “m’taking pictures of you when we get to my apartment though.”

“huh?!” you exclaimed, your face buzzing with embarrassment but need at the same time. “what— what kind—”

he poked your side.

“naked.”

your jaw dropped.

“legs spread with—”

“okay i get it i get it!—”

you slapped your hands over his mouth and muffled the rest of his sentence, desperate to get him to stop.

“i have your gift i have your gift open your gift!—”

megumi rolled his eyes and licked his slimy tongue on your palms, you snatching your hands away and giggling as you wiped them on his sweater.

“i told you not to get me anything.”

“too bad!” you grinned, pecking his cheek before swinging yourself off of his lap and reaching into the passengers seat. “close your eyes!”

he sighed softly, a small smile on his face as he complied, hearing slight tissue paper rustlings and things moving before he felt you next to him again.

“okay open!”

his long lashes lifted, eyes growing soft at the ginormous basket you made him— his favorite candies and chips neatly propped up inside with a little baseball teddy bear that had ‘cool baseball man’ embroidered across its jersey, a framed silly picture of the two of you from one of the nights you slept over at his place, various volumes of his current favorite manga wrapped in black tissue paper along with a lego race car set, and a separate shoe box next to the basket— a brand new pair of baseball cleats that he had been specifically eyeing and needing to buy, and knowing that it was ridiculously expensive too as his bulging eyes shot up to your giddy ones.

“baby—” his words got caught in his throat, shaking his head. “baby thank you but you didn’t have to get anything seriously—”

“the fuck.” you snorted. “yes i did! do you likeeee?”

you pushed the shoe box towards him.

“did i get the right ones? these are the cleats you’ve been wanting right?”

he nodded dumbly. “y—yeah but they’re expensive i don’t want you spending this much.”

“gumi money is a social construct.” you smiled. “but my love for you isn’t… it’s bible! happy anniversary!”

megumi looked down and slowly took the little grizzly bear out of the basket, everything you gave him absolutely perfect and filled with the things he loved, but the custom bear with the nickname you always called him— the same one he adored ever since you first said it, somehow pulling at his heart strings more than anything else.

“i love you.” he mumbled. “thank you.”

you beamed, leaning over and pecking his lips.

“because you do everything for me gumi.” you spoke. “i can’t thank you enough for the things you do for me… and i love you.”

a cute pink blush rose to his cheeks as his gaze stayed locked on the bear, feeling his throat closing up from how much you were affecting him at the moment.

he sent you a smile.

“can i give you mine?”

you stopped.

“what? i thought the pretty tulips were my gift?”

he snorted, giving you a look.

“no you dummy.”

he reached under one of the seats, pulling gift bag after gift bag after gift bag from somewhere as he placed them all in a line in front of you, a shocked look on your face as you looked at the amount of tissue paper and packaging that was in your line of sight.

“holy shit.” you flashed him a growing dazzling smile. “are you— for me? actually?”

he nodded.

“guummiii!!” you flung your arms around his neck and pulled him in a tight hug, rubbing your cheek on his head side to side in a silly way before you let go and sat back on your ankles again, him chuckling at your excitement.

“i don’t even—” your eyes darted around. “i don’t even know which one—”

one by one you unraveled each wrapping and tore open each bag, your lap filling up with things that you fucking loved as you tried not to cry between opening each gift— pretty intricate coquette bottled perfumes that you liked to collect everywhere as you knew they were also a pretty penny (so him complaining about his cleats was dumb), cute mary jane pumps and makeup you needed as well as new that you’d been wanting, silver and gold sparkling jewelry that resided in small boxes and wrapped in pretty pink bows, sweaters and cute tops and just fucking everything as you ended up a crying snotting mess at the end of it anyways, him laughing at you.

because each item were things that you needed, things that you knew he couldn’t have possibly known unless he was truly paying attention to the things you were saying and the things you were looking at… this moment proving that he most definitely was.

and a crazy wicked amount too— because some of the items in front of you were even things you had merely mentioned once and done with, accompanied by others that you babbled on about whenever you could.

“gumi we can have sex right now let’s have sex i don’t care—”

he laughed for the millionth time and shot his hands out, literally trying to pull you off of him as you lunged and leaned your entire weight on him, practically fighting him by the end of it as you giggled and tried to get in his pants.

“you’re harassing me.” he mumbled, and you scoffed.

“like you don’t do this to me everyday of my living life— eek!”

megumi bit your cheek and you pushed on his chest to get him away, him not budging as his nibbling travelled down to your neck as you gasped for air laughing at how much that was tickling you, and him knowing that was what usually set you off into a giggle fit, your stomach aching and him dodging your hits and swings, but both of your hearts full from a days worth of complete and utter unconditional love.

and neither of you would have it any other way as you shared the food and pastries you bought, stuffing your faces full of chocolates and mochi specifically as you both had insane sweet tooth’s and weren’t ashamed of it, chatted on about future plans and your excitement for megumi and the upcoming world series, and you elated for the holiday season too that was fast approaching, your little mind already thinking of gifts and plans and decisions because your boyfriend’s birthday was coming up as well.

and you wanted to do everything you possibly could to make it special.

for he made you feel that everyday.

especially now in this moment, the little heart shaped lunchbox cake you bought with ‘happy 2nd anniversary’ in cursive still looking fucking delicious even after you and megumi had just downed an entire pack of brownies, megumi lightning up the number two candle as you pushed it in the cake, and the both of you sweetly pecking lips as you held up the cake in between the two of you and him snapping a picture with his phone— candid and lovely and everything you’d both ever wanted in your lives rightfully yours right then and there.

happiness. love.

and your hearts were swelling with everything you had built for the past two years, and swelling in anticipation for the hopes and curiosity of what else the two of you would continue to build… something you only hoped would last forever and ever and that you got to count and spend even more anniversaries with megumi from this point forward.

with nothing less, nothing extra, and just like this.

for a million more november’s to come.

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

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colouredbyd · 7 days ago

Text

my girl

sirius black x fem!reader

summary: in which you overhear sirius calling you his girl, like it’s the simplest truth he’s ever known. thus, a lovesick and kiss-drunk sirius makes it his mission to say it again, and again, until you finally believe it.

warnings: fluff, excessive affection, pet names, public displays of affection, mild teasing, soft!sirius who’s so in love, overwhelming sweetness, lovesick behavior, lots of kissing, tooth rotting fluff

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

The thing about dating Sirius Black is that it never quite feels real.

Not in the way people describe disbelief, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in that strange, dreamy sense of stumbling into a story someone else might’ve written—some fairytale stitched with mischief and the kind of heat that lingers in the spaces between words.

It has been a few months now.

Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius.

He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.

And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and sweetly.

You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.

Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.

You’re almost there when you hear his voice.

It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter.

You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him.

“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”

Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says.

“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”

There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.

“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”

James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”

“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”

It hits you like a whispered spell.

Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.

It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library.

In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room.

In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”

But still—my girl.

You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.

Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.

You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.

Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.

Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”

James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”

“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.

Panic sparks in your chest.

You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole—because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived.

And then there he is.

Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago.

His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.

“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.

His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.

“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”

You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”

He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.

“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”

You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.

“Hmm?”

You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”

You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”

Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”

“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”

He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.

His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.

You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”

He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”

You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”

You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.

He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”

Your face gives you away in an instant.

Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.

“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”

You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”

He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden.

You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.

But you don’t get far.

Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.

His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.

He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.

“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.

You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”

His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”

You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.

“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.

Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”

You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.

He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.

“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.

He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.

“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.

Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”

You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”

He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”

You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.

“My most favourite girl.”

Each word hums against your skin like a spell.

And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.

A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning.

You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.

He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—

“Can I get a kiss?”

The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much.

His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.

His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.

There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.

Because this is the part no one sees.

This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.

And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.

Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.

But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.

He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.

He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.

Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.

You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.

He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—

“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.

You blink at him. “You’re so—”

But you don’t get to finish.

Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.

And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.

Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.

And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.

His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real.

His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.

His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.

And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss.

You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”

He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.

“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.

“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”

You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.

He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.

“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.

“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”

At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.

“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”

You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”

“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—.”

You snort. “Okay, I get it!”

But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.

“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”

You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”

He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest. “What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.

“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.

“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”

You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.

Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.

And from that moment on, he never stopped.

Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.

He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.

And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.

Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.

James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.

You were his girl after all, and he wanted the whole world to know it.

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

Text

A Year of You

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that��s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #fanfiction #shawn hatosy

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stxrrywoo · 17 days ago

Text

JUST YOU ── c.sn

synopsis ; he was just your annoying roommate that you just couldn't wait to get away from. all of his late night rendezvous started to get under your skin so you just avoided him like the plague. that was until you needed his help getting to class and of course he wanted something in return.

pairing(s) ; san x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 7.3k ☆ ── genre ; smut, fluff, roommate!san, roommate au, enemies to lovers(ish) ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, teasing, san acts like a doucebag but is actually pretty sweet, kinda mixed signals, kissing, rough and messy makeout, manhandling, petnames (princess, baby, darling, sweetheart...), dom!san x sub!reader, big dick!san, kinda inexperienced reader, praising, unprotected sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, biting/marking, breast play, dirty talk, hickies, creampie, slight dumbification, rough sex, sickly sweet aftercare, mentions of a sex tape at the end, lmk if I missed anything!!!

A chill ran down your spine as you followed your best friend, Harper, into the school’s main building. The storm from the night before brought a cold front along with it, making the air even more chilly than it’s normally been since fall started. Shaking off the chill, you looked around the hall, noticing that there were fewer people than usual.

“Oh yeah, y/n, did you hear about the science wing?” Harper asked as she fastened the strap around her umbrella after closing it.

You rubbed your hands together, trying to gain some warmth back into them before looking over at her confused, “I haven’t heard anything; what happened?”

“The whole building flooded, apparently, so they moved most of the classes to different buildings.” She explained as the two of you maneuvered your way down the hallway. However, she could tell by the panic in your eyes that you hadn’t heard anything. Stopping, she turned to look at you with a hint of worry: " Didn’t you get the email this morning?”

“No, the storm knocked the power out in the entire apartment complex, so my phone didn’t charge,” You started to panic a little as you pulled the device from your back pocket, and just as you thought the screen would turn on, meaning that it was dead, “it also reset my alarm clock when it came back on this morning so I woke up late and rushed to even get here on time and—”

“Y/n. Girl, please take a breath,” Harper grabbed your arm softly, making you look over at her, “Why didn’t San wake you up? You guys have chem together.” Her question was innocent, but the mention of your douchebag roommate made your mood sour so much more.

“San, wake me up? That’s funny, actually.” You scoffed, shoving your phone back into your pocket and running your fingers through your hair, “No, he was out late at night, probably getting his dick wet per usual.”

Harper couldn’t help but grimace at your vulgar words, but she knew you were right. San was the residential fuck boy, after all.

“I’m sure there’s someone from your class here, just ask them.” She asked as she looked around the hall, trying to stop a familiar face, but came up blank, and so had you.

“Son of a bitch.” You cursed lowly, looking around the hall once more, hoping by some miracle that you would see someone, but again, you couldn’t find a single familiar face. Then, an idea popped into your head, causing you to look back at Harper with wide eyes, “Harp, can I use your phone?”

Harper looked at the time before turning to look at you with a solemn look, “Sorry, babes, I’ve gotta get to class.” She patted your arm before a familiar face caught her eye, “isn’t that San? Why don’t you ask him?” She asked, pointing over your shoulder, and when you turned, sure enough, standing there on the other side of the hall was none other than Choi San, your douchebag roommate.

Watching him chat and laugh with his friends like he didn’t have class in twenty minutes made your blood boil, it pissed you off. However, it pisses you off even more that you care enough to get upset. His carefree attitude and his self-righteousness were probably some of his more annoying traits, yet… it was also insanely attractive to you, and you hated it.

“Hey, earth to y/n.” Harper waved her hand in front of your face, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, “Go ask him.”

“Fuck me.” You groaned, and Harper patted your shoulder with an apologetic smile. After a few moments of contemplating if you really wanted to ask San for help, you just let out a sigh, knowing you didn’t have much of a choice. “Alright, I’ll see you later, Harper. That is if I don’t get arrested for attempted murder.”

Harper laughed softly with a shake of her head, “Good luck, girl.” Then she made her way down the hall towards her classroom, leaving you standing there.

Mustering up enough willpower to ask your attractive annoying roommate where your class had moved to. Hiking your bag higher up your shoulder, you turned and made your way over to where he was still talking to two of his friends. Once you were within eyesight, a smirk tugged on the male’s lips, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his letterman jacket. Your mind then started to wonder if it smelled like his cologne that you had grown attached to or how warm it was.

“What brings you here, roomie?” San asked, pulling you from your thoughts. Heat rushed up your neck, warming your cheeks. His feline-like eyes trailed the length of your body, which only irritated you further, seeing as you thought it was a bright idea to wear a skirt.

“San.” Your tone was curt as you looked at him, arms crossed over your chest as you tried with all your might to keep your voice steady despite the heat from his gaze. “Do you know where they moved chem?” The sas in your tone caused both of San’s buddies to laugh; one, who you recognized as Song Mingi, hit San’s arm as they looked down at you.

“Yeah, I do, why? Need help getting there?” He asked smugly, a knowing gleam in his eyes that told you that he was already sure that you did, in fact, need his help.

You inhaled sharply, trying to fight the urge to tell him no and walk away just so he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of knowing that you needed his help. However, you knew that if you did that, you would just end up being late to your class or missing it altogether. So you licked your lips before rolling your eyes and nodding.

“Yes, I do. My phone is dead, and there’s no one else from our class here," you told him, a small glare adorning your features, causing San to chuckle. The sound alone was enough to make you weak in your knees, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

“All you have to do is ask princess.” San’s lip quirked into a sly smirk as he pushed himself off of the wall, taking a step towards you. His teasing tone made you wanna punch him in his stupidly attractive face because you would rather be caught dead than ask him straightforwardly.

Dropping your hands to your sides, you glared up at him, “Fine, I’ll just figure it out myself.” With that, you turned and started walking down the hall, trying to ignore the fit of laughter behind you.

San shook his head before looking back at his friends with a dimpled smile, “I’ll catch you guys later.”

You grumbled angrily to yourself as you made your way back out of the building, head on a swivel, hoping to spot anyone from your chem class to ask for the whereabouts of the building. The cold, harsh wind swept across your body, and you couldn’t help but shiver.

“You sure today was a good day to wear a skirt?” San teased as he stopped right next to you, his voice making you jump slightly. His eyes trailed along the length of your body once more, noticing the layer of goosebumps that covered your legs and how you were starting to shake.

You crossed your arms over your chest once more, trying to warm yourself up, “what do you want, San?”

“I'm taking you to class, of course.” He flashed you his signature dimpled smile, and you had to turn away as heat rushed to your cheek, turning your face red. For once, you were thankful for the chilly wind. “Come on, my car is this way.” San motioned over to the parking lot before he walked off.

You wanted to just tell him to screw off, but you couldn’t not unless you wanted to freeze out in the cold while you tried to find your class that you would inevitably be late for. So, swallowing your pride, you made sure no cars were driving by before jogging across the street and to San’s side.

San glanced over at you as you walked next to him, the small pout that was on your lip made his hands itch, wanting nothing more than to kiss it off. But he decided against it and just reached over, poking your cheek, causing you to swat his hand away and glare up at him.

“Don’t touch me.” You hissed, turning back to face away from him, causing him to chuckle.

“You’re cute when you’re all pouty.” He teases, pulling his car keys out of his pocket and unlocking his car.

You bit the inside of your cheek at his remark, trying to ease the swarm of butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

Once you got to his car, you didn’t say a word as you walked over to the passenger side, but San was quicker and opened the door for you. You looked over at him skeptically and he just smiled at you with an unreadable gleam in his eye.

“Ladies first.” He mocked a bow as he gestured to the open door, and your eyes narrowed, trying to read him but to no avail, so you just let out a huff before stepping into the car.

San shut the door after making sure you were in completely before rounding the car and climbing into the driver's seat. He started the car and turned the heat on, making sure some of the vents were facing you before putting the car in reverse.

Your heart nearly stopped when he put his hand on the back of your headrest, turning his head to look behind him as he backed out of the parking spot. You couldn’t help but stare as he did so, and noticing your gaze, he turned back around and winked at you in the process. Heat rushed to your face making your ears ring in embarrassment from being caught. San chuckled softly as he threw the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

The drive over to the new building was filled with the hum of San’s car engine and the quiet music that spilled from the radio. Your leg bounced as you stared out the window, the little voice in the back of your mind reminding you of who you were sitting in the car with.

“Did you not check your email this morning?” San asked, glancing over at you just as you turned your head to look at him with a deadpan expression.

Letting out an annoyed sigh, you shook your head, “No, the power went out. Which you would have known if you weren’t so busy sticking your dick in some random bitch.”

Your snarky response made San smirk, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel as he turned into a parking lot. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

A scoff escaped your lips as you looked at him in disgust despite the rapid beating of your heart. There was no way in hell that you would be jealous that he was fucking some random girl almost every week. Rolling your eyes, “Why would I be jealous? Who knows what you have.”

Parking the car, San looked over at you with a smug smirk, leaning over the center console until he was inches away from you. Your breath hitched in your throat when you turned to find him so close, wide eyes staring into his eyes.

“Who said I was talking about me?” He quipped, eyes flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes once more.

Your face felt as if it were on fire as you stumbled over your words, none of which made any sense the moment they fell from your lips. San, of course, was enjoying every second of it as he continued to lean closer to you, watching in amusement as you backed away until you couldn’t anymore.

“S-San.” Your tone held a warning as you got ready to push him away, but he reached over to the door, pulling his student ID out of the compartment.

“What’s wrong, princess? You didn’t think I was gonna kiss you, did you?” He raised an eyebrow as he slowly sat back down in his seat.

Annoyance flowed through your veins as he continued to stare at you with that stupid smirk. Your jaw tightens as you unbuckle your seatbelt and grab your bag from the floorboard. Just as you were about to open the door, San locked them, causing you to look at him with a glare.

“What the hell San?”

“I’m going to be out late with the guys, so make sure to leave some dinner for me," he told you before turning the car off and unlocking the doors.

You just stared at him in disbelief, trying to find where the hell he got the audacity to try to order you around. Running your tongue over your teeth, you pushed the car door open, “You’re such an ass.”

San watched as you got out of the car, slamming the door behind you before storming off to the building, not even giving him a chance to catch up. He sighed before getting out of the car and following after you.

During class, no matter how many times San tried to grab your attention or even talk to you, you would just ignore him. Once the professor was done lecturing and left you to do your class work, you quickly pulled out your headphones, hoping to drown out any and all of San’s attempts with music. This worked until class was over.

“Hey, y/n, did you need—”

“No.” Your response was curt as you pushed past San and right out of the classroom because you weren’t about to be stuck in the car with him once again, not after the stunt he pulled before.

San had to bite back the smirk that was fighting to spread across his lips as he watched the tips of your ears turn red any time he got even remotely close to you. Though he knew you couldn’t avoid him forever, not when the two of you lived together.

You did owe him, after all.

—

Later that night, you found yourself standing in the kitchen waiting for the last of dinner to finish up. Watching with tired eyes as the time counted down before finally going off, you pulled the food out of the oven before plating everything on two separate plates and cleaning off all of the dishes that you had used to cook dinner.

Just as you stuck your own plate of food into the fridge, you heard the front door open, and your eyebrows furrowed. San wasn’t supposed to be back for at least another hour or so, you thought. Shrugging, you just grabbed his plate and sat it down on the table before making your way to the hallway, only to run right into San.

“Fancy meeting you here,” San teased, grabbing your arms softly as you pulled away from him. You looked up at him with a half-tired, half-annoyed expression before you noticed that he was alone, which was a surprise.

“We live together, San,” you said before moving to step around him. "Your food is on the table.”

Noticing that you didn’t have a plate or anything with you, he quickly reached over and grabbed your arm, pulling you back towards him. A small gasp of surprise fell from your lips as you stumbled back into him once more.

“Where’s your food?” He asked softly as you started rubbing your temples, just ready to escape back into your bedroom, not wanting to deal with any more of his mixed signal bullshit.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat, y/n," San said before moving down to grab your wrist and pulling you into the dining room, ignoring all of your protests.

“San, seriously, I can eat later.” You groaned, trying to slip out of his grip, but his hold was far too strong.

He ignored you as he pushed you to sit down in the chair with his food in front of it. You opened your mouth to say something, but he fixed you with a stern gaze, and you quickly shut your mouth. Sighing, you grabbed the chopsticks and started eating slowly as San watched you for a moment before turning and going into the kitchen to grab the other plate.

When he sat back down, the two of you ate in silence, and you weren’t sure how much more awkward silence you could take before you went insane. So you finished your bite and went to push away from the table, but San’s voice stopped you.

“So, about what you owe me.” He started, setting his chopsticks down to look over at you, finding your confused expression. “Don’t tell me you already forgot about me helping you get to class.” He smirked, intertwining his fingers together to rest his chin on top of them.

You inhaled sharply as you figured out what he meant. Of course, he wanted something in return. Rolling your eyes, you leaned back in your chair, ready to hear whatever it was that he wanted in return. “What do you want, San?”

“You.” His response was curt, and you almost choked on the air as you looked at him with wide eyes. After a few moments, the shock wore off, replaced by annoyance.

Standing from your seat, you shoved the chair back under the table, “Yeah, no.” You huffed as you went to grab your plate, but San grabbed your wrist, tugging until you were standing next to him.

“I’m serious, y/n.” He looked up at you, and you couldn’t tell if he really was being serious or not. The last thing that you wanted was to become another notch on his belt.

“So am I San. I’m not becoming another one of your little playthings.” You stated, pulling your arm from his grasp and grabbing your plate.

You walked into the kitchen, narrowly missing his attempt to grab you once more, and rinsed your plate off. Annoyance radiated off of you in waves as you scrubbed the plate in your hands; you knew that being anywhere near San would only piss you off. Now, with his outrageous proposition, you couldn’t help but feel a bit upset by it.

Sure, San was hot and was almost everything a girl looked for when looking for a boyfriend, but the only downside is that he never settles. You’re pretty sure that’s what bugs you the most because even if you said yes in hopes of something more happening, the chances were slim to none. So you just put your pride first and decided that you wouldn’t let it happen despite the growing heat that pooled in your core at the thought of San actually wanting you like that.

You had become so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed that San walked into the room until the water was turned off and hands were placed on either side of your body.

“San—” Your breath hitched in your throat as you turned to find him merely inches away. His grip on the counter was tight enough to let you know that you wouldn’t be going anywhere until he moved.

Looking up at him you scanned his face as his eyes flickered down to your lips once again. Dipping his head down, he moved until he was a breath away from your lips, and you were sure that your heart was in your throat at this point.

“San…” Your voice shook as you tried to back away, but the counter behind you left you little to no room to do so.

“I want you y/n. Just you.” He whispered, his warm breath fanning your face causing your eyes to flutter, but you fought against the urge to give into him. Placing your hands on his shoulders to push away but he moved closer to you, his lips ghosting over your cheek. “Let me prove it to you, please.”

A whine fell from your lips when his breath blew over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. The small noise was enough to drive San insane as he pressed against your body and moved to look down at you.

“Fine,” You released a breath as you looked up at him with a hooded gaze, “but I swear to go if you’re lying to me.”

San didn’t need to hear anymore before he reached up to grab the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “I’m not.”

Then his lips were on your with an almost bruising force, stealing all of the air from your lungs. A meek whimper fell from your lips as you tried your best to keep up with his pace, but it was impossible. San’s other hand moved from the counter to grab your waist, pulling you even closer, leaving absolutely no space between your bodies.

“San.” You let out a breathy moan as his lips trailed down your jaw before latching onto the burning skin of your neck. Your hands gripped onto his shoulders tightly, trying to ground yourself, but your mind was slowly slipping as San left dark purple and red marks along your jugular.

“Don’t slip away from me yet, darling; we’re nowhere near started.” His voice was husky as his lips grazed over your ear before nipping at the shell, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

His hands trailed down the length of your body as he captured your lips once more, finding the back of your thighs and hoisting you onto the countertop. A gasp fell from your lips, muffled by his as your hands clutched onto his shoulders.

Slotting his body between your thighs, he grabbed the back of your neck once more, pulling you down to kiss him once more. His tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you obey, parting your lips and allowing his tongue to explore every inch of your warm cavern.

He soaked in all of the little sounds that you made as he continued to play with your body until you were shaking in his hold from the overwhelming amount of pleasure. His fingers danced along the hem of your sleep shorts, igniting a fire in the pit of your gut, and a whine fell from your swollen lips when he moved away.

“As hot as it would be, I’m not gonna fuck you in the kitchen. Not this time, at least.” He chuckled, watching the way your doe eyes stared up at him, a silent plea gleaming in your orbs. Reaching down, he grabbed the back of your thighs once more before hoisting you onto his waist.

“Shit.” You groaned when you felt his hands cup your ass after your legs wrapped around him. The way his scent was surrounding you like this was making you dizzy, your nose buried in his neck as he carried you out of the kitchen. “You smell so good, Sannie…”

A chill ran down San’s spine when he felt your lips press against the sensitive skin right under his ear. He tried to keep his composure as you left a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. There were sure to be marks in the morning.

“Princess…” San warned as you snaked your hand under the collar of his shirt, raking your nails down the taunt skin of his back. A loud gasp fell from your lips when his hand made contact with your ass, the skin stinging from the force, “don’t be a brat now.” He growled, but you only responded by latching onto his neck, biting down harshly, threatening to break the skin. “Fuckkk.”

San was losing his composure by the minute, and the moment he finally made it to his bedroom, he was on his last strand of sanity. Throwing you onto his bed, he quickly crawled over you, trapping your body underneath his once more.

You looked up at him, focusing on how his eyes trailed all over your face before settling on your lips. His hips were pressed firmly against yours, and you could feel his bulge pressing right against your clothed core. You rolled your hips in search of some kind of friction, but San was quick to halt your movements, his grip tight on your hip as he moved a breath away from your face.

“Such a needy little thing. Weren’t you just saying today that you didn’t want me?” He teased, and your face grew warm as you recalled your conversation in the car, “but don’t worry, sweetheart, as long as you’re a good girl, I’ll make you cum as many times as you want.” San smirked as he took in your lust-filled expression, your hips trying to move despite his firm grip.

“I’ll be good, Sannie, please.” You begged, hands grabbing at his shirt, causing him to chuckle darkly.

He then moved his hand from your hip, fingers hooking around the band of your shorts, tugging the fabric down your legs harshly, leaving your bottom half completely bare.

As soon as the cool air hit your heated center a whine fell from your lips, tears already pricking at your eyes. San watched you intently as he moved his fingers down your navel, slipping between your folds, collecting some of your slick on his digits before pressing down on your clit. A choked moan tore through your lips, back arching off of the bed.

“So wet and so sensitive, aren’t you, princess.” San chuckled as he slowly circled your clit, watching your jaw fall slack. Moving from your clit he traced along your slit before plunging one of his fingers into your warm heat.

“San!” You cried out at the sudden intrusion, tears already spilling from the corner of your eyes.

“You’re so fucking tight, fuck when was the last time you got laid?” San groaned, not missing the way you covered your lower face, and turned away from his gaze. Chuckling, he bent down, peppering kisses along your exposed collarbone, “No need to get shy on me now, darling, plus you won’t have to worry about that after today.”

Heat rushed up your neck at what his words implied, but any thoughts were wiped away the moment he interested a second digit, his thumb pressing down on your clit. Your back arched off of the bed, pressing your chest against his when he brushed over that spongy spot deep inside of your cunt. Taking note of your reaction, San continued to abuse that spot, relishing in all of the lewd, wet noises that were coming from your cunt the wetter you got.

“San– fuck, I’m gonna cum!” You cried out, eyes squeezing shut as your legs started to tremble, the coil in the pit of your stomach tightening by the second, threatening to snap any moment.

“Go ahead, baby, make a mess of my fingers.” San cooed, nipping at your jaw as your high came crashing down, your whole body trembling in his hold while he worked you through your orgasm. Once the high faded, it was replaced with oversensitivity, making you whine, grabbing at his wrist.

“San–” You choked on a moan as he curled his fingers in you once more, a sadistic smirk playing on his lips.

He so desperately wanted to absolutely demolish you, leave you ruined for any other man, so you had no choice but to come back to him. But he didn’t want to scare you away when he finally had you right where he wanted you. So he decided to leave his more sadistic tendencies for another time.

With one last stroke of his finger, he pulled them from your soaping cunt, causing you to whine from the empty feeling. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss, making your body turn into putty in his hands.

“Don’t worry, princess, I won’t leave you empty for too long.” He slurred, lips trailing down your jaw once more before he pulled away to discard his clothes.

Your eyes were glued to his body, watching as he stripped himself. The sight left your mouth watering the more skin he showed. His perfectly chiseled abs were covered in a thin layer of sweat making his honey skin glow under the dim lighting. Noticing your gaze, he smirked, tugging his sweats off of his legs and letting his cock spring free.

The sight of his angry red tip made you swallow hard. Sure, you have been with a few guys in the past, but none of them were this big. Sensing your unease, San shot you a reassuring smile before climbing onto the bed, his back resting against the headboard. He then motioned you over, and you slowly climbed onto your shaky knees, making your way over to him.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart. We’ll go slow.” His voice was soft as you climbed into his lap, hands tight on his shoulders as you leaned against him. "And if at any point you feel uncomfortable, we can stop, okay?” he asked, fingers rubbing your thighs soothingly. You nodded, but San wasn’t satisfied with just that. He grabbed your jaw gently to pull your attention to his face. “Words, princess.”

“O-Okay.” You stumbled over your words when you felt him press against your bare heat, making your whole body shiver.

“Good girl.” He praised you, hands finding the ends of your t-shirt and pulling it swiftly over your head, leaving you in your bra. You started to rock your hips against his, dragging your soaping cunt along his dick, making him hiss through his teeth. His hands trailed from your thighs up your back until he reached the clasp of your bra, quickly undoing it and throwing it away, letting your breast pop free. “So pretty.” San groaned, hands moving up to cup your soft mounds while you continued to rock against him.

“Sannie…” You whined when he started to pinch and pull at your hardened nipples, another high already close.

“Fuck you’re so hot like this.” San groaned as he watched you grind against him with fever, chasing another high, your hands gripping onto his shoulders tightly. He then slapped your ass once more, causing you to yelp and your movements to falter.

He then grabbed both of your ass cheeks and pulled you flush against him, another choked moan tearing from your lungs when your clit pressed against his pelvic bone. Using his strength, he guided your hips against his until you were a whining, trembling mess as another orgasm washed over you.

“F-Fuck San.” You choked out another moan as he continued to rock your hips, prolonging your orgasm. Your nails dug into his skin, threatening to break it as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

After a few more moments, he let up on his grip, allowing you to just lay against him, but the feeling of his throbbing cock under you made your mind reel, wondering what it would feel like to be stuffed full.

“Come on, princess, ride me.” He nipped at your shoulder, causing you to shudder, but you lifted yourself from his neck nonetheless.

San leaned back, watching as you rose on shaky legs and reached behind you to grab his cock. Swallowing thickly, you started to jerk him off, earning yourself a low groan from the male, watching the translucent precum spill from the slit before you moved to slide the head between your slick folds.

You whimpered as you slowly started to sink down on his length, head becoming fuzzy from the stretch while San bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pulling you down all of the way. He didn’t want to hurt you, so he let you take your time, for now, watching with hooded eyes as you let yourself sink deeper and deeper on his cock.

You both moaned simultaneously, him from the way your tight cunt squeezed around him and you from the way he stretched you wide open. Tears dripped from your eyelashes as you tried your best to sit down fully, but you were starting to think you couldn’t fit him, making you whine. San chuckled, his hands squeezing your hips gently.

“Come on, princess," he cooed at you, watching you intently as you continued to try and sink deeper. "You’re almost there; you can do it, can’t you?”

You nodded vigorously, eye meeting his with a pleading look, and he tightened his grip on your hips, helping you sink down his length until he was fully bottomed out. He hissed through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut from how tight you were, and you let out a loud whine before your head dropped down into the crook of his neck.

You could feel him in all of the right places making your brain turn into mush, even more tears spilling from your eyes. It took you a few moments to get used to the new stretch before you even attempted to roll your hips against his. San groaned at the way your cunt continued to squeeze around him, your pace almost painfully slow, and he had to steel himself so he wouldn’t take over, but his sanity was hanging on by a thin string.

All of your sweet sounds were muffled by his neck as you continued to rock against him. The feeling of his tip brushing over your sweet spot with every roll of your hips made stars dance along your vision. San let you continue your treacherous pace while his hands continued to roam your body, squeezing at every inch of skin he could reach, soaking in all of the soft noises you were making.

Soon enough you were able to lift yourself up before dropping back down, all of your slick making it easier to glide along his length. San groaned as you kept your slow pace, his grip tight on your hip, trying his best to keep up, but he was slowly slipping away.

“Sannie.” You whined as he pulled your face out of his neck, crashing his lips into yours, swallowing all of your noises as you continued to ride him. His hands guided your hips, positioning you into a new angle that left you gasping for air, your pace faltering altogether.

San groaned as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, “Fuck princess, I’m sorry.” He apologized, and before you could even ask what he meant, he planted his feet behind you and stilled your hips before bucking his hips up into you.

A choked moan tore from your lungs as he set a brutal pace, his tip hitting all of the right places to leave you seeing stars. Incoherent moans and cries of his name fell from your lips as your back arched against him. San took the chance to latch his lip onto your chest, sucking and biting at the skin, leaving behind dark marks, before taking one of your nipples into his mouth. Your hand flew to his head, fingers combing through his hair as he continued to suck on your breast.

White spots started to cloud your vision as you felt your high creep up on you, a loud whine was pulled from you as San bit down on your nipple. You couldn’t even warn him as your body tipped over the edge, your body convulsing in his hold, broken and incoherent babbles being the only thing that came from your mouth as San continued to fuck into you.

“Fuck baby,” He groaned loudly from how tightly you were squeezing around him, and he knew he couldn’t last much longer, not with the way your sweet little cunt was sucking him in, “‘M close– fuck, where do you want me to cum princess?”

You whined as your head fell back from the overstimulation, your thighs burning, begging to relax. You didn’t even register his question until he nipped at your collarbone.

“Inside.” You whined, and San could have sworn he died and gone to heaven, “I’m on the pill, inside, please, Sannie.” Your begging only brought San even closer to his end, and with a few more thrusts, he brought your hips flush against his, spilling deep into your womb.

The warmth was a new feeling making you squirm in San’s lap, your walls spazzing around him as you came once again, milking his cock for all that he was worth. Your body shook in his hold as you buried your face in his shoulder once more, a strangled whine muffled by his skin.

San wrapped his arms around your body as you both came down from your highs, his fingers tracing shapes on your skin to help soothe you. After a few moments, he pulled your face from his neck, making you look up at him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, princess, and then we can sleep," he whispered as he peppered your face with soft kisses, causing you to giggle.

So he slipped out of your spent cunt before helping you clean up and handing you one of his shirts to slip on, even if your room was just across the hall. Then, once you were both back in the bed with the lights out, he pulled you close to him, his face buried in your neck, pressing gentle kisses all along your skin.

“God, I love you.” He spoke quietly, unsure if you had even heard him until you shifted around to face him.

Your hand cupped his face gently as you pulled him down for a kiss, this one completely different from the ones before. It was sweet, gentle, and filled with longing like the both of you had waited an eternity to share it.

“I love you too, even if you get on my last nerve.” You smiled as he chuckled and nuzzled his head into your chest. And that’s how the two of you fell asleep, content and happy in one another's arms.

–

The next morning, you woke up to the sun shining on your face. Groaning, you moved your arm to cover your face. The sun never came through your window this early in the morning, so confused, you cracked your eyes open and looked around.

Your heart then dropped when you realized that this wasn’t your room but San’s. Swallowing thickly, you looked down, seeing that you were wearing his shirt. All of the events from the night before flashed in your mind, making your face heat up.

Looking over, you found the spot next to you empty, making your heart sink. You couldn’t help but think of the worst: that he had been lying to you the entire time, and you felt stupid for even thinking that he was being genuine.

“Stupid.” You grumbled as you caught sight of your phone plugged in by his bed. Reaching over, you grabbed it and turned the screen on. Seeing the time, you almost had a heart attack until you saw the date, seeing that you didn’t have any classes today.

Then, your attention was brought to the few messages you had: one from Harper, one from a project partner, and one from San. You debated opening the one from San, but despite your better judgment, you clicked on it.

‘Had to get to class this morning, but there’s breakfast in the fridge. I’ll see you after class, princess.’

Your cheeks flushed red as you reread the message multiple times, hoping that you weren’t just hallucinating. Biting back a smile you typed a quick message saying that you’ll see him after class and thank you for the breakfast before backing out of his message.

Throwing the blankets off your body, you moved to stand, only to have to sit right back down as your legs shook. The tips of your ears turned red as you remembered how rough San had been the night before, and butterflies erupted in the pit of your stomach.

Once you were able to stand on your wobbly legs, you made your way out of the room and towards the kitchen, messaging Harper. She then called you so you propped your phone up on the counter so she could still see you as you grabbed your food.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty– are those hickeys?!” She exclaimed, nearly making you drop your plate as you quickly turned to look at her like a deer caught in headlights. “Wait… is that San’s shirt?”

Swallowing thickly, you closed the fridge before walking over to the counter. "Maybe… " you trailed on nervously, and Harper just fell silent for a few moments.

“Wooyoung owes me twenty bucks.” She cheered, and you couldn’t help but look at her with a raised eyebrow, “We bet on how soon you two would just fuck it out.”

“You– what?” You choked on the air as you looked at her with wide eyes causing her to erupt in a fit of giggles, wiping fake tears from the corner of her eyes after she calmed down.

“Girl, please. We all could sense the sexual tension between you two.” She shook her head as you just looked at her dumbfounded. “So… how was it? Pretty good if those hickeys are anything to go by.”

Your face started to burn once more as you shoved your mouth full of food to avoid the conversation. Grabbing your phone, you walked into the dining room and sat down at the table. Harper watched you with a smirk getting a kick out of how flustered you were.

Swallowing the food, you opened your mouth to start talking, but thankfully, you heard the sound of the front door opening and let out a relieved sigh.

“San’s back. I’ll talk to you later.” You quickly told Harper, getting ready to hang up the call.

“Okay, okay, but I want the deets later!” She said hurriedly before you ended the call just as San rounded the corner.

Seeing him made you shift in your seat a little, and when he flashed you his signature dimpled smile, you were sure you would melt in the very chair you sat in.

“Morning, beautiful.” He walked over, pressing a light kiss on your cheek before making his way into the kitchen, your eyes never leaving his form. “I have another class but needed to grab a snack," he told you as he walked back into the room.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, knowing that he had plenty of snack options on campus and only came back to see you. Chuckling at your reaction, he made his way to the door once more.

“I’ll see you tonight, princess," he told you as you walked out of the dining room to watch him slip his shoes back on. "Maybe we can watch a movie?” He suggested, and you nodded softly, wrapping your arms around your body.

“Sure,” You smiled at him as you walked over, and he grabbed his school bag from the coat rack.

Turning, he grabbed your waist, pulled you flush against him, and kissed you deeply, “or maybe we can make our own.” He teased, his feline-like eyes narrowing as he watched red dust your cheeks, and you slapped his shoulder.

“Weirdo, go to class.” You pouted, trying to hide your embarrassment, but more so how much his words turned you on.

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

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