#like i don’t even want help i just want everything to Shut Up and Stop for a little while - simultaneous with me being able to Talk Abt It

[hangmanwrites]

your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason. 

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared. 

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told. 

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him. 

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I—”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now. 

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. 

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up. 

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is. 

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts, 

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier. 

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Hey saw u wanted more Rafe x reader x Sofia so what abt reader and Rafe being bsfs but Sofia doesn’t like reader because she’s always with them bc Rafe invites her to everything and they go tach shopping and Rafe invites you and Sofia is just annoyed by your presence and eventually blows up

All Aboard || Rafe Cameron X fem!reader

A/n: sorry this took abit, thank u for the request!!

Warnings: none rlly

Word count: 1,676

MASTERLIST

The water shimmered under the late afternoon sun, glittering as it lapped gently against the wooden docks of Figure Eight. A light breeze rolled in off the sound, just enough to ruffle the hem of Rafe’s linen shirt where it was unbuttoned low on his chest, gold chain glinting in the light.

He was leaned back in his driver’s seat, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the engine off, the car parked in a prime position overlooking the marina. Sofia was in the passenger seat, legs crossed, glossy lips pursed in a tight smile as she scrolled through her phone—barely glancing at the boats floating ahead.

They were supposed to be yacht shopping. Supposed to be doing it together. But Rafe was checking his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. His thumb hovered over your name. “Why do you keep looking at your phone?” Sofia asked, not looking up. Rafe smirked, slipping his phone into the cup holder. “She’s pulling up now.”

A moment later, a familiar porsche pulled up beside them with a quiet purr of expensive tires on gravel. Rafe’s entire posture shifted—shoulders squared, his bored expression immediately replaced with something sharper, more present. Sofia’s stomach sank, even as she forced a smile. “What’s she doing here?

She said it lightly. Soft, almost amused, but her tone didn’t escape Rafe. There was a pinch of something sour behind it. Something she tried to mask, but failed. He didn’t even glance at her when he answered. “She’s here to help us choose.”Sofia’s eyebrow twitched. “Help?”

“Yeah. She’s been on more boats than both of us combined,” he said with a small smirk. “She knows what I like. And what I don’t.” “Oh. So I don’t?” Sofia snapped, voice sharper now, “shouldn’t I be the one helping you pick it out?” “She’s my best friend, Sof,” Rafe said, finally turning toward her. “She’d be on it a lot.”

Sofia let out a clipped, disbelieving laugh. “What, more than me?” There was a pause. “I’m your girlfriend, Rafe.” He exhaled through his nose. “This isn’t a competition.” His eyes were still trained on your door, already anticipating you stepping out.“Could’ve fooled me.” And then you stepped out of the car.

You stepped out in white linen pants and a navy halter top, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, skin golden from the sun. Rafe’s face softened instantly. He was out of the driver’s seat before you could even shut your door. You greeted him with that signature, easy grin of yours, and without thinking, Rafe opened his arms and you fell into him like gravity.

Your arms wrapped tight around his torso, and he leaned into you without hesitation, his chin brushing the top of your head. “Missed me already?” you teased into his shoulder. He chuckled, arms circling your waist firmly. “Maybe.” Then he kissed your cheek—a little too close to the corner of your mouth. “Took you long enough.”

“I stopped for coffee,” you teased, pulling away just enough to flick his sunglasses up. “You look like a dad.” Sofia stepped out of the car and slammed the door harder than she needed to. You turned, offering her a pleasant smile. “Sofia, you look so cute today, I love that colour on you.” She gave you a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

~

The walk down to the docks was short but thick with unspoken things. Rafe strolled between you both, but his body always leaned slightly toward your side. His hand kept brushing your lower back. He laughed at your jokes. He pointed out the yacht he thought you’d like best—not Sofia.

The sales rep, an older man in boat shoes and Ray-Bans, greeted you with a handshake. “Mr. Cameron! Ms. Y/l/n. So good to see you again.” Sofia blinked. “Again?” “Oh, yeah,” the rep smiled. “She’s seen a few of our models already. Knows her stuff.” Sofia turned sharply toward Rafe. “You’ve been looking at boats with her already?”

“She was helping me narrow it down,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal. “You were in Charlotte last week, remember?” Sofia’s smile faltered. The tour began. You, Rafe, Sofia, and the rep climbed aboard a gleaming white yacht—high-gloss wood interiors, Italian leather lounges, marble-topped bars, and two levels of decks with views for days.

You took the lead almost naturally. You asked about engine types. Interior layout. Guest capacity. Hidden compartments for champagne coolers. Whether the lounge cushions were sunproof. If there was enough space for a wet bar upgrade. You had opinions. Suggestions. You knew Rafe’s taste.

You’d grown up with him. You’d spent entire summers on boats just like these, sprawled out beside him, soaked in salt water and secrets. Of course you knew what he’d want. Rafe kept nodding along, asking your opinion, looking at you when the sales rep asked about preferences. Sofia trailed behind, increasingly invisible.

She didn’t ask questions. She barely looked around. She watched you instead—watched the ease between you and Rafe, the way your shoulder brushed his as you leaned over a floor-plan together, the way he smiled at your suggestions like they were gospel. You stepped into the master cabin, frowning slightly.

“Bed’s too small. You’d be annoyed after a week.” Rafe nodded. “True.” Sofia scoffed. Loudly. You turned just as she snapped, “Are you the one buying this or are we?” You blinked. “Excuse me?” Sofia folded her arms. “You’ve got all the answers, don’t you? You’re asking all the questions. Acting like it’s your name on the paperwork.”

The rep took an immediate step back. You stepped forward, voice calm but cold. “I’m just trying to help. That’s what friends do.” “Yeah, well, maybe your help looks a lot like taking over.” “Sofia,” Rafe warned lowly. But you were done letting her pretend she wasn’t being rude. You tilted your head.

“I’m sorry, do you always talk like that to people who are just trying to make sure your boyfriend doesn’t buy a $2 million boat with no wine fridge?” Sofia’s mouth parted. You kept going. “Because if that’s how you handle being uncomfortable, I’d hate to see you on open water, sweetheart.”Rafe blinked, eyes flickering between the two of you.

Sofia’s cheeks flushed deep red. “Wow. So this is what it is? You just tag along on everything we do, act like the second girlfriend, and I’m supposed to be okay with it?” “I’ve known him since we were thirteen,” you snapped. “Where were you then?” “That doesn’t give you a free pass to disrespect me.”

“I haven’t disrespected you. But if you keep talking down to me like I’m some extra on your romantic little boat fantasy, I will start.” “Sofia,” Rafe interjected finally, voice steel. “That’s enough.” She turned to him, furious. “You’re not seriously—” “I said enough,” he bit out. “She didn’t come here to fight with you. She came because I asked her to.”

Sofia shook her head like she was dizzy, her voice trembling. “And what am I, Rafe? What the hell am I doing here?” “You’re making a scene.” That landed like a slap. You stepped back, giving them space. The sales rep had long since retreated to the upper deck. Sofia scoffed, laughed, bitter and breathless. “Unbelievable.”

Then she turned and walked off the yacht. You and Rafe stood in silence for a beat, the tension buzzing like static between you. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t mean to—” “No.” Rafe shook his head, eyes still on the dock where Sofia disappeared. “She’s been waiting for a reason to blow up on you for months.”

You looked up at him. “Then why keep inviting me?” “Because I don’t do things without you,” he said simply. “And I never have.”

[noblebynura]

Test Flight

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Scientist!Reader Synopsis: Him stealing you away from your work in the lab to help him with his. Genre & warnings: Fluff :) In this house, we love our nerd❤️‍🔥 I hope you guys are not sick of me writing him Word count: 1.3k | masterlist

"You ready?" Johnny’s voice was laced with that signature smirk, even though you couldn’t see it with your face currently pressed against his shoulder as he tightened his hold around your waist.

"No," you muttered, stiff in his arms.

He adjusted his grip, arms sliding lower, more secure.

“Why did I agree to this again?” you questioned, already feeling the regret bubbling in your chest, your hold on him tightened around his torso.

“You promised me, remember?” he said, grin audible now.

“I don’t remember promising you aerial acrobatics—”

“Well, I remember. I said I needed to test the flexibility and control of the new suit mid air while carrying a passenger. You said, and I quote, ‘Fine, but if I die, I’m haunting you.’”

You scowled, hitting his chest lightly. “Is it really necessary?”

“Yeah. Come on, it’s strictly for research purposes.” His tone was mockingly academic, mimicking yours when you talk to him about your projects. He cracked his neck and flexed his hands, warming them up.

“Okay…” you sighed, “but I swear, Johnny, if you drop me, I will—”

Your threat never finished. With a sudden whoosh of heat and light, he shot up from the rooftop of the Baxter Building, soaring into the New York sky.

You screamed. Genuinely. Loud and unfiltered.

But then it caught you by the way the wind roared past your ears, the skyline shrinking beneath your feet, the sky swallowing you whole like the world had turned into a blurred image on fire. Your stomach dropped, your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, just one impossible and weightless second, you felt unanchored from everything you’d ever known.

It felt like a roller coaster in the sky with your safety belt are the arms of the flaming boy holding you.

And you laughed.

It started as a startled sound, surprised out of you, but then it bloomed, high and breathless and real. The kind of laugh you only let out when you forget to be scared, when the world tips sideways and the only thing left to do is fly with it.

Johnny’s eyes softened, heart fluttering as he heard the sound. That bright, unguarded laugh, it reached down and curled something warm inside his chest. He looked down at you briefly, your arms snug around him, cheeks flushed from the wind, eyes wide and glassy with wonder, and he couldn’t help but grin like the first time he flew with his newly powered abilities. He felt free.

He dipped into a tight turn, weaving between glass towers and over streaks of yellow cabs below. “You sound like you’re enjoying this,” he called over the wind.

“Shut up and don’t drop me!” you yelled back but your laughter betrayed you.

He zipped through the sky above Times Square, flames trailing behind like a comet’s tail. The digital billboards blurred beneath you in a sea of muted colours. Somewhere below, a few civilians screamed and pointed up. Johnny winked.

Then he veered west, cutting low over the Hudson just enough for the water to catch his heat and ripple in reaction. He curved back, passing over Central Park where the trees looked like a patchwork of cotton and shadow, and dipped once more doing a full loop this time, his whoop of joy nearly lost to the wind.

“Looping is crucial for wind resistance testing!” he called out, voice vibrating through your body where your chest pressed to his.

“You’re the worst scientist ever!”

“You’re literally laughing!”

You were. Loudly. And you didn’t want to stop.

For a minute, you weren’t in New York. You weren’t a scientist with a clipboard and a lab schedule. You were part of the sky where it was burning, breathless, unstoppable. And Johnny was holding you as he shared this moment with you. 

When he finally began his descent, the wind softened around you. The roar dimmed, the buildings returned to their places, and the city slowed its spin. He landed gently back onto the rooftop with all the smoothness of a pro, fire dimming until only the faintest heat radiated off his suit.

Your legs wobbled the second your feet hit the ground.

“Okay. Wow,” you said, voice light, dazed.

Your hair was a complete mess, wild and tangled from the wind. He reached up, running his fingers gently through the strands, smoothing them back behind your ears. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary.

“Sorry,” he said, eyes soft. “Wind got aggressive around 56th Street.”

You laughed again, this time softer, throat raw from wind and joy. You looked at him in amazement.

“So?” he asked, stepping closer, his hand still brushing your cheek. “What’s your deduction of this test, Dr. [L/N]?”

You tilted your head. “I’d say it was… unexpected.”

“Unexpected good?”

“Unexpected terrifying.”

“But you laughed.”

“I did.”

Johnny grinned, that full and unruly thing that took over his whole face. “Then I’m calling it a success.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You didn’t drop me. That’s a start.”

“That’s an excellent start.”

And you swore you saw something flicker behind his eyes then. Something soft, something bright, something almost of hope.

He reached out and took your hand, tugging you toward the stairwell.

“C’mon,” he said, hand finding yours as he pulled you. “I want to show you something.”

You followed him. Still floating.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

His room was unexpectedly warm. Not in temperature, but in personality. It wasn’t messy like you expected, but filled with color and life. Polaroids of him and his family stuck to the mirror. Stacks of books piling against the wall. And on the tall window facing the city, dozens of papers, sketches and designs.

He gestured to the sketches taped to the glass. “These are my latest attempts. Space grade suits. Radiation protection, pressurization mods… trying to balance heat insulation and flexibility. So Reed can stop calling my suits ‘over glorified pajamas.’”

You stepped closer, eyes scanning over the surprisingly detailed sketches. “Johnny… these are good. Like, really good.” Your index finger tracing lightly on the papers.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Eh, they’re alright. I just mess around with ideas. Reed does the real designing.”

You turned, folding your arms and expression serious. “Okay, I’m going to say something, and you’re not allowed to dodge it with self deprecating charm.”

He blinked. “Uh oh.”

“You’re smart, Johnny. You think about this stuff. You care. That’s more than ‘messing around.’” you leaned slightly forward as if to emphasize what you’re saying to him, “That’s design thinking. Engineering logic. And it’s pretty impressive.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“I can help you refine this,” you continued. “And maybe even get Reed to take it seriously. You know how he is,” you made a face, earning a laugh from him, “stubborn unless someone speaks his language. Lucky for you, I’m fluent.” You smiled proudly.

He smiled, something softer now, with a hint of vulnerability. “You’d do that?”

You nodded. “I was brought out of the lab to be your test passenger. Helping you pitch to Reed is child’s play.”

Johnny stepped closer, standing just shy of arm’s reach. “You know… you didn’t have to say all that. But I’m really glad you did.”

You shrugged, heartbeat loud in your ears. “You steal me from my lab all the time. I figure I owe you at least one ego boost.”

He took your hand gently, eyes never leaving yours. “Just one?”

You tilted your head, a teasing smile playing on your lips, your hands rested on his chest. “We’ll see how convincing your space suit presentation is.”

Johnny leaned in just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“Okay. Deal.”

tags: @lady-violet

[hearts4hughes]

— darling!reader and clark kent meet !!

clark kent x darling!reader warnings: lovesick clark (once again) note: so excited to introduce this au! send in reqs for blurbs or one shots!

the open sign is still flickering to life when you start tying your apron. pale yellow light spills in through the front windows, catching dust in the air like gold flecks. the bakery smells like rising dough and powdered sugar, warm and familiar, and you’re humming in that mindless and angelic way as you portion out raspberry jam into tiny thumbprint cookies. your voice barely breaks the silence. just a soft, melodic hum, like honey slipping over porcelain. it fills the space between clinks of metal trays and the slow thud of the oven warming up. your hips sway a little as you work, cotton skirt brushing your thighs, lips sticky with the sugar you just taste-tested.

the bell above the door jingles as the first costumer of the day arrives in, but you don’t glance up. you’re focused, wrist flicking as you pipette filling into a tray of buttercups. behind you, a man barrels in. tall and broad and so obviously flustered. clark kent stumbles as he regains his balance. his sleeves are rumpled, tie askew, hair a mess like he ran a hand through it ten times before stepping inside. there’s a smear of ink on his thumb, and his glasses are fogging up from the indoor warmth.

he was running late this morning after chasing krypto (his menace of a dog) around the house trying to retrieve his glasses. when he finally got ahold of the thick, black frames, he glanced at the clock—ten minutes until his shift begins and he was a twenty minute walk away. after hastily grabbing his things, he practically sprinted down the street and stumbled into the bright bakery. it wasn’t his usual choice for pastries and coffee, but the pink building neighbored the daily planet.

the door shut behind him with a soft thud and a jingle of the bell. when he finally wipes the sweat from his forehead and looks up, his eyes find you. you’re wearing a a pastel mini skirt and a pink top with a white, ribbon apron tying the outfit together. and your scent, he swears it alters something in his body because suddenly he’s breathing not just for sole purpose of oxygen, but to smell your aroma.

he swallows and blinks. his throat runs so dry that he cannot speak. then, he glances down at the floor like it’ll give him directions on how to not make a fool of himself. “uh—sorry, I, uh…” he coughs into his fist. “didn’t mean to interrupt.”

you finally look up. the corner of your mouth lifts, bright and open. “you didn’t.” you nod toward the counter. “we just opened. you’re right on time.” god, even your voice was something close to ethereal. you don’t know it yet, but he’s going to remember that forever. you’re right on time. he’s been late all morning. but somehow, here, with you, he isn’t. “how can i help you?”

he just stares for a moment. the thought of coffee and baked goods is far from his mind. he blinks again—hard—like that might reset something in his system. like maybe if he hits ctrl-alt-delete on his own brain, he’ll stop staring at the way your gloss catches the light or how your apron bows in the back like it was tied by someone who wanted to be gentle with you. “coffee,” he finally croaks. “please. i mean—yeah, just coffee.”

you nod, already moving toward the espresso machine. he watches as you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingers delicate and precise. your nails are painted, soft and pink. everything about you is soft and pink, and he’s a walking stormcloud with mud on his shoes and a deadline in twenty-two minutes, standing here like he has nowhere else in the world to be. you hand him the cup a minute later. “cream and sugar’s on the side,” you say, smiling again. that same city-flattening smile. “unless you take it black?”

“i’ll drink it however you made it,” he says, a little too fast. he kicks himself mentally when you raise a brow. “i mean—whatever’s fine.”

you cock your head, amused, and he swears it almost kills him. “not very decisive for a man in a tie.”

he glances down, startled, like he forgot he was even wearing a tie. “yeah, well…you kind of scrambled my brain the second I walked in,” he says softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud. but he did and you heard it. your fingers pause, just briefly, on the edge of the pastry case. you don’t say anything, but your cheeks go warm, and there’s a flicker of something shy in your lashes when you turn away again. “so, um,” he tries again, voice clearing. “did you just open? i don’t remember ever seeing a bakery here before.”

you hum, the sound light and sweet, like a bird fluffing its feathers. “mhm. just a few weeks ago.” you twist toward a nearby tray, adjusting a row of frosted cupcakes with delicate precision. “but it took a lot of work. this place used to be hideous,” you say with a little crinkle of your nose, your disgust soft and endearing. “the walls were this muddy shade of brown and the floors had these awful green tiles. it felt like a dentist’s office in the ‘70s.”

clark smiles, watching you with the kind of quiet reverence people usually reserve for miracles. you run your finger along the glass case like you’re drawing stars. “but after a lot of paint, glitter, and sugar,” you continue, your voice warm, “here we are.”

thank god—he thinks. because suddenly, this entire block has a different atmosphere. clark sways where he stands for a beat too long, eyes trailing the movement of your hands as you adjust a swirl of whipped cream on a cake like it’s an art piece. he should probably say something else—ask for a muffin, maybe, or give you his name—but all he can do is look at you like you’ve tilted his entire day off its axis.

you glance up again, catching him in the act. “did you want to order something else?”

“oh! yeah. yes.” he nearly jumps. “i’ll just, um—i’ll take one of those.” he points vaguely toward the croissants, even though he’s not actually hungry. you wrap one up carefully, nestling it into a pale pink paper bag. when you pass it over the counter, your fingers brush his again. it’s brief, but it happens and it makes his stomach twist. “thanks,” he murmurs, gripping the bag like it might float away otherwise. then he hesitates. “i’m clark, by the way.”

“hi, clark,” you say, voice lilting like a song. “i’m y/n.”

he swallows hard. your name sits on his tongue like spun sugar. how can everything about you be so perfect? your voice, your smell, your complexion, even your job is. “right. uh, well…i should get to work before lois murders me.”

your brows lift. “lois?”

“coworker. scary. very punctual.” he shifts, bumping his hip into the door on the way out. “i’ll see you—uh, maybe…again. probably if you’re—still open. not that you’re closing. i mean, you just opened, so of course you’re open-”

you giggle, soft and bright. “bye, clark.”

he opens his mouth, then closes it. finally, he stutters a well thought out, “b-bye.” the bell jingles as the door swings shut behind him. you watch the empty space for a second longer, your smile still tugging at the corners of your mouth. then you return to your cupcakes, quietly humming, a little sweeter than before.

taglist ~ @leynetto @illumoria @witchofswans @mauvesmax @dollarbillsflying @jimmys-tiara @blushhbambi @sunnliqht @bugisastranger @whyistheskypink @soul-of-daises @take-it-on-the-run @hi346736 @iamthepawn @athenaluvsu @makiplan @replaythatrayrae @maralovescassianandmark @namgification @xsimbaaa @erisemptyskull @bangtanevermore @sugarplum444161 @ursogorgeous13 @rinakran @fran-the-man @mslflvrss @angel06babysworld @deafeningbearhottub @biancasisstuff @chamorunsmiles @fattynana @howiswhatawhy @kissmxcheek @mama-a-girl-behindyou @bribria @ryileeee @bbsaeko @allllium @differentcandycreation @claudiwithachanceof @yeonalie @lambmurdock @yurmom444 @princessofheartaxhes @frogalor @lil-angxlll @elladora-winter @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @iconicgorl @7-53-6-8 @yzuposts @existentialcrashoutqueen @timotheel0ver @xoxcharlottexoxo @bemybabyxos @eatingyourboyfriend @yyiikes @urlittleangelbaby @nebdo-a @maaaahhhiii @mistbornwithawritingproblem @misonesaturou @sarcasm-n-insomnia

[deliwrites]

𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤 // Saja Boys & Huntr/x

// DATE // 25th of July 2025 → 31st July 2025 // PAIRING // Huntr/x x Fem!Reader x Saja Boys // WARNING // Morally grey discussion, humiliation, guilt, skinship, princess treatment, protective and possessive behavior // WORDS // 6.2k+ // SUMMARY // After a tense confrontation, Y/n finds safety in Zoey’s warmth—until a surprise interview throws her into the spotlight. With Baby and Mystery at her side, tension builds beneath calm touches and possessive glances. And when they're finally alone, desire wins out in a kiss that leaves her breathless… and conflicted.

// Previous // Part Nine // Next //

a/n: Maju FM is a made up radio station, it means face to face FM. As is the segment “WHO ARE YOU!”, I have chosen an age to fit the story, Reader is 23 years old! It took a while to finish cause I had to built the Saja Boys apartment in the sims 4

The living room was dim, the automatic lights having dimmed to a soft glow. Jinu had cleared the cake plates and put the leftover cake back in the fridge. With Y/n now safely upstairs with Zoey, it was time.

Baby was busy setting up Y/n’s new phone. Added all their contacts and blocked all of Jaewon’s old phone numbers including the one he used to torment their girl today.

“We are not letting this slide anymore,” Abby broke the silence first, voice calm. But power simmered under his skin.

“I’ve never seen her shut down like this,” Rumi says, leaning against Jinu. A sorrowful look on her face. “I think the fact that you held her did help,” she looks at Romance, a soft smile plays on his lips. Very glad he was able to comfort her.

“He announced he has an event tomorrow night,” Mystery says, phone in hand, arms littered with his patterns. Unable to suppress them at them moment. The need to protect what was his taking control. “It’s near Itaewon. He’ll be drunk and distracted,” he adds looking at the event information. Seeing that there was an open bar and entertainment.

“Perfect Mira smirks evilly, eyes golden with dark excitement. “You two tail him,” she points at Baby and Mystery. “Make sure he feels watched, make him paranoid.”

Baby’s lips curl. “I’ll take his phone. Easy in a crowded place, put it back before he notices it’s missing.”

“And once you have it?” Rumi asks, wondering what he had in mind. She could guess but wanted to make sure they were all on the same page.

“I clone it. Mirror everything. Just like I did with Y/n’s phone,” he elaborates. “I’ll be able to see his texts, calls, location. Every disgusting thing he searches. E-ver-y-thing,” the look on his face is enough to kill someone. Which he very much planned on doing.

“We’ll mask our presence,” Mystery adds. “He won’t know who we are but he’ll notice,” he turns into a random dude right in front of them. It looked nothing like any of them, but had the darkest, most sinister look on his face when he smiled.

“Let’s make him wish he never laid eyes on our girl,” Abby’s statement is final. The first part of their plan set up and ready to be put in motion.

Waking up bare chested was new… and odd. Not something I ever did. It was slightly chilly too. Cuddling closer to Zoey who still laid next to me. Her arms wrapping around me even tighter in response. My face nuzzles into her neck. Zoey shudders as a content sigh fans her skin.

“Gwiyomi?” her voice soft as the somewhat surprised question leaves her lips. The word sounding slightly slurred with sleep.

“Good morning,” I smile against her neck. She squeezes me, sleepily.

“I don’t want to get up,” she says, pecking my head. “Just want to stay right here with you,” I giggle at her breathy words. Pulling away just enough to look at Zoey. Her eyes are still closed a soft smile on her lips. It’s hard to hold myself back from kissing them. I can’t right now, can’t be even more of a distraction, she’s got work to do.

“You gotta work,” I tease her, tickling her side. Her eyes snapping open squeals leaving her lips unwillingly.

“S-stop-” Zoey stutters through giggles. Chuckling, I stop tickling her giving her some space to breath. “Oh my god, that woke me up,” she chuckles.

“Now you gotta get out of bed,” I start pushing her towards the edge of the bed.

“Only if you come with me,” she pouts, ass already slipping out of the bed. I just chuckle and keep pushing her till she’s fully on the floor. Turning my back to her I let out a sigh feigning peace and quiet, closing my eyes again. “No, no, no,” Zoey stomps around my bed, blocking the sun cascading on my face. I peek one eye open, the pout is still on her face, brows furrowed in anger.

“Fine,” I whine, sitting up slowly. A grin forms on her lips. Leaning forward she pecks my nose to which I scrunch it. She grins then pecks my lips.

“Time to get ready, you’re gonna spend the day with Baby and Mystery,” nodding I stand up. she pulls me closer by my hips pecking my lips again, and again. Her hand slide over my ass, a squeal escaping my lips when she suddenly squeezes. My hands bracing against her shoulders in surprise.

“Zoey~,” I whine a flush covering my cheeks. She just shrugs like it was nothing. Something she had to do, couldn’t leave untouched.

“Get dressed and I’ll see you downstairs before we leave, okay?” I nod to which she nods in return. Pecking my lips tenderly, lingering before leaving my room. Not caring that she was still topless.

When she closed the door it dawns on me that I too was still topless. I really needed a shower after last nights events, but at the same time I didn’t want to get rid of the feeling of Zoey’s touch.

After a quick shower and changing into a pair of light blue shorts and a comfy hoodie, I make my way downstairs.

“Oh! There is my breakfast!” my eyes shoot up to meet Zoey. Mira and Rumi chocking on their own breakfasts. Surprised by their bandmates words, spoken with such excitement. My cheeks burn red with humiliation. Though, I can’t deny the twitch it sent below.

“Zoey~,” I whine, reach the kitchen unable to look at either Rumi nor Mira. “You can’t just say that,” I pout. She just giggles and pulls me into her embrace. Cupping my cheeks she pecks my lips softly, like an apology.

“I’m just teasing, gwiyomi,” she says. “Though I could definitely eat you for breakfast another time,” her voice barely above a whisper, she pulls away handing me a place which had a leftover slice of cake. Completely missing the smirks on Rumi and Mira’s face as they shake a look.

So could we.

“Thank you,” taking the plate I move around the island, taking a seat next to Mira. Face hotter than a tomato. I take a quick bite of the cooled cake in hopes of cooling my face. Not taking my eyes off the unhealthy breakfast.

Missing the way Zoey has to hold back her squeak of excitement. Having just told them about last nights escapades. The other two were only a little bit envious but it means she’s trusting them more and more.

“Here is your new phone,” Mira slides the iridescent pearl colored phone to me. It now had a clear case on it and when I pressed the screen there was a selfie of the eight of them. It looked like they took it when they held a fan event together. One I couldn’t attend. They all made funny faces which brought a smile to my face.

“Thank you, what about my old phone?” I ask, scrolling through my phone to see if their were anything missing. Everything seemed to be there.

“Baby took care of it,” Rumi says, shrugging her shoulders. Portraying that Baby would get rid of it. But in reality he held on to it to see if Jaewon would still message her. “Don’t forget to set up a password. Oh and all our numbers are in there. Including Bobby’s, Felix’s and Celine’s,” Bobby being their manager, Felix being the Saja Boys’ manager, and head of Honmoon, Celine.

“So if you need us, we are only a call away,” Zoey smiles sitting down beside me. She pecks my cheeks sweetly before digging into her breakfast like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“What will you guys be doing today?” I ask curiously, only a little nervous about spending the day with Baby and Mystery. Not that I didn’t trust them, but if there was a picture in the dictionary with the word intimidating, it would be them.

“We have to record our new song,” Rumi says. “And then we can finally show you.”

“I can’t wait to show you,” Zoey claps with excitement. The smile on her face bringing a copy on mine. Her excitement was one of the things that first drew me in when it came to Huntr/x. They had debuted just the year before I started traineeship. I was hooked before they even had debuted. The funniest of clips had been going around of challenges they had done during their traineeship. Along with Zoey struggling to learn Korean.

Obviously her mom was Korean but she grew up in the US where their had been no use for the language. It was absolutely adorable to watch her learn. Now you would think she’d always spoken Korean.

“I can’t wait to hear it,” I finish my cake just as the elevator dings. Out walk Baby and Mystery. “Good morning,” I greet them. Getting up I clean up my plate, putting it in the dishwasher. Soon putting in the girls’ plates to.

“Right, we are off now,” Rumi announces. “Take good care of her,” she gives the boys a pointed look. Not that she doubted them. Baby doesn’t look too fazed but there is a flicker of offense in his eyes.

“I’m sure they’ll take wonderful care of her,” Zoey says squishing my face before she presses her lips on mine. It’s tender with a small bite that promises more later. After a squeeze to my ass causing me to go red, she smirks and walks in the direction of the elevator. I get pulled in for a peck by Mira. Missing the way Zoey kisses both Baby and Mystery. But I don’t get to recover before Rumi does the same.

“We’ll see you tonight,” Mira calls out, the two of them following Zoey. Meanwhile I’m stood frozen. Still by the dishwasher face flushed with both embarrassment and guilt.

I’ve been intimate with Zoey, I shouldn’t go around kissing her band mates behind her back! What is wrong with me!?

“You okay ippeuni?” Mystery’s sudden yet extremely comforting voice bring me back to reality.

“Uhm, yeah,” I think about talking about my predicament with them but decide against it. “We gonna do anything special today?” I ask instead. I’ll have another internal battle about this later.

“The plan was to just chill today,” Baby says, letting out a somewhat annoyed sigh before continuing. “But we have an unexpected radio interview.”

“Oh, uhm, that’s alright. I can just stay here,” it’s no biggie really, but they way they look at me is like I've just insulted them.

“No, you’re coming with,” Mystery walks over to me, wrapping his arm around my waist and starts tugging me along. “Gaja.”

“Won’t I just be in the way?” I swiftly snatch my phone from the counter. Letting Mystery guide me without much protest.

“You could never,” Baby’s voice sounds deeper than normal, making a shiver run down my spine, deliciously. No stop it body, don’t betray me!

The car ride was almost eerily quiet. But I knew both of them weren’t big talkers. Instead they showed their attention with a - possessive - grip on my knees.

“So, what is the interview about?” I decide to break the silence with my curiosity.

“Not sure, something about getting to know us better as individual people.”

“You don’t sound excited about it,” I note. I mean I couldn’t blame them. Why they decided to put the two of the most silent people of the group together for an interview is beyond me.

“I just can’t be bothered to talk to people about myself. Especially those nosy hosts,” Baby replies, his hand squeezing my knee. “I would much rather spend the day with you,” a shy smile plays on my lips at his words, wishing we could indeed be doing that instead.

“Sadly, responsibilities get in the way,” Mystery adds. “Other wise we would never leave your side,” his grip tightens on my knee, it doesn't hurt, it actually felt nice. Possessive.

Before I can respond the car stops in the parking garage of the radio station. No door opens which means the driver is staying the car. The back of the large SUV being completely separate form the front. Mystery get’s out first then lends me his hand. With the SUV being this large, I was grateful for the hand, jumping the small distance to the concrete floor.

Baby appeared from the other side of the car. A look that screams ‘I don’t want to be here’ on his face. Which was not far from the reality.

Baby was promised alone time which he now doesn’t get to have. His time will be even shorter with her now with both him and Mystery going after Jaewon tonight.

Everything the building they are met with a member of their own staff. He looks nervous as he apologizes. Rambling on and on about how they had missed the invitation and had to do it now.

They don’t really respond only starting at him as they continue to make their way through the building. Soon met by one of the hosts. I recognized her as Yoomi. Also knows as the Queen of cozy late-morning talks.

“Joeun achimimnida, Baby-ssi, Mystery-ssi,” she greets enthusiastically. “Thank you so much for joining us on the radio today!”

“Annyeonghaseyo,” we greet them a respectful bow. The two painted fake smiles on their faces.

“Oh, is this who I think it is?” her eyes find me. “Y/n, the one who stole everyone’s heart!” her excitement seems to grow to the point I subconsciously stand closer to Mystery. Not used to this kind of attention from strangers.

“Hello,” I wave awkwardly, voice quiet. Mystery turns to me arm subtly wrapping around my waist. It’s just a touch yet a sense of calm washes over me.

“What brings you here?”

“Oh, I’m just here to support my sunbaes,” I say honestly.

“You can join them,” her enthusiasm only makes me stress more. Her co-host Haemin joins the conversation just then.

“Annyeong,” he greets casually.

“Hae, don’t you think Y/n should join them for our segment?” Yoomi pulls on his arm like it’s the best idea she’s ever had ant his need to happen.

“A-annyo,” I wave my hands like I’m pleading but they either don’t care or don’t notice.

“One moment,” Baby cuts their conversation. taking my arm the three of us go back intot he empty hall. “Take a breath,” his voice isn’t stern, it’s gentle, soft. His eyes scanning my face with concern.

“Why do they want me to join?” I ask expecting them to not have an answer. “I’m a nobody,” my breathing hasn’t gotten any better even with me intaking puffs of air. All I want is for one of them, or both of them to encage me.

It’s like they can read my thoughts. Mystery turns me to him, pulling me into a tight grounding hug. My head tucked safely into his chest.

Slowly my breathing returns to it’s normal pace, but I don’t leave Mystery’s embrace just yet.

“You’re not a nobody anymore,” Mystery’s soft voice breaks the silence that surrounded us. The way he says nobody sounds like he never thought I was one.

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” I turn in Mystery’s hold looking at Baby’s phone. “It's my Weverse account, which last I checked had about a thousand members. Now it nearly has a million members. No where near theirs but still. I stood shell shocked for a moment. “These fans want to get to know you,” my eyes meet his. Mine filled with uncertainty and anxiety, his filled with adoration and support.

They didn’t want cause her more stress, but they knew that getting her on this show. Even if they didn’t want to themselves, meant she would get more support from fans. Make them fall in love with her just like they did, but never more then them. They would never be able to love her more than they did.

“This would be the perfect opportunity to do just that,” Mystery adds, squeezing me gently. “Besides, it won’t be as boring anymore if you’re there with us,” turning my head to look at him, I find a smirk playing on his lips.

“Alright, I’ll do it, but promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” the sound of their voices in sync send flutter to my stomach. Stop it!

“I’ve never done a radio interview before,” I admit. “Please make sure I don’t say anything I’m not supposed to.”

“Of course, yeobo,” Baby packs my cheek.

Before we started a picture was taken of the three of us with the two hosts. Reluctantly, I was placed in the middle. Haemin’s arm around my waist while Yoomi, almost clung to Baby. Mystery next to Haemin with his usually stoic face, but it felt darker being close to him.

They posted the picture to all Maju FM’s socials. My phone dinged with the notification form the tags. Which reminded me to put it on vibrate for now.

Tune in at Maju FM for a surprise guest! Not only Baby and Mystery will be joining us int he segment of ‘WHO ARE YOU!’. Recent award winning Y/n will be there too! Time to find out more about this diamond in the rough idol!

Now we were sat in the actual studio. Baby sat to my right, Mystery to my left. I had expected the room to look more… serious? Instead, we were sat on a comfortable couch which was decorated with lots of fluffy pillows and blankets. Mystery had immediately thrown a blanket over our legs. I wasn’t really sure why, maybe because it was the tiniest bit chilly? My shorts covered me well enough, I think?

The hosts sat on their own soft love seats. Legs pulled up next to them. Yoomi had a blanket across her legs. An adorable tea set beside her on a small round table the height of the arm rest. We had three similar tables, one a little more to the right of me and one on either side of the couch. Each containing the drink we asked for plus a water bottle.

Mics positioned in front of all of us, checked and ready to go. A bright bubbly jingle plays with a sparkle chime.

“Everyone, it’s that time again! The segment you’ve all been waiting for!” Yoomi starts off loud and excited as she always does.

“WHO~ ARE~ YOU~!” Haemin joins Yoomi for the chaotic almost game show like intro.

“This segment is where we meet the idols we love as who they really are,” Yoomi explains for any new listeners. “And today’s guests? We’ve hit the absolute jackpot! How is this even real?”

“You might have already seen on our socials, but dear listeners we are so excited to introduce to you,” Haemin pauses dramatically. “Baby and Mystery, the two Saja Boys that always keep you guessing. Will we get to know more today!” the two only say a hello, not acknowledging whether they’ll share anything or not before letting Haemin continue. “And an unexpected but very much welcome guest. The one I know a lot of you have been dying to know more about! It’s Y/n~!” I say a polite hello a little overwhelmed with their excitement.

“All three of you, welcome!” Yoomi finishes, a lot calmer now, though the excited smile doesn’t leave her face.

“Let’s start with Baby and Mystery,” Haemin says, relief washing over me. “We’re honored to have you join us.”

Baby spoke first low and even. “Thanks for having us,” but there was no sincerity in his voice. Mystery only hmm’ed in acknowledgement.

“We know you’re not big on interviews,” Yoomi said lightly. It was true. They enjoyed game shows more. But even then they weren’t the most talkative. Only talking when they had to or addressed by their band mates. Plus it usually involved less talking about themselves. “So we’ll keep this easy. How are things right now, musically? What are you working on?”

“Studio work mostly,” Mystery answered with a shrug. “Filming for a music video along with working on new songs,” Baby didn’t add anything but Haemin still turned to him.

“Same for you?”

“Pretty much,” he shrugs. “We just finished our national tour, so we have a bit more free time at the moment.”

They continue to ask them questions, neither of them able to get so much as a chuckle out of them. All serious nearly one word answers.

That’s when I felt it. The fabric of the blanket moved. Barely noticeable with the way I had my arms resting on my legs. The hosts certain didn’t notice. Baby’s hand found my thigh first. Fingers firm around the skin of my upper thigh. Thumb rubbing slow grounding circles. Mystery’s hand joined soon after on my other thigh. Fingers curling around the curve of my thigh. Silent, solid. But there loud and clear. Both possessive in their own way.

Their faces betrayed nothing when I looked at them. Their touch making me almost forget where we were. Pulled back to reality when Yoomi’s voice booms again.

“And now…” Yoomi turned her attention fully on me. “The one we really can’t belief is here. Y/n we are so glad to have you here! How are you?”

I straightened stiffly, nervous. Both hands squeeze my thighs once grounding me. Calming my nervous a bit. “Thank you for having me, especially with no notice,” I reply awkwardly. “I’m alright… a bit nervous, I must admit,” a quiet self deprecating laugh escaping my lips.

“Why is that?” Haemin asks curiously.

“Oh well… I’ve never been interviewed before,” I answer honestly. It was true. I’ve been an idol for three years now. 0 interviews. “So, it’s a bit nerve wrecking, ‘cause I have no idea what you’re going to ask me.”

“Don’t worry, Y/n,” Haemin said, voice warm sending a wink my way. Neither Baby nor Mystery seemed to like that, If the way their grip on my thighs seemed to tighten was anything to go by. “We’ll be gentle with you,” that made Mystery shift, which might not seem significant, but this man was practically a statue. Why did he not like Haemin?

“Thank you,” a gentle smile curves my lips. “I appreciate that,” Baby’s fingers curled just a bit tighter around my thigh. It was possessive yes, but it conveyed that he was there for me. They both were.

“Let’s just jump right in, shall we?” Haemin said taking a quick sip of his coffee. “A lot of people don’t know anything about you. You practically shot up in popularity after the Kpop Rising Stars Awards last weekend. Which we will come back to, but for now��� Tell us about you. Who is Y/n? How long have you been in the industry?”

That question felt heavier than it sounded. My fingers fidget nervously above the blanket. Both hands seem to gravitate towards mine. Letting me know it’s okay to take my time.

“That’s true,” I answer softly. “I am pleasantly surprised to have gained more fans since then,” I took a breath to steady myself and allow myself a moment to think. “I am Y/n, originally from Jeollanam-do and 23 years old. I came to Seoul when I was fifteen. My parents didn’t agree with me, but they let me go anyway. I entered traineeship under Luminara Entertainment, who gave me an idol contract five years later.”

“Wow, that’s already quite the journey,” Yoomi murmured. “What’s it like under Luminara Entertainment?” I didn’t realize I started grimacing until Haemin chuckled.

“Not that great?” he asks.

“Well…” I shift awkwardly. I probably shouldn’t trash talk the label, but I’m no longer with them. “I can’t speak for everyone,” I preface. “But yeah. My experience wasn’t the best-”

“Wasn’t?” Yoomi cuts me off. I miss the way Mystery’s hidden gaze meets Yoomi. Glaring daggers at the interruption. Though Yoomi either doesn’t notice either or isn’t bothered. “As in… you’re not signed with them anymore?”

“No,” I reply a smile returning to my face. “I’m currently signed with Honmoon Entertainment.”

“Ah, so now you get to play with the big ones,” Haemin grinned. “Huntr/x and the Saja Boys! What’s that like?”

“Well I see them a lot more than I expected,” deciding not to share that I live with Huntr/x. “I obviously knew of them before, but I only first met them just last weekend. It was surreal, honestly,” I chuckle. “I mean I was just a nob-”

“You weren’t just a nobody,” Baby said quietly, but loud enough to silence the room. Caught off guard by the calm firmness in his tone. He didn’t look at me, nor at the hosts. He just spoke like it was factual and no one could tell him otherwise. Not even me.

Yoomi blinked, surprised. “Right… So-so you met them at the award show?”

I nod. “Yeah, that was the first time. I didn’t expect anything, let alone their support. They didn’t owe me anything. But they helped, both with my nerves and getting the win. Which I wouldn’t have won without them,” I send an appreciative smile to both of them.

“They didn’t know you and still helped?” Yoomi tilts her head. “Why was that?” she turns to flick her eyes between Mystery and Baby.

“We knew her song,” Mystery spoke voice low and composed. “But didn’t know it belonged to her,” his answer seemed to confuse the hosts as they shared a look with each other, brows furrowed.

“Right. Apparently, Luminara had shown my song around to other artists, including them. To sell it, I guess? I didn’t even know. They had turned it down, but… they remembered.”

There was a pause, heavy. Silent, with gentle squeezes of their hands in support.

“When we got shown the demo,” Baby starts softly. His eyes on me. “We collectively decided it belonged to the beautiful voice it was sung by,” the intensity of his eyes and words caused a flush to fill my cheeks.

“We were never told who it actually belonged to but we kept the demo. Hoping that one day we would find out who it belonged to,” Mystery adds a rarely seen soft smile on his lips, directed at me. And only me.

“Hearing that from them,” a sigh of appreciation leaves my lips. My hands subtly covering theirs above the blanket. “Meant more to me than they know.”

“That must have been hard to find out, though,” Haemin frowned.

“It was. I worked on that song for ages. It’s about me. My pain. And they showed it off behind my back.”

“Is that why you left Luminara?”

I couldn’t stop the huffed laugh, with frustration running through me like a rollercoaster. “I didn’t leave. They dropped me. Two days ago, with a deadline of twenty-four hours to vacate the dorms. No real explanation.”

“What!?”

“That’s insane!”

“But I’m better off now,” a soft smile playing on my lips. “I get treated well at Honmoon. And get the support of a lifetime from Huntr/x and the Saja Boys,” eyes lowering a bit. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without them,” both their fingers caress my skin tenderly.

Getting back to Honmoon tower, I lean against Mystery, socially exhausted. “Did I do okay?” I ask quietly as we enter the elevator. Baby holds a pass to the sensor just below the buttons inside. Unlocking two additional numbers which I recognize as both their floor and the Huntr/x floor.

“You did great,” Mystery spoke softly, leaving a lingering peck on the top of my head. Baby steps next to me after pressing their floor. Gently taking my hand, lifting it to his face. Gently pecking the back of my hand before lowering our hands back down. Keeping my hand in his.

My phone had been vibrating none stop since the segment aired. But I have been too scared to look at it. Afraid of what my new fans though of me. I might just give my phone to them so I don’t have to see it first hand.

The elevator opens with a soft chime, I follow them out, bending to take off my shoes. Only Mystery is quicker. On one knee one hand tapping my ankle, silently telling me to lift it. Baby is beside me still, holding me steady now as Mystery removes my shoes. Neatly placing them on the shoe rack right in front of us.

“Thank you,” I murmur, blush already flushing my cheeks. Baby pecks my cheek before letting go of me and taking off his own shoes. Not wanting to overstep I wait for both to move further into the apartment. The first thing I notice was the space. It’s pretty similar to the Huntr/x apartment in size.

High ceilings, sleek lines, rich brown hardwood floors. Windows stretched all the outer walls. Floor to ceiling, showing the Seoul skyline beautifully.

Everything looked expensive. The wall next to the elevator was covered with awards they had won. Which makes me wonder where I actually left mine. A little to the left stood a black marble table with comfortable looking black leather chairs, fit for ten people.

Further left, just around the corner from the entrance sat an extremely large kitchen. L shaped with a separate five seater island. Black and marble seems to be the theme here. Black marble counter tops, black cabinets top and bottom with gold accents. TWO REFRIDGERATORS!? I mean, I guess they are five people. Men no less, I guess they eat a lot.

A grand piano stood alone in the center of the sunken living room. Beautiful maroon red on a cream colored rug, lights of different sizes hang above it. Did all suites have a grand piano? To the left a half moon leather couch positioned in front of a TV that is suspended by the ceiling, in front of the large curved windows. Two golden floor lamps on either side of the couch. The rug beneath it looked soft to the touch, black and white stripes almost like a zebra. But the spaces was bigger between stripes. A round coffee table with a white marble top.

Just next to the dining table was a small sitting area with a couch and small book cases holden more books than I expected. Gentle lighting hanging above it.

And to my surprise a bar on the right side of the Piano. I wonder what they store there. Do they drink often or did it come with the apartment without their input?

It felt like them, dark, effortlessly luxurious. Some how it felt like they knew how to host, how to spoil, how to take care of someone without ever saying a word. Something Mystery and Baby were most definitely good at. If how they worked together without communication just to take my shoes off was anything to go by.

Mystery guided me to the black leather couch while I still looked around, amazed. He sat down first and before I could even think about sitting down next to him. He pulled me into his lap.

A blush gracing my cheeks in surprise. He silently pulls my legs onto the couch. Making me sit side ways, but makes sure I can lean against him. My head leaning against his shoulder both his arms wrapped around me. His face buried in my hair.

He takes a deep breath which surprises me. But I don't say anything about it as it seems to calm whatever it was that was stirring inside him.

"I don't like how Haemin talked to you,” his voice lower than normal. I know exactly what he's talking about too.

"Me neither," Baby appears with drinks for the three of us and a platter which held small snacks. He hands me the platter and places the drinks on the table, before lifting my legs in the air. Mystery making sure I don’t fall. Baby sits down close to Mystery and gently lowers my legs back down. His hand stays on my leg with a possessive yet gentle grip. "I- I’m sure he was just trying to be nice,” I try to excuse his behavior.

I was waiting in the hall while mystery went to use the bathroom and Baby went to talk to their staff member about the sudden interview. He was just a little ways away. I could just see his minty blue hair.

"Hey,” a voice called smoothly from the hall to my right. I turn to see Haemin slip out of one of the doors. A charming grin on his face

"Hi,” I greet politely. His eyes skimmed over me slowly as he walked closer.

"I can't lie, I wasn't expecting you to be that... composed. Or this pretty,” was that meant to be compliment? His eyes scan me again making a shiver of discomfort run down my spine. He steps even closer, entering my personal bubble. "You got plans tonight?"

What? What is going on?

"I- I do, actually,” I answer honestly. Not that I would have told him the truth If I didn't have plans.

In my peripheral vision, I see Mystery and Baby. They are not walking towards us. Just quietly observing.

"Too bad," Haemin's smirk flickers for a second. "I think we could have had a lot of fun," that makes me take a half step back. Subtle but not obvious. "You Know, you're kind of dangerous,” my brows rise.

“Dangerous?"

"Yeah,” he grins like he said something clever. "Sweet voice, gentle eyes. That combo get's stuck in a guys head.”

"Good thing it was just Radio,” I mutter while my skin gets itchier the longer I talk to him. He chuckles, still confident.

"Still leaves a lot to the imagination,” before I could decide how to respond, I caught a subtle shift in the air. Like magnets Baby and Mystery got closer like a warning, unamused by Haemin's actions. His eyes flicker to the two guard dogs. His grin dimming like he finally realized this wasn't going anywhere. "Anyway," he backs off with a shrug. “Don't be a stranger.”

“But I am thankful that you guys were there,” I thank them pecking Mystery’s cheek. Leaning forward, careful of the platter and pull Baby’s face closer, pecking his cheek too.

They are gentle, harmless like when they always peck my cheeks. Their presence is warm, Mystery's arm around me pulls a little tighter, grounding me against him. Baby’s hand slides from my shin to my bare thigh. Fingers curling possessively which makes my stomach flutter.

I shouldn’t feel this. Shouldn’t want this but I do. They all make me feel things I’ve never felt before. But… Zoey. We never discussed…, guilt washes over me.

But this… it doesn’t feel wrong. It’s dangerously magnetic, unreal and just… right.

Baby leans in, his voice a breath across my face. “That all we get, yeobo?” the sound of his voice and the look on his face makes me flush red.

“It’s all it should be,” my voice trembling, just barely a whisper. Mystery shifts below me, forehead brushing against my temple, his lips gracing the skin along my jaw.

“Then why do you look like you want more, ippeuni?” a gasp escapes unable to answer. I can’t cause I do want more but I shouldn’t. And I hate myself for it.

My pulse races as Baby’s thumb starts moving in slow circles against my thigh. The warmth of his touch crawls up my skin. I shouldn’t let it get to me. Shouldn’t let it pull me in.

But instead… I lean into it. I kiss Mystery first, slow and uncertain. Yet no longer wanting to pretend I don’t feel this. His lips patient, surprisingly gentle. His hand cups my cheek while the other pulls me closer by my waist.

His lips move against mine with unspoken desperation. There was a message behind it. something I couldn’t figure out. My hands find his chest, fisting the fabric of his sleeveless sweater. A need to get closer , something to keep me grounded.

He tasted like mint and quiet danger. The danger not directed at me, it felt protective instead. Comfort and chaos keeping me from pulling away. Not that I wanted to in the first place.

By the time I pulled away, my heart hammered in my chest, breath gone. He places another gentle peck to my slightly swollen lips. Movement brining my attention to Baby. His eyes on me as he blindly places the untouched platter on the coffee table.

His hand replaces Mystery’s place, cupping my face, a gentle swipe of his thumb across my cheek. His eyes flicker between mine and my lips. Pulling me in as he leans in. His lips meet mine softly, like I’m a breakable piece of porcelain.

It’s so soft I nearly whimper wanting more. His hand slides to the side of my neck, thumb brushing my throat dangerously as he pressed deeper into the kiss. Every movement of his lips was a new whisper. I’ve got you. I want you. You’re ours.

When I finally pulled away my lips tingled, my head light as I sank deeper into Mystery’s embrace. I didn’t even open my eyes yet. Just breathed and let myself feel in the quiet of their presence.

// Previous // Part Nine // Next //

Is there anything you would like to see in any of the next parts? Let me know in the replies or by reblogging! I can't guarantee it will be in it, but your input might give me more ideas!!

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[doiliedaze]

Turn it Off

Warnings: band manager! reader, rockstar! vi, fucks you in her hotel room, service top! vi, vi has a christina piercing, y’all use to date, y’all want each other back, argument turns make-up turns makeout, coochie ate (r! receiving), pussy drunk! vi, floor sex, yearner! vi, mean praise??, smau

Genre: smut

A/n: I don’t even remember the last time I wrote for vi so that’s a problem 🤨 this is inspired by turn it off by paramore! Finished this at 5 am cause I couldn’t sleep till it was done🙏🏿

The imagine for this fic

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Working with an ex is always hard, especially if you’re still in love with them…and if they write love songs about you!

The breakup feels pointless, if she needs anything she runs to you, help her un-bind her chest, constantly inviting you to the studio and ignoring groupies. Makes you regret your decision sometimes, but not all the time!

You hate how drunk she could get, how she’s “all about pushing the limits”, not being up front about her emotions all the time. It gets tiring having to almost pull her teeth to get her to be open! That’s what happens when you date a client though; when do you stop being the boss?

At least that’s what she’d say.

You’re watching behind stage as the performance wraps up and the bad rushes off stage after “quick byes” and “love you’s” to the fans. Swiftly the routine begins, overseeing everything and making sure they can smoothly get onto the tour bus and back to the hotel, you guys will be fly out to London tomorrow.

Sharp, sweet and detailed is your go to with these fuckers, just ready to disobey.

Per usual, the transition is smooth and you’re headed to do checkups wanting to make sure everyone is okay and in good spirits before heading to bed yourself.

Of course you leave her for last, delaying any cocky remark or asshole comment. Can’t stand her bad girl persona.

Softly you knock on the door, acrylic nails digging into your palm because of your tightly clenched fist. Counting under your breath so you can give yourself the excuse if she took to long so tonight’s sleep could be easier.

Sixty seconds is all you’d give her but as you turn on your heels the door opens.

“Hey baby” she rasps, voice tired and soft. How it always falls on your ears on a good day.

“Stop calling me that” you whisper, still loud enough for her to hear. “I’ll stop when it stops fitting.”

The look in vi’s eyes is very serious. She misses you, she tells you this all the time. At this point she’s just waiting for you to act on your struggling emotions.

“Listen I’m just swinging by to check if everything is alright with everyone so goodnight!”

“How would you know I’m alright you didn’t even enter the room?” You let out a small huff and enter the room. Look around seeing that everything was fine.

Vi crept behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist. Her head falling onto your shoulder, “can you stay the night?”

“Not sleeping?” You whisper, “hardly” she says with a dry laugh.

A part of you considered it, wrapped in her warmth again…

“No! No…thank you.” Voice loud and clear, hands moving hers and creating space. If that line is crossed no-one can come back!

“I see” she says voice laced with irritation, which only pisses you off.

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“You! You’re fucking confusing! You want all this space and claim I’m not open when you shut me out!”

“I shut you out? Oh please! Save it for someone who doesn’t know you!”

She walked up to you, arms crossed, “exactly we know each other so I know you’re fighting yourself! You act like it’s the worst thing in the world to still be in love with me! I fucking love you, why isn’t that enough?”

Your heart sinks a little, the problem isn’t the love it’s the respect. “I love you…you know that!” Before she could cut you off, you get closer and rub her bicep. “I love you enough to know that you weren’t in a headspace to give me or yourself the love you needed. I knew I wasn’t! I’m sorry that I made you feel like you weren’t enough because you are.”

Her bottom lip was caught in-between her teeth. Anxiously thinking about her next move. “I just want to be yours again. Call you baby and you not fight me on it, to travel the world with you…to make you happy.” She sighs as she uncrossed her arms so she could hold your face.

Tears build in your eyes, you’ve been fighting your heart and mind for two long years. “I want to be happy but I-”

“Then let me make you happy” her forehead pressing against yours.

Slowly you close your eyes and feel her soft lips press against yours. It felt like your brain turned off as you melt into the kiss, hands gripping her jaw tight.

As you two fumble around, you fall on the bed. “Missed you so fucking much” she says with fever, bunching your dress up to your waist.

She wasted no time ripping your panties off and attaching her tongue to your clit. A moan flies from your lips feeling the pressure of your panty break, and your heart jumps as she mumbles about buying you more.

Her knees pressed hard against the floor. She pulls you closer to the edge by your thighs, hands digging deep into the plush.

Instinctively you wrap your legs around her head as she licks stripes up and down your pussy. Her nose to chin covered in your wetness.

Vi’s tongue is deep in your cunt and her nose bump is hitting the perfect spot against your clit. You swear you’re ready to cum off the visuals alone.

“Moan for me louder baby, need everyone to hear” she groans as she pushes one ringer finger in you.

You sing like a whore for her. Back arching, nails digging into the sheets and trying to keep your heels from flying off your feet!

“So close” you moan brokenly, pussy feeling swollen and nowhere near done! You grind on her face utilizing her nose.

Vi’s hips buck beneath her, so turned on by you. “Fuck baby use me please” she moans, sending vibrations through you.

You sped up and push her in deeper by her hair causing her to whimper. Always sensitive to having her hair pulled.

You cum hard against her, completely out of breath. Vi laps at your pussy and her finger slows her pace.

Without warning she unwraps your legs and pulls you off the bed and on the floor with her.

“Fuck vi ow!” You whine rubbing your head, “poor baby y’know I forget my strength yeah?” She mocks with a big grin.

Quickly she strips her lower half, wasting no time in grabbing your legs and thrusting herself against you.

“Stay still lemme do all the work…let me please you!” She cries as her eyes close and yours roll back. You haven’t felt her heat against yours in so long, the pheromones from her cunt spreading to your nose.

You try to focus your eyes on her sculpted body. Happy trail leading to a glorious bush! Yours a bit fuller than hers.

She lets go of your right leg and places it down and crosses her left leg over your torso, holding herself against your left leg forcing it to stay upright. She drops her cunt against yours with a plop sound and begins to rut against you.

“Say your mine” she groans as she cranes her neck to look down at you. “I’m yours vi”

“Again”

“Fuck I’m yours” you moan hand tapping the floor. The friction and pace felt so good, the way her christina piercing added a cold and hard feeling against your cunt.

“Haven’t felt this pussy in two fucking years” she moans and uses a free hand to slap your tit, hard and deliberate.

You whimper like a bitch because you needed this, needed her!

“‘m sorry, so sorry” you cry, overstimulation building in you. “You’ll make up for it” she moans but you know she’s smiling too.

“C’mon cum for me baby, be my good girl” vi’s voice elevating with every thrust, also chasing her release.

It didn’t take you long to cum, already so pent up. Her after shakes stimulate you and it’s almost too much. Vi knows that and that’s why she stayed on top of you.

She places your leg down and detaches from you, strings of cum connecting y’all or in either of your bushes.

Carefully she helps you fully undress and get on the bed, you doing the same for her.

Tonight didn’t need another long winded conversation from either party; just a kiss goodnight and the warmth found in a lover.

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A/n: y’all paramore 🤝🏿 vi!!! Hope y’all are enjoying my spam!! I’m trying to get as much quality fics in before college starts and before I sit back and plan out this series I’m cooking up! Love y’all mwah ིྀ (also a christina piercing on vi has me wet ash that visual is everything)

Dividers- @roseraris

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian @furrytaesss @milanyas @highnfemme @5seos @artemisdreamfairie @ellabswife @pramspams

[pillow-coded]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 15

Summary: Maddie’s first sleepover brings more anxiety than Y/N expected, but Spencer is there to help her navigate the ache of letting go. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: empty nest syndrome / separation anxiety, sexual content, heated makeout, word count: 10.4k

Series Masterlist

“I brought tangerines, popcorn, some juiceboxes, gummy bears, and a giraffe.”

The second I say it, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. But it’s too late—I’m already standing in the entryway holding the bag like it’s a peace offering, or maybe a bribe. Y/N looks up from where she’s kneeling at the coffee table, trying to zip Maddie’s overnight bag shut. Her eyes flick to me, then to the giraffe sticking out of the tote like it has a purpose.

“A giraffe?” she repeats, flatly.

“It looked… friendly.” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how warm my ears feel. “And statistically, transitional objects can help kids feel more secure when they’re sleeping away from home for the first time.”

Before she can respond, Maddie appears out of nowhere—tiny feet pattering across the hardwood—and makes a delighted noise at the sight of the stuffed animal. I barely have time to hold it out before she grabs it, hugs it to her chest, and declares, “I’m naming her Orange.”

“Because of the tangerines?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“No. Because she’s orange.”

Right. Of course.

Y/N smiles under her breath and shakes her head like she’s trying not to laugh, but I see it—the way her fingers won’t stop fiddling with the zipper, the way her eyes flick to the bag every ten seconds like she’s forgotten something. Again. Like one missing item—one sock, one nightlight, one stuffed animal—might make the whole thing unravel.

The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease. Not even a little. It just sits there, knotted and heavy, like she’s bracing for impact. Like letting Maddie go for one night might reveal some invisible flaw in her parenting. And I know that’s not rational. She probably knows it’s not rational. But that doesn’t stop it from sinking its teeth in.

She looks… stressed out of her mind. And if that wasn’t enough, she also looks like she’s about three seconds away from crying.

And I hate it.

I hate seeing her like this—this frayed, fragile version of the woman who commands bedtime routines like military operations and talks to her daughter with such gentleness it physically aches to witness. I hate that I can’t fix it. That all I brought were snacks and a giraffe and a bunch of soft words I don’t know how to say out loud.

What I want—what I really want—is to cross the room and pull her into my arms. Wrap her up and tell her it’s okay. That Maddie will be okay. That she will be okay. That I’ll stay as long as she wants. That I’ll stay longer, even if she doesn’t say it. I want to be the thing she leans on.

So I move.

I step across the room slowly, carefully—like approaching a wounded animal, like one wrong move might scare her off. My heart’s thudding in that awkward, top-of-your-throat way it does before I say something real. But I don’t let myself think about it too much.

I stop in front of her and reach for her hands—tentative at first, like I’m still asking permission even after I’m already holding them. Her fingers are cold. Or maybe mine are too warm. Either way, I bring both of her hands into mine and press my thumbs gently into her palms, rubbing slow, steady circles there. Like touch might anchor her. Like I’m trying to ground us both.

She doesn’t pull away.

“You know…” I say quietly, watching the movement of my thumbs against her skin instead of her eyes, “it’s just tonight. She’s gonna be okay.”

I glance up then, just briefly. Her eyes are glassy but not falling. Not yet.

“And if she’s not,” I add, softer still, “they’ll call. You’ll go pick her up. And she’ll come home and sleep curled up between us, and everything will be okay again.”

I shouldn’t have said us.

But I did.

And I don’t take it back.

Not because I’m brave. Not because I want to risk making it weird. Just… because for once, I don’t want to lie about the thing I want most.

“Us?” she says, barely above a whisper. Her voice is soft, but not confused. Curious. Like she heard it, felt it, and just needs me to say it again—like confirmation might make it real.

“I mean—” I start, immediately fumbling, my thumbs freezing mid-circle. “You. Next to you. I meant if she—if Maddie needed someone. I’d be on the couch, probably, or the floor, or—”

She squeezes my hands.

“I would love it if you stayed.”

There’s a pause. A small one.

But inside me, it splits the earth wide open.

I look at her. Really look this time.

She’s still scared. Still wound tight. Still clutching a thread of anxiety she can’t quite let go of. But there’s something else beneath it now—something softer. Like relief. Like she didn’t realize she was waiting for me to say it until I did. Like the idea of us wasn’t too much after all.

And maybe I’m not imagining it.

Maybe she’s just as scared of this as I am—of wanting something we can’t guarantee, something breakable and delicate and real. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t pull back from the wanting.

I lean in—just enough to brush my lips against her cheek. Barely there. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything in return. That just says, I’m here.

“I’ll stay,” I whisper, so close I feel her breath catch, “as long as you want me to.”

She doesn’t speak. Just nods, once, and squeezes my hands like she’s anchoring herself to the promise.

And I let her.

God, I let her.

I want to stay in this moment a little longer, want to hold her hands and watch the tension melt from her face completely. I want to say more, or maybe nothing at all. Just be here, where she’s letting me in.

“Are you two kissing?”

The voice cuts through the quiet like a cymbal crash.

I jump. Actually jump. Y/N lets out a startled breath that’s half laugh, half sigh.

Maddie’s standing at the hallway corner, one sock on, the other trailing behind her like it got tired halfway. Giraffe tucked under her arm. Wide-eyed. Suspicious.

“No,” I say quickly, too quickly.

Y/N arches an eyebrow. “That sounded convincing.”

“I—no, I mean—we weren’t—technically—”

“Mommy and Spencer were kissing! Mommy and Spencer were kissing!”

Maddie sings it like a playground chant, spinning in a little circle, one sock still barely clinging to her foot, the stuffed giraffe clutched tight under her arm like a witness to the crime.

I’m pretty sure I’ve died. Not metaphorically. I think my soul actually left my body and is now hovering above the room watching me suffer.

Y/N just covers her mouth with one hand, trying not to laugh—failing not to laugh. Her shoulders shake with it.

I rub the back of my neck, already beet-red and spiraling. “It was a cheek kiss. Just a cheek kiss.”

Maddie gasps. “A cheek kiss is how it starts!”

And that’s it. That’s the end of me. I’m done for. Melt me into the hardwood and donate my remaining bones to science.

Y/N’s full-on laughing now—eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed, everything about her warm and bright and real. And even through my mortification, I feel it bloom in my chest too.

This is what I want. This chaos. This closeness. This.

“So are you two married now?” Maddie asks, deadpan.

Y/N chokes on a laugh. I forget how to breathe.

“What?” I manage, voice cracking like I’m twelve again.

Maddie shrugs and plops onto the couch, giraffe in her lap like a wedding guest waiting for cake. “You kissed. That means you love each other. If you love each other, you get married. That’s the rule.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Nothing coherent comes out.

Y/N is trying—trying—to get control of herself, but her smile betrays her. She sits beside Maddie and brushes a hand through her curls. “Baby, kissing doesn’t always mean you get married.”

Maddie looks scandalized. “Then what’s the point?”

I blink.

That… is actually a good question.

Y/N turns to me, amusement still dancing behind her eyes. “Well, Spencer? What is the point?”

I’ve read 432 books on human bonding. I’ve studied attachment theory. I can recite courtship customs across twenty-three cultures.

And I have no idea how to answer that when she’s looking at me like that.

So I do the only thing I can.

I look at Maddie and say, “The point of kissing is to— to…”

My brain short-circuits.

“Some species of penguins mate for life and give each other pebbles. I didn’t bring a pebble. I brought a giraffe. Which… has absolutely nothing to do with kissing…”

Y/N’s eyebrows lift slightly, and Maddie’s staring at me like I’ve just recited the Periodic Table instead of answering a very simple question.

I keep going. I can’t stop.

“Did you know, kissing triggers the release of oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, which are all associated with bonding and affection—so kissing is to feel happy. Or—no, not just happy. Regulated. Biochemically secure. That’s why it’s called a ‘social grooming behavior’ in evolutionary psychology. Like—like chimpanzees picking bugs off each other.”

Y/N makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh. Maddie looks mildly horrified.

“Not that I think kissing you is like bug-picking. I mean—not you—I didn’t mean that you have bugs—"

“I think,” Y/N interrupts gently, voice laced with amused mercy, “what Spencer’s trying to say is that kissing can mean a lot of things.”

I nod, grateful. “Yes. Exactly. A wide array of things.”

Maddie wrinkles her nose. “You guys are weird.”

Y/N just grins and tosses a pair of socks into Maddie’s overnight bag like this is the most normal interaction she’s had all day.

“Go put on your shoes, princess,” she says, not missing a beat.

Maddie groans dramatically but obeys, dragging herself off the couch like we’ve asked her to scale Everest barefoot. The giraffe dangles from one hand, bouncing against her leg with each step as she disappears down the hallway.

And then it’s quiet again.

Just me and her.

Y/N zips the bag shut and sets it upright, then leans her weight onto it with a sigh that sounds like it carries weeks of love and exhaustion all at once.

“So…” she says, turning to face me. There’s a shift in her voice, playful, lilting. Dangerous.

Her hands rise, slow and unhurried, and settle lightly on the front of my sweater vest.

Right over my chest.

I think my brain blue-screens.

She looks up at me through her lashes. “We’re like penguins?”

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

She’s still looking at me—still touching me—and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to combust on the spot.

“I—uh,” I manage, clearing my throat. “Technically Gentoo penguins offer pebbles to establish long-term mating bonds. Kind of like a marriage symbol. At least the equivalent of it for them, which would just be mating for life, not actual marriage, because penguins don’t—”

I stop myself.

Breathe. Reset. Try again without sounding like I’m defending a dissertation on courtship behaviors.

“I don’t know if we’re penguins,” I murmur, sheepish, eyes flicking down to where her fingers still rest on my chest.

There’s a pause. She tilts her head, teasing, but there’s something honest beneath it.

“Because you don’t want to marry me?”

My eyes snap up. “No—no. I mean—I do want to—”

Her eyebrows raise slightly. My soul exits my body.

“I mean, not like right now,” I rush to explain. “Not because I don’t want to. Just—just because it’s too soon for that. But I do know that I really like you. I think about you constantly, and that this—” I gesture vaguely between us, “—is the only thing that makes sense lately. And I’m in this. All the way.”

I swallow, trying not to overcorrect.

“So… maybe someday,” I finish softly, “we can be like penguins.”

She doesn’t laugh.

She just smiles—slow and sure and so warm I feel it in my ribcage.

Then she leans in and presses her lips against mine.

And I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

Not just the kiss—the way she chooses to kiss me. Every time it happens, it feels impossible. Like she’s crossed some invisible line I still can’t believe I’m allowed to stand behind.

She kisses me like it’s normal. Like it’s something we do now. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world for her, and somehow I’m the one she wants.

So I kiss her back, because how could I not?

Her fingers curl a little in the fabric of my vest, and I swear my heart skips so violently it might be clinically concerning. I’m still getting used to this—to her—and part of me hopes I never stop.

Because the truth is… it doesn’t matter how many times it happens.

I’ll always be a little bit stunned that she picked me.

“You are getting married!” Maddie gasps from the hallway.

I immediately pull away like I’ve been electrocuted. My face goes beet red. Possibly purple.

Y/N lets out a startled laugh against my shoulder, her hand still lightly fisted in the front of my vest.

Maddie is standing in the doorway in one shoe, eyes wide with revelation, like she’s just witnessed a sacred rite.

“That was a mouth kiss,” she says, scandalized.

“I—it wasn’t—it’s not—” I stammer, tripping over every consonant. “That doesn’t mean marriage. mouth—romantic—kissing has no correlation to—”

Y/N doubles over laughing.

Maddie folds her arms. “Can I be the flower girl?”

I think my soul leaves my body again.

“Okay,” Y/N says through a grin, reaching for Maddie’s other shoe. “Come here, tiny wedding planner. Let’s just get you to the sleepover first.”

Maddie marches over with her arms crossed like a very tiny, very dramatic wedding coordinator. Y/N crouches to help her with the second shoe, still chuckling under her breath, and I just… stand there.

Still warm from the kiss.

Still short-circuiting from the fact that she kissed me.

Still trying not to think about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.

A minute later, the overnight bag is zipped and slung over my shoulder, Maddie is chattering about how many gummy bears she plans to eat before bedtime, and we’re loading into the car.

Y/N slides into the passenger seat beside me, close enough that her arm brushes mine. I try not to look at her mouth. I fail. She’s smiling faintly, like she knows.

The drive is short, maybe fifteen minutes, but it stretches in my mind like something cinematic.

Maddie fills most of the space with talk about her friend Amanda, what pajamas she packed, and whether or not giraffes are allowed to sleep on the floor or need their own bed.

Eventually, when her endless chatter started to slow, Y/N reached into her tote and handed her the battered portable DVD player she keeps strictly for car rides—no iPads, no tablets, just scratched discs and a firm belief that screen time should feel a little more 2004—and honestly, I find that kind of stubborn, analog parenting weirdly endearing.

I let the sound of the cartoon fill the car while I sneak glances at Y/N.

Her profile is lit up by the soft glow of the streetlights. She’s quiet now—watching Maddie in the rearview mirror, fingers tapping softly against her knee like she’s counting heartbeats.

I want to reach over.

Tangle my fingers in hers.

Say something stupid like you taste like cherry chapstick and I think I’m ruined for anyone else now.

Instead I say quietly, “She’s excited.”

“She is.” Y/N glances at me, smile curling in the corner of her mouth. “She’s gonna have a lot of fun.”

“Y/N…” I start, careful, soft. “It’s gonna be okay, you know?”

She lets out a breath. Not a dramatic one. Just enough to let me know she’s been holding it in.

“I know,” she says after a beat. “I trust Beth to take care of her, it’s just… I don’t know how to explain it…”

I glance over at her, only for a second, but it’s enough.

She’s staring out the window now. Not crying. Not unraveling. Just quiet in that way she gets when something big is sitting in her chest and she hasn’t named it yet.

“You don’t have to explain,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s not logical. It’s not supposed to be. It’s… you’ve been her whole world for four years. And tonight is the first time that world shifts, even a little.”

She blinks fast, still looking out the window. “Exactly. It feels stupid. But it feels… like I’m missing something already. Like I forgot to double-knot her shoelaces or remind her that monsters aren’t real.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, wishing I could do more than just drive.

“She’s just…” she starts, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s growing up, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

She turns in her seat, glancing back at Maddie in the rearview mirror.

Maddie’s tucked into her booster, legs swinging slightly, her eyes glued to the tiny portable DVD player balanced carefully on the armrest. The animation flickers across the screen—an old cartoon with grainy audio and over-exaggerated voices. Y/N said it was Maddie’s comfort show. Something they’ve watched together since she was still wobbling in footie pajamas.

Y/N watches her for a long time.

Her expression is hard to read. Soft, but aching. That kind of ache that only happens when you love something so much it starts to scare you.

“She still looks little,” she murmurs. “But she’s saying things now. Big things. Talking about space and monsters and what she wants to be when she grows up. And I’m just… I’m still learning how to let go of her pacifier.”

I don’t interrupt. I just listen. Let her say it.

“She’s going to grow up, and I’m going to be the one waving from the driveway,” she adds quietly. “That’s how this goes, right? You give them everything and pray you don’t mess them up too much.”

My throat tightens.

“She’s not leaving forever,” I say gently. “She’s just sleeping over at Beth’s.”

“I know,” she says, smiling faintly. “But this feels like the start of something. Of her needing me less.”

She turns back toward the windshield, blinking like the light’s suddenly too bright.

“She’s always gonna need you,” I tell her. “She might not always show it the same way. But you’re… you’re the center of her universe, Y/N. You built the gravity she orbits around.”

I catch her glance out of the corner of my eye. And I don’t know if she’s going to cry, or kiss me again, or just say nothing at all.

But she nods.

And in that moment, I feel it—that invisible string between us tugging just a little tighter.

We pull up in front of Amanda’s house just as the sky starts to shift—a soft, dusky kind of blue settling over the neighborhood like a blanket. The porch light’s already on. Warm, yellow, inviting. There's a paper cutout of a ladybug taped to the front window. I assume Maddie's friend made it.

Y/N turns around in her seat and reaches back, brushing her fingers through Maddie’s curls to gently get her attention. “We’re here, baby.”

Maddie blinks up from her movie, eyes glassy with that half-aware look all kids get when they’ve been watching the same cartoon loop for too long.

She sits up slowly, clutching Orange the giraffe to her chest. “Already?”

Y/N smiles. “You’re gonna have so much fun.”

Maddie doesn’t reply right away. She just hugs the giraffe a little tighter.

Y/N gets out first, slinging the overnight bag over her shoulder, and I follow, watching Maddie carefully as she slides out of the car. She’s quiet now. Too quiet.

She doesn’t run to the door.

She doesn’t say anything at all.

She just stands between us, looking up at the porch like it’s further away than it is. Like something about this is suddenly too big.

Y/N notices it too. She crouches down, her voice low and warm. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Maddie shrugs, eyes still locked on the front steps.

I kneel down beside them, not touching her, just close enough to offer something steady if she wants it.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Y/N says softly. “It’s okay to feel nervous.”

Maddie chews on her lip for a second. Then whispers, “What if I miss you?”

Y/N's breath catches.

I feel it like a punch behind my ribs.

She tucks a piece of hair behind Maddie’s ear and kisses her forehead. “Then you call me. And if it’s too much, I’ll come get you. No questions asked.”

Maddie looks between the two of us. Her eyes land on me.

“You’ll come too?”

My throat tightens. I nod. “Of course. We’ll both come.”

She thinks about it for another long moment, then finally takes a step forward. Small, but certain.

And just like that, the door opens. Amanda’s mom greets us with a warm smile and a wave, and Maddie heads inside—still clutching the giraffe, still glancing back every few steps like she’s not quite ready to let go.

She turns just before the door closes and calls out, “Love you, Mommy!”

Y/N waves, her voice catching a little. “I love you too, baby!”

The door clicks shut.

And suddenly, the quiet is heavier than I expected.

Y/N’s eyes are a little teary when I turn to look at her. Not crying—not yet—but close. She’s standing just a few feet away from me, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together, eyes still fixed on the front door like maybe it’ll open again. Like maybe Maddie will come running back out and say she forgot something.

She looks like she’s on the verge of breaking down.

And I can’t handle that.

Not because it’s uncomfortable, not because I don’t know what to do—but because I’d give anything to take that pain from her. Every last tremor of it.

“Hey,” I say gently, stepping closer.

Once I’m close enough, I don’t even try to fill the silence. I just wrap my arms around her—firm but careful, like she’s something precious that needs holding together. She doesn’t hesitate. She folds into me like she’s done it a thousand times before, like this is where she goes when it hurts.

She hides her face in my chest.

And I feel it—those little sniffles against my shirt. Barely there, but real. Raw.

“It’s okay, pretty girl…” I murmur, pressing my cheek to the top of her head. “We’ll come pick her up first thing in the morning. She’ll tell you all about the sleepover. And you’ll tuck her in twice as long tomorrow.”

She nods into me, and I tighten my arms around her just slightly. Not to fix it. Just to remind her she’s not doing this alone.

The last time the apartment was this quiet, Maddie had a fever and fell asleep on my chest before the sun even set. I remember the weight of her—small and burning up, breathing hot against my neck.

Her curls were damp, cheeks flushed, one hand tangled in the collar of my sweatshirt like she was scared I might get up and leave. She wouldn't even let me shift to grab the thermometer. Just whimpered softly in protest until I stayed completely still. I remember thinking, God, she's so little. Still so little.

Now, standing in the doorway of our quiet home, I realize just how long it’s been since I’ve felt that stillness. No trail of plastic toys across the floor. No little voice asking what’s for dinner or begging to wear her favorite mermaid pajamas. Just the soft click of the door behind me, Spencer’s gentle presence at my side, and the echo of a home that suddenly feels too big without her.

I know I’m being dramatic. It’s just a sleepover. Just one night. Other moms probably didn’t cry over this. Other moms probably used the time to clean the house or binge a show or finally do something for themselves. But I can’t seem to make this ache go away. It sits just beneath my ribs, stubborn and quiet, like grief for something I haven’t lost.

I toe off my shoes, leaving them by the door like always, and glance around like something might jump out and make the silence easier to bear. It doesn’t. The lights are low. The air smells like the candle Maddie insists on blowing out herself every night. I swallow around the lump rising in my throat.

I almost ask Spencer to put something on. Anything. Music. The TV. A podcast about ancient artifacts in lost cities. But before the words even make it out of my mouth, he’s already walking toward the little CD player on the shelf.

He doesn’t ask. Just starts flipping through the beat-up binder I keep tucked beside it—scratched jewel cases, faded album art, some discs so old the tracklists have worn off. I don’t think he even looks at the covers—he just moves with the kind of confidence that makes my heart twist. Like he already knows which one I’ll need. Like he’s memorized my patterns, the same way I’ve memorized Maddie’s.

When the disc whirs to life, it’s the one I always reach for on nights when I’m feeling too much. Just that familiar opening track, the one that’s held my sadness so many times I swear it knows my name. The type of song where you start to cry without even realizing you’re crying.

I sit down slowly on the couch. The cushions still hold the imprint of last night—where Maddie curled up beside me after brushing her teeth, where she insisted on one more cartoon even though her eyes were already half-shut. Spencer walks into the kitchen without a word and returns with the takeout bags we grabbed on the way home. He moves around me like he’s been doing it forever. Like this is normal. Like we’re normal.

He hands me a box of noodles, still warm. Our shoulders bump when he sits beside me, but neither of us moves.

For the first time since we dropped her off, I start to breathe again.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not looking at him yet. Just twirling a noodle around my fork, willing my voice to stay steady.

He glances over. “For what exactly?”

I don’t answer right away. I don’t even know how to. There are too many things. For the car ride. For the giraffe. For standing beside me on that porch while I tried not to cry.

“Being you,” I say finally.

It sounds too simple. Too light. But it’s the truth. And when I do look at him, he’s already looking at me—eyes soft, like he’s not sure he deserves the words but wants to believe them anyway.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders, slow and careful, like he’s testing the weight of the moment. Like he knows how close I am to falling apart in the best possible way. I lean into it without thinking. Just let my head rest gently against his side, let his warmth seep in through the fabric of his sweater vest.

And suddenly everything feels just a little warmer. A feeling I don’t ever want to go away.

“I know I thank you a lot,” I whisper, staring at the untouched noodles in my lap. “But I really mean it. Every time. I’m so grateful you stumbled into my life so suddenly.”

His chest rises beneath my cheek. A deep breath. Like maybe he’s trying to keep himself from saying something too big. Or maybe trying to hold it all together, the way I’ve had to do so many times.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just rubs his thumb gently along my upper arm, and that alone is enough to keep the ache in my chest from taking over again.

I pull my hand back and finally lift my fork, twirling the now-lukewarm noodles around the tines. Beside me, Spencer starts on his own box, quiet and careful, but I can feel the way his attention keeps drifting toward me. Little glances. Little checks. Like he’s trying to gauge if I’m okay without making a big deal out of it.

I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.

Then—

“Did you know,” he says suddenly, a little too brightly, “that chewing something crunchy can reduce psychological stress? It’s connected to the stimulation of the trigeminal nerve.”

I blink. “What?”

He holds up a piece of broccoli from his stir fry like it’s part of a TED Talk. “Seriously. The act of chewing—especially things with texture—activates sensory feedback pathways that can lower cortisol levels. It’s why people eat chips when they’re stressed. Or carrot sticks.”

I stare at him.

He chews the broccoli with a straight face. “Very soothing.”

A beat of silence.

And then I laugh. Not because it’s that funny—just because he is. Because Spencer Reid, who can quote nearly everything, and diagnose a psychopath in under thirty seconds, is trying to keep my mind off missing my daughter by weaponizing vegetables.

“You can't just tell me chewing is gonna make this better,” I say, shaking my head.

He grins. “It's not... Just trying to distract you. Is it working?”

I roll my eyes. “A little.”

He nudges my shoulder with his. “I’ll take it.”

“What else have you got stored in that beautiful brain of yours?” I ask, turning toward him with a smirk I don’t fully mean to wear.

He blinks.

I can actually see the internal buffering. Like I overloaded his circuits with one compliment too many.

“I—um—well,” he stammers, pushing a grain of rice around with his chopsticks, “did you know that laughter increases pain tolerance by releasing endorphins through social bonding mechanisms?”

I stare at him. “So you’re saying you’re trying to… trick my brain chemistry into cheering up?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Then, quieter, “And also, you said my brain was beautiful and I’m still recovering.”

I laugh—fully, this time. A real laugh that shakes my shoulders and makes the heaviness in my chest loosen, just a little.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins again, that crooked, endearing kind of grin that he only pulls out when he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“But it’s working,” I admit, nudging him back. “Keep going.”

He hesitates—just for a second—and then straightens slightly, clears his throat, and starts in with a spark in his eyes like I’ve just flipped a switch.

“Okay,” he says, already sifting through facts in that impossibly fast brain of his. “Did you know that humans are biologically wired to form pair bonds through eye contact?”

I smile into my takeout box, already feeling the familiar flutter in my chest that only happens when he starts talking like this—half professor, half nervous schoolboy, all heart.

“I read a study that observed couples who maintained longer periods of mutual eye contact were more likely to self-report emotional closeness and relationship satisfaction. And that’s just the subjective part—neurologically, the same thing happens. Sustained eye contact stimulates the release of phenylethylamine, which is a natural amphetamine your brain produces during early stages of romantic attachment. It increases adrenaline, dopamine, and causes your pupils to dilate, which is why people look at each other and suddenly their hearts start racing even if no one’s said anything yet—”

He keeps going, hands moving now, gesturing as if the words alone aren’t fast enough to carry everything he’s trying to express.

“It’s tied to oxytocin too,” he adds, “especially in long-term couples. Eye contact during emotionally vulnerable moments—grief, for example, or stress—can regulate the nervous system. It actually helps you co-regulate, which is the scientific term for when two people subconsciously sync up their heart rates and breathing patterns. So technically—” he glances at me for half a second, then looks down just as quickly, “—even just sitting next to someone you trust while feeling anxious can make your brain and body feel safer.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to interrupt him. I just… watch.

There’s something about the way he talks when he forgets to be self-conscious. When the rhythm of knowledge and kindness takes over, and he’s not trying to impress me or prove anything—he’s just sharing pieces of himself because he wants to make me feel better.

Because he wants to make me feel safe.

And maybe it’s the dim light of the apartment or the weight of the quiet that’s been pressing on my chest since we got home, but suddenly I’m looking at him and thinking—I never want this to stop. The way he talks, the way he thinks, the way his voice slows down at the edges of big words like he wants me to have time to hold them. The way he’s sitting on this couch beside me like he belongs here.

God, I want him to keep talking forever.

He’s mid-sentence about emotional mimicking—something about how couples in love start to subconsciously mirror each other’s body language—when he suddenly falters. His hands stop moving. His voice drops off.

I turn to look at him, but he’s already ducking his head, eyes flicking toward the half-empty takeout container in his lap like it might save him from whatever embarrassment just hit him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost sheepish. “I’m not used to rambling for that long without being interrupted.”

The confession hits harder than I expect it to.

He doesn’t say it bitterly. Doesn’t even seem upset. Just… surprised. Like part of him only just realized it now. Like this moment—here, with me—is the exception to a rule he’s long since accepted.

“I mean—usually I get interrupted because we have case details to discuss,” he adds quickly, eyes darting down again. “And me rambling can be either really helpful, or really not.”

He tries to laugh, to play it off, but the way he’s gripping the box in his lap tells me the words meant more than he let on. Like maybe he meant, people don’t usually let me be too much for too long.

I shift closer, slow and easy, until our knees are touching. Just enough to let him know I’m here. Still listening. Still choosing him.

“I like when you talk,” I say gently.

He looks up at me, startled. Like I’ve said something scandalous. Like the idea that someone might actually enjoy hearing him think out loud is a completely foreign concept.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” I tease, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I’ve told you that before… at least I think I have.”

He just stares at me for a second—like he’s rewinding through every moment we’ve shared and replaying it under a different light. I see the exact moment he softens. The moment my words actually settle somewhere beneath the layers of doubt he carries like armor.

“I just… you really have a way of surprising me,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you show me something new. Something kind. Something I didn’t realize I needed.”

My heart stutters.

He exhales like he hadn’t meant to say all of that out loud. Like the words slipped out before he could dress them up as something smaller.

His gaze drifts to my mouth, just for a second.

And suddenly, the space between us feels charged.

Barely noticeable if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. But I see it. I feel it. That flicker of want, raw and hesitant, like he’s trying to swallow it down before it gives him away.

My chest tightens.

I feel the heat blooming slowly beneath my skin, starting low and curling upward like smoke, delicate and dangerous. I set my takeout box on the coffee table without taking my eyes off him. My hands feel a little too empty, a little too aware of themselves. Of him.

He’s still looking at me, not moving, but his whole body is tense in that way he gets when he’s thinking too much. Like he’s weighing every second, every breath, against what might happen next.

And maybe I am too.

The silence stretches, but it’s not empty.

It’s full.

Heavy with everything we haven’t said, with everything we’ve been circling around for weeks—brushing against by accident, then backing away like the contact was too much, too soon, too something.

But not now.

Now the air between us feels like a thread being pulled tighter. One of us is going to break it. And I think—I hope—it’s going to be me.

I lean in.

Slowly.

Like I’m moving through water. Like I’m giving him time to stop me. To hesitate. To second-guess the moment the way he second-guesses everything he lets himself want.

But he doesn’t stop me.

His eyes search mine as I move closer, like he’s trying to read the fine print of whatever it is I’m offering. I feel his breath when I get close enough—warm, just barely uneven. His lips part slightly, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean away. Doesn’t close the distance.

He’s waiting.

Not out of fear. Out of reverence.

Like he wants to be sure this is real. That I’m sure.

So I let my hand rise, slow and deliberate, and brush a stray curl away from his forehead. My fingers linger. I feel the way his breath catches in his throat, the way his eyes flutter closed for half a second like even that tiny touch is something he’s been craving.

And then I whisper, almost without thinking, “Spencer…”

That’s all it takes.

He meets me halfway.

It’s not fast. It’s not rushed. It’s a convergence—careful, aching, suspended in that strange space where time slows and every inch feels infinite.

Our noses brush first. Barely. Just enough for me to feel the trembling edge of hesitation in him—like even now, with my breath on his mouth, he’s still afraid of getting this wrong.

And I think—You won’t.

So I tilt my chin the tiniest bit, closing the space.

When our lips finally touch, it’s light—feather-soft, almost uncertain, like we’re both afraid that if we move too fast, we’ll lose the thread we’ve been pulling toward all night. But God, it’s real. The warmth of his mouth. The way his hand, hesitant at first, lifts to hover near my cheek, as if he wants to touch me but still needs permission.

So I give it to him.

I press in a little more, just enough to feel the full shape of him. The way he exhales shakily into me, like the relief of it is too much to carry in silence. His fingers finally settle—one at my jaw, the other brushing lightly at my waist. It’s not greedy. It’s not claiming.

It’s courteous.

Like I’m something precious and fragile and wanted. So wanted.

And I didn’t expect that part.

Because I thought it might be awkward. I thought he might overthink it, might hesitate too long or pull back too soon.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment and is still somehow terrified it might vanish.

And me?

I kiss him like I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without it.

There’s a part of me—small and quiet—that wants to cry from the sheer gentleness of it. From the way his lips move with mine like he’s memorizing the shape of every soft syllable we’ve ever left unsaid.

When we finally part, it’s not because I want to stop. It’s because I need air. Because I need to look at him and see if he felt it too—this shift in the universe. This tiny, perfect undoing.

He’s still close. So close I can see the smudge of pink on his lips, the dazed tilt to his expression. Like he can’t believe I kissed him back.

Like he didn’t expect this ending to be his.

I want to say something. Anything. But I can’t catch my breath.

He swallows, eyes fixed on mine. “Was that okay?”

My chest tightens.

“Spencer,” I whisper. “It was more than okay… It was perfect.”

A beat of silence.

Then we both sort of—laugh.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just soft, breathless chuckles that escape before either of us can stop them. Like our bodies are trying to let out some of the electricity we’ve been holding in for too long.

He ducks his head, and I see the smallest, most genuine smile tug at his mouth—the kind he usually tries to hide behind his hands or a sip of coffee. It lights up his whole face, boyish and stunned and so clearly happy that I want to bottle the sight and keep it with me forever.

“I can’t feel my hands,” he admits, and I laugh again, a little louder this time.

“God, you're sweet,” I murmur, biting my bottom lip.

“You know,” he says, even as his fingers tremble slightly where they’re still resting near my waist. “I’ve read over twenty books on human intimacy and I still almost forgot to breathe.”

“I’m not sure that’s something you can read your way through,” I tease.

He leans forward just enough to press his forehead against mine. “Tell me that after I kiss you again.”

This time, when our lips meet, it’s easier. Warmer. Less careful. Still tender, but touched with something lighter—like we’ve cracked open some hidden part of ourselves and found joy inside.

His hands settle with more confidence now, one sliding around my back, the other threading gently into my hair. I tilt into him with a sigh, my own fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater vest, needing to hold onto something.

The kiss deepens again.

There's a shift. Subtle at first. A lingering press of lips, a shared inhale that feels like the start of something we can't take back. And I don't want to. Not even for a second. His mouth parts, inviting, and when my tongue brushes against his, I feel the sharp, beautiful catch of his breath. It sends a ripple through me—heat curling low in my stomach, anchoring itself in the space between us.

He groans—soft, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out—and it vibrates against my mouth. I feel it everywhere. In my chest. My spine. The ache that’s been building beneath my skin since the moment he first looked at me tonight like I was something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.

But now he wants.

I can feel it in the way his hands move—more purposeful now, sliding down from my hair to my waist, fingertips pressing into the soft cotton of my shirt like he’s memorizing the curve of me. Like he’s trying to stay grounded in something real.

I shift forward on the couch, into him, across him. My leg hooks loosely over his, angling myself closer, needing to close the last of the distance. He gasps into my mouth, and suddenly he’s gripping my hips like he doesn’t quite trust himself to stay gentle if I keep moving like that.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, voice wrecked, low and tight with restraint.

It sends a shiver straight down my spine. Not because he’s warning me. Because he wants this—wants me—and is trying so hard to hold the line.

But I don’t want the line anymore.

I kiss him harder. Deeper. My hands leave his sweater and slide upward, over his shoulders, into the soft curls at the base of his neck. He melts into it, into me, groaning again—louder this time, more desperate, more real.

His hands slide beneath my shirt—warm, tentative, reverent. Calloused fingertips brushing over bare skin like he’s afraid to touch too much, like every inch is a gift he’s still not sure he’s earned.

“Spencer,” I whisper against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

And God—his eyes.

They’re blown wide, pupils dilated, lips kiss-bitten and parted, chest rising like he’s been holding his breath since the moment we started. He looks wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked. And the sight of him like this—rumpled, flushed, barely keeping himself together—undoes something in me.

I cup his jaw with both hands and press my forehead to his again.

“Come with me.”

His breath catches. “Are you sure?”

I nod, brushing my lips against his. “So sure.”

He still hesitates—but only for a second.

Then he stands, helping me up with both hands like I might disappear if he lets go.

And I don’t look back as I lead him to the bedroom.

The bedroom is dim, just the hallway light casting a soft amber glow across the floor. We don’t turn on a lamp. We don’t speak. There’s no need to—everything we’re trying to say is still humming in the space between us, in every glance, every touch.

He follows me inside like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, I might vanish. And I can feel the restraint rolling off him in waves, feel how tightly he’s keeping himself in check, even as his fingers brush against my wrist like he’s not ready to stop touching me. Like he can’t.

I back up slowly until the backs of my knees hit the bed.

He stops in front of me, breathing shallow. Waiting again. Always waiting.

So I make the next move.

My hands go to the hem of his sweater vest, fingers curling in the fabric. I tug gently—not to pull it off yet, just to hold him there, close. Anchored. I feel the heat of him even through the layers, feel the way his breath hitches when I slide my palms up underneath, meeting the fabric of his dress shirt. He shivers. Not from cold.

It’s not long before the vest is off and my hands settle on the buttons of his shirt. Not sliding them off yet, just tracing them.

His hands settle at my waist again, a little firmer this time. Confident, but still reverent. He doesn’t pull me toward him—I go willingly. Pressing my body to his, chest to chest, heat to heat, until there’s no space left between us. I can feel everything. The rise of his breath. The quiet, frantic thump of his heart. The tension low in his abdomen, coiled tight beneath his clothes.

When I kiss him again, it’s different.

No more gentle pauses. No more testing the waters.

This one is slow and greedy. A kiss that takes and gives in equal measure, all lips and breath and hands that are suddenly desperate for skin. My fingers slide up his chest, unbuttoning as I go—slowly, carefully, tracing each line of fabric until I can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton. He exhales like I’m undoing more than just a shirt.

His mouth trails from mine to my jaw, kissing down with the kind of focus that makes me dizzy. He lingers behind my ear, then down to the curve of my throat, where he kisses—really kisses—and my knees nearly buckle. I feel his hands shift lower, steadying me, gripping my hips tighter like he’s not sure whether he’s helping or holding himself back.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs against my neck, voice low, breath hot.

I shake my head instantly, fingers fisting in his shirt. “I don’t.”

It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever said.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching. Not for doubt—but for confirmation. For trust. I give it to him with one look, one kiss, one press of my body against his.

That’s all it takes.

We tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, the kind of gracelessness that only happens when you’re not thinking, not posing—just feeling. I land on my back, laughing softly, breathless from how quickly the air shifted again. He follows, bracing himself over me, his curls falling forward. One hand at the side of my face, the other resting carefully near my ribs, like he wants to hold me and also be sure he’s not too much.

He kisses me again, slower now, letting it stretch. My legs part to let him settle between them, the pressure of his body against mine exactly what I’ve been craving for too long. My hands move greedily now—over his back, under his shirt, tracing the skin there like I need to learn him by touch.

When his mouth finds the hollow of my throat again, I moan softly and feel him shudder.

Like he wasn’t expecting it. Like I’ve undone something fragile in him without even meaning to.

“Y/N,” he whispers, like he’s praying. Like he’s asking permission every time he says my name.

“Yes,” I whisper back, even though he hasn’t asked a question.

Because whatever he’s asking, the answer is yes.

Yes, to this.

Yes, to him.

Yes, to us.

His hand slips beneath my shirt again, sliding along my waist, up to the curve of my ribs. And this time, when he touches me, there’s no hesitation. Only reverence. Only heat. His thumb brushes just beneath the edge of my bra and I arch into him, needing more.

His mouth is on mine again, slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. And I give into it completely, my fingers fisting in the back of his shirt, needing to keep him close. Needing to feel all of him—his weight, his heat, the careful, reverent way he keeps touching me like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he lets go.

We move together without speaking, all instinct and breath and the occasional desperate gasp when one of us touches a new place, finds a new reaction. He’s learning me like he wants to—like he’s memorizing every sound, every shift of my hips, every stutter in my breath when he kisses a little lower, touches a little firmer.

His mouth drags down my neck again, open and warm, and when he finds that sensitive spot just beneath my collarbone, my whole body jerks.

“Y/n” he whispers, voice ragged as his fingers skim beneath my shirt again, “You’re a dream.”

I moan softly, arching into him, pulling him closer until the friction is maddening—heat and want and pressure, and something sweeter, too. Something like awe.

The first time his phone buzzes on the nightstand, we both ignore it.

Neither of us moves.

Neither of us wants to move.

“It’ll go to voicemail,” he whispers, but I can tell he’s hesitant to let it go. That part of him that runs on responsibility, on logic and worst-case scenarios, is already pulling at the edge of him. But I’m still holding him here. And for now, that seems to win.

Still, he shrugs it off by bringing his mouth to my collarbone.

His lips are warm—softer than I ever imagined they’d be—dragging slowly over the delicate curve of bone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me with his mouth. He presses a kiss there, then another, then lingers with an open-mouthed breath that makes me arch involuntarily.

“God,” I murmur, one hand slipping into his curls, the other fisting in the fabric of the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he says, voice low, wrecked, and when he looks up at me, his pupils are wide, his mouth kiss-swollen, his expression caught somewhere between worship and desperation.

He kisses lower, lips dragging down my stomach in a slow, reverent path. My shirt is pushed high now, nearly forgotten, and my thighs are already parting before he’s even touched me there. I feel open. Offered. And he’s accepting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His fingers hook gently into the sides of my underwear, pausing only to glance up—asking. Always asking.

I nod, already trembling. “Please…”

He exhales shakily, like that word undid whatever thread he was clinging to, and begins to pull the fabric down with aching slowness. The air hits me, cool and sharp, and I feel his breath follow right after—hot and reverent and close.

So close.

I gasp as he kisses my inner thigh, teeth grazing lightly. His hands spread over my hips, anchoring me to the bed like I might float away.

And then—

The phone rings again.

A second time.

Louder.

Longer.

Neither of us moves. The sound vibrates through the silence like a cruel joke, like the universe itself is trying to tear the moment in half.

He groans—this quiet, wrecked sound that leaves his chest and presses right into mine like an apology. His forehead lowers to rest against my thigh.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “That’s… I can’t ignore it.”

I bite down on a whimper and force myself to nod. Because I know he’s right. Because if it’s a call from his job, something’s wrong. And he’ll carry that guilt with him whether I tell him to stay or not.

He rises slowly, like it hurts to put space between us. Like his body is still trying to stay pressed to mine even as he sits back on his knees, hands braced on either side of my hips, breath still uneven.

He reaches for the phone.

Checks the screen.

His jaw tightens. “It’s Garcia.”

A beat.

Then he closes his eyes like he’s willing the moment to hold just a few seconds longer.

“I don’t want to go,” he says, not looking at me. “God, I don’t want to go.”

And even though I’m still breathless, still aching in ways I hadn’t expected, I reach for his hand.

“I know,” I whisper, lacing our fingers together. “It’s okay, honey. Take it.”

He nods, reluctantly, and clicks the accept button, then brings the phone to his ear. His other hand remains tangled with mine, like he can’t quite let go.

“This is Reid,” he says, voice still thick, hoarse. Not professional yet. Not even close. He swallows hard, like he’s trying to drag himself back into the mindset of the man who solves murders, not the one who just had his mouth on my skin.

I watch his face shift as he listens. The tension coming back into his shoulders. His brow furrowing, his mouth tightening in the way it always does when the outside world seeps back in.

“Yeah,” he says after a long beat. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

His thumb rubs against the back of my hand—slow, apologetic.

He ends the call.

And the silence that follows is heavier than the one before. Not because we’re angry. Not because we’re upset with each other. But because we both know what we just lost in the space of a few seconds.

He finally looks at me.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt still halfway unbuttoned, lips flushed, skin warm with leftover wanting. He looks like he’s trying to memorize me—exactly as I am, in this bed, under this light, before the night splits away from what it could’ve been.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. “I really didn’t want—”

“I know,” I interrupt gently, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.”

And I mean it. Even if every part of me is still humming with unfinished need. Even if I want to pull him back down and finish what we started. I won’t make him feel worse. Not when he already looks like he might break in half from guilt.

“Go,” I say. “They need you.”

He lingers for a second longer, like he’s waiting for something to anchor him again. So I lean forward and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—slow, tender, final.

“Be safe,” I murmur.

He nods, breathing out hard. Then rises from the bed with reluctant movements, grabbing his shirt from the floor, his phone, his jacket. He doesn’t bother buttoning everything properly—just throws it on over his rumpled clothes, half-zipped, his hair still mussed.

He looks like a man walking away from something he didn’t want to leave behind.

The door closes behind him.

And the room is suddenly, impossibly quiet.

At least it was for a moment—just long enough for the weight of everything that almost happened to settle in my chest. The warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, the ghost of his mouth still traced along the inside of my thigh. My body felt like it was still reaching for him even though he was already gone.

The ache hadn’t faded. Not entirely. But I could feel it reshaping into something else—something quieter. Something lonelier.

Then my phone rings.

I blink.

It vibrates against the nightstand, sharp in the silence. For a second, I just stare at it, brain still foggy with everything Spencer left behind.

Beth's Contact.

Maddie’s friend’s mom.

My heart drops.

I scramble to grab it, thumb swiping across the screen faster than my thoughts can catch up. I sit up straight, tugging the rumpled sheets over my chest even though there’s no one here to see.

“Hello?”

“Oh—hi, Y/N,” Beth says quickly, her voice hushed, apologetic. “I’m so sorry to call this late, but Maddie’s… um, she’s asking for you.”

My chest tightens. “Is she okay?”

��She’s not hurt or anything, just really upset. She started crying about ten minutes ago. I tried to calm her down, but she keeps saying she wants to go home.”

That’s all I need to hear.

“I’m coming to get her,” I say, already reaching for the clothes discarded beside the bed.

“Are you sure? She might settle down if—”

“She’s not ready,” I say gently. “And that’s okay.”

There’s a pause, then Beth sighs. “Okay. I’ll keep her bundled up until you get here.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up and sit for a second on the edge of the bed, fingers still wrapped tightly around my phone. I stare down at the sheets where Spencer’s hand had just been. The same bed where just minutes ago, I’d said please and meant it in a dozen different ways.

I’m still not ready either.

But for a different reason.

And somehow, that makes the ache easier to bear.

I grab my keys and pull on the first hoodie I find. My body is still buzzing from Spencer—half-finished, half-satisfied, half his—but my heart is already pulling toward the front door, to the little girl who still needs me most.

Previous Chapter |

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[ccarisi]

fascination

summary: You stumble across a certain video on your stepdad’s old laptop.

warnings: smut, age gap, stepcest/fauxcest, loss of virginity, sex tape (watching and recording), oral (reader receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, office sex, daddy kink, kid/kiddo, hell yeah you’re calling him dad <3 4.4k words

a/n: something came over me when i tried to write a “short” blurb for this ask. im tired as fuck so excuse any mistakes. my gift to you all before i go on a mini vacation </3

“Fuck–”

The blue screen on your laptop stares back at you, any hope of getting your essay done before its due date now long gone. You have to get it in tonight, there’s just no way around it. It’s too late to head to the library and every second you spend working through your options is another second gone.

You don’t want to call Sonny. He’s always on your case about getting your work done early, and you’re pretty sure you lied about this and told him you don’t have any work due soon. Maybe he can help without knowing about this, though. You remember there being an old spare laptop of his tucked away in his office, you’ve borrowed it once or twice.

That was with permission of course, your stepdad doesn’t like you messing with his neatly organized office. Everything has its designated place, clean and tidy, and you tend to leave rooms messier than when you got there. You make a mental note not to touch anything that doesn’t involve the laptop and to put everything back exactly how you found it. You have to get this assignment in, he’ll understand.

Creaking the door to his home office open you slip inside, Sonny had texted you awhile ago that he’s working late tonight. Big case or something, you don’t know. Pretty boring. You rifle through his drawers and cabinets until you manage to find the old laptop, this thing has been around the house since he was still in law school.

You set up at his desk, desperately trying to get the archaic laptop to boot up. You thank your stepdad’s compulsive organizational skills that the charger is still with it. Meanwhile, all your spare cords live in a junk drawer and you can’t decipher which cord is for what even if you tried.

You two have always been opposite. Organized vs messy, punctual vs running late, he even runs hot while you run cold. You think you compliment one another, as if you complete each other in a way. He keeps you in line while you teach him to lighten up. You’d like to believe if he wasn’t your stepdad you would have found each other someday down the line anyways.

Finally managing to get the laptop started, you quickly get to work on finishing your essay not only before your deadline but before Sonny comes home. You’re not in a mood for another lecture about how important it is to stay on top of your work, that being organized is an important skill for the workforce. If he finds you in here you’re going to get an earful and you’d rather avoid having to talk to Counselor Carisi if you can.

Much to your relief you’re able to finish pretty quickly, despite how god awful the laptop runs. Why does he even keep this thing if it barely works? It saved your ass tonight though, you owe this dingy old laptop your life.

You’re about to shut the poor thing down and take it out of its misery before something stops you. Sonny always says you’re too curious for your own good, always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Maybe that’s why you start to poke around in the old laptop, maybe you can find something incriminating to use against him next time you ask for something. Like a new laptop.

It’s pretty boring, to be expected. Old essays he wrote for night school, even older pictures of the two of you that bring a smile to your face. Everything has its own folder, subfolders, and then even more subfolders inside those. God, he was even organized on the damn computer.

You grumble to yourself while you dig through his stuff, snooping around in the hopes of finding something, anything. But it’s all mundane, what else would you expect when it comes to Sonny.

You almost close out before you spot it, a lone out of place video file you don’t know how many folders deep in. You can’t tell what it is from the thumbnail and he never changed the title from what it was uploaded as. You shoot a glance at the clock on his desk, he’s usually on his way home by now when he works late. Deciding to risk it anyways, you open up the video. If he was on his way home he would have texted you, you’re sure it’s fine.

The video plays and you narrow your eyes in confusion, it looks like his bedroom from your old apartment. Just an unmoving video of his empty neatly made bed, was this security footage or something? You wouldn’t put it past him. Impatiently you click ahead, putting your cursor somewhere in the middle of the timeline of the video.

You jump when sound suddenly fills the office and what your eyes fall on is even worse. Now you know why this was buried away. Freezing up, you watch the screen before you. There was your stepdad and…isn’t that one of his old girlfriends? You can’t remember her name, you never liked any of them anyways.

You harshly swallow as the sounds of his groans coupled with the woman’s sighs fill your ear, the slap of his hips against hers. You should close this, fuck you should delete it even. Why does he even still have this? You feel stuck in place as you watch, eyes glued to the way the muscles in his back move with every thrust, his large body covering hers. You don’t know much but you’re pretty sure she’s enjoying it, guessing from her reactions. He must know what he’s doing.

Your thighs press together on their own as you keep watching, unable to turn it off even if you tried. You can list at least fifty different reasons why this is wrong, but you don’t care. Maybe you’re appealing to the side of you that you’ve worked so hard to bury, the part of you that’s jealous to see him like this with someone else.

You eye the clock before quickly checking your phone for any sign that he’s on his way home. Nothing. You don’t know when your hand ended up between your thighs, slowly rubbing yourself to try and alleviate that special ache. You watch as his hand slides between her thighs too, listening to how the sounds she makes rise in pitch. Your eyes are locked on Sonny while you imagine how it would feel to be in her place instead. What it would feel like to have him crushing you down into the mattress like that.

Without thinking you slide your hand down your underwear and mimic his movements, moving faster and faster like he does. You’ve never been great at getting yourself off– but having the real life example of what you’ve been imagining lately in front of you seems to be doing the trick. Listening to how he talks her through it, pretending it’s you he’s calling ‘so fuckin’ good.’ It doesn’t take long before that feeling in your tummy grows and grows—

“What’re you doin’ in here?” Sonny’s voice snaps you out of your fantasy. Quickly scrambling, you mute the video and slam the laptop shut. It’s no use, could you look any more guilty? Your heart beats out of your chest as your mouth falls open, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“I uh… my laptop broke and I h–had an assignment…” you finally manage to try and explain yourself. You were positive that he was still at work, that you would hear the door shut when he came home. You didn’t exactly plan on…doing what you were doing. Fuck, did he see that? You’re screwed, absolutely and totally screwed.

“N’ ya expect me to believe what I just walked in on was you workin’ on an assignment?” He’s being unnecessarily harsh, the embarrassment you feel right now is a good enough punishment for coming in here without asking. Besides, it’s not like he’s actually mad about what he found you doing. He even watched with the door cracked open before making himself known.

He would have never guessed this is what he would find you doing when he couldn’t find you that evening. No response when he called out that he was home, you weren’t in your room either. It was the faint sounds of a video playing that led him to his office door, the light shining through the bottom crack sealed the deal on your whereabouts.

He slowly opened the door just enough to see what was going on. You and his old laptop, hand moving quickly underneath your shorts. It even took him a second before he realized what exactly you were watching. He watched the way your lips fell open in silent pleasure, how your hips wiggled and chased your own hand. Oh you poor thing, if you wanted Daddy so bad you could have just said so.

“I was– I–…please don’t be mad.” You resign in a quiet voice, wishing for that damn piece of junk laptop to electrocute you or maybe even catch fire, anything to get you out of this situation. You watch him with baited breath as he walks over to you, slowly opening the laptop back up.

“How’d ya even manage to find this, hm? Damn troublemaker.” Sonny teases you before dragging his cursor along the timeline of the video, skipping towards the end. “Y’didn’t even get to the best part.”

You’re confident that you died and went to hell, that’s the only way to explain what’s happening right now. Sonny unpauses the video and you watch together, your eyes darting away in shame. It's the last few minutes of the video, you can hear the creak of the mattress mixing with his loud groans and you think you know what’s going to happen next.

“Hey c’mon, watch. You’re missin’ it.” He nudges your shoulder no differently than when you go on your phone during your movie nights, always missing his favorite scenes.

Your cheeks burn as you hear your stepdad’s voice through the speakers. ‘Fuck, baby, ‘m almost there. Gonna make me fuckin’ cum–”

You feel hot all over, maybe a bit faint even, but most importantly wound up. The words leaving his mouth are filthy, and the sounds he’s making are even worse. You were so close to finally getting yourself off before he came in and interrupted you, and you’re sure you won’t be getting to see this video again any time soon for a second attempt.

“Dad–” the word feels foreign rolling off your tongue given the circumstances, “I don’t think I can watch this anymore…” You trail off as you watch the Sonny in the video still, a deep loud groan leaving his lips before he collapses on the woman. He pets your hair lovingly as he watches along, dick throbbing from the unexpected but pleasant trip down memory lane.

“Y’didn’t seem to have a problem watchin’ it earlier, honey.” He runs his hand through your hair, a simple gesture that always comforts you. Now it burns. “Y’wanna talk about it?”

No, not really. You hate how nonchalant he’s being about this, as if he’s asking if you wanna talk about an embarrassing problem you’re having. Like back when you were going through puberty and everything felt like the world was ending, how he’d have to pry you open to get you to talk about anything remotely embarrassing. All those problems feel insignificant now.

“It’s okay, y’know, if ya feel that way about me. ‘S only natural to be curious...” he murmurs as he peers down at you, a large hand moving from your hair to cup your cheek. “You’ve always been a curious one, haven’t ya?”

Your mouth goes dry as you look up at him, your grasp on the English language suddenly leaving you. You’ll never be able to look at him the same after what you saw in the video, and he knows that too.

“Y’didn’t get to finish earlier, huh?” He murmurs as his thumb lovingly strokes the soft skin of your cheek. He sounds so concerned, like he’s checking in on you after being sick or scraping your knee. You timidly shake your head no, unsure of where he’s going with this, but the ache between your thighs only grows the more he touches you.

“That was… uh, the closest I’ve ever gotten.” You admit sheepishly, “I don’t really know how… to.”

He’s helped you with fractions, learning how to drive, hell he would have helped you with the essay you were working on if you had asked. It’s his job as your stepdad to help you, isn’t it?

“Hey, that’s okay. Don’t give me that face,” Sonny coos as he tilts your head up to look at him fully, those pretty eyes of yours timidly looking back into his. “Y’jus’ need someone to show ya how it works. Did ya like watchin’ the video?”

You could say no. Say no and shove him off and lock yourself in your room until he gets the hint. Let this be a distant memory of something you swear was a dream and you never bring up again. But the things you saw and heard are burned into your brain. How loud the woman got when he seemed to angle his hips just right, how she cried out in ecstasy as she held on to him. You wish it was you, you want it to be you.

“Do ya wanna do what I was doin’ in the video? You n’ me?”

His eyes bore into yours as the weight of the question hangs heavy in the air. He leans in closer, a silent invitation saying it’s okay if you want it. You let out a shaky breath as your skin prickles, heat spreading under your skin as you dare to jump.

You barely finish your shy nod before he closes the distance between you, catching your lips in a chaste kiss. Your eyes flutter close immediately as your arms snake their way around his neck, nothing’s ever felt as right as this does.

Sonny’s tongue slides into your mouth, the sensation taking you by surprise. You’ve never done more than pecks in relationships that went nowhere. Those were nothing compared to the feeling of your stepdad sliding his warm wet tongue into your mouth.

It feels weird, almost. But the more he kisses you the fuzzier your brain becomes. Drunk on the mere essence of him, softly moaning into his mouth whenever he squeezes your thighs.

He maneuvers you on top of the desk with ease, moving framed pictures of you and papers out of the way. And the laptop, of course. The laptop angled just right off to the side that you never realize is recording.

A large hand gently spreads your legs open as you sit on the edge of the desk, squeezing and rubbing at your inner thighs. When he pulls away his lips are shiny and pink and he nuzzles his nose against yours. “‘M gonna do more than jus’ kiss ya, that okay?” His breath is hot against your skin.

His fingers rest at the top of the waistband of your shorts, giving it the smallest of tugs. His cock strains against his slacks at the thought of sinking down and finally tasting your sweet juices.

You shiver when the cold air hits you, shorts and underwear tossed off to the side. Sonny keeps your legs spread, despite how you try to close them in embarrassment. He licks his lips and whistles lowly, drinking in the sight of your glistening dripping pussy.

“Y’so pretty, angel. And you’re all mine, ain’t ya? Always been Daddy’s angel.” He whispers as he sinks to his knees. His back’s gonna be killing him after, but it’s a worthy trade off.

He spreads you with his thumbs before leaning in for a deep inhale, groaning from the sweet smell. All for Dad, huh? Looking up at you he slowly leans in, dragging his tongue through your soft wet folds bottom to top.

One hand grips the edge of the desk as the other finds its way to his greying hair, gripping tightly. Much like the video, you can’t take your eyes off him. You watch him bury his face in your pussy and you tug sharply on his hair, his tongue lapping at your juices as delves in.

“O—oh, fuck. Dad…” you sigh as his tongue expertly swirls around your clit, listening to the way he moans from the sweet taste and the way you react to him. Your clit throbs as he works you over with his mouth, arousal coating his face. It’s never ever felt like this when you’ve tried to get off. Maybe you do just need Dad after all.

When Sonny thinks you’re warmed up enough he pulls away, grinning when he hears your pathetic whine. “Shh, I’m gonna make it better, sweetie. Watch,” he purrs as he slowly sinks a finger into your slick hole, cock twitching from the way his finger disappears inside of you.

“Oh,” you whimper at the intrusion as his finger settles knuckle deep inside you. He gives you a few experimental pumps before curling it and you arch into his touch.

“There ya go, sweet thing. You’re doin’ so good for Daddy.” He sighs before sinking back into your dripping pussy. He savors you like you’re a delicacy, slurping and groaning with no regard for how obscene it sounds. He’s enjoying you, and he wants you to know.

“Shit— it’s t—too much—“ you whine as his warm lips wrap firmly around your clit, his finger finally finding that special spot inside you. A second finger joins the first as he worships your pussy, distracting you from the stretch as he eases you into it.

You can’t pick between wiggling away and pushing against his eager mouth, feeling like it’s too much but needing more and more. His mouth is relentless, sloppily licking and sucking at your clit as his thick fingers reach that spot you’ve never been able to reach yourself.

You figure you must sound pretty close to the video with the way your breath hitches, moans raising both in volume and pitch. “W—wait, Dad hold on—“ you stammer breathlessly, fire pooling in your abdomen. It builds and builds as you fall back against the desk, hips grinding up against his face.

Sonny firmly holds one of hips down against the desk, eating up the way your body reacts to him. You were made for this, he thinks. Made to be savored and loved by him, more than anyone else ever can. His sweet fucking baby.

It only takes a second longer for the dam to break— another go at your clit as his fingers curl just right and there it is. You pant and writhe underneath him, legs shaking as he holds you down.

With a soft kiss to your clit he pulls away, hushing you as he slowly pulls out his fingers covered in your slick. He rubs soft circles on your hip with his thumb as he licks the fingers clean, moaning from the sweet taste. You’re as sweet as you look.

“Easy there, kiddo. I know. Big one, huh?” He presses two kisses to the inside of your thighs before standing up with a grunt. Christ’s sake, he was getting old.

You weakly sit up on your elbows, skin flushed and hot. His lips are wet with your juices and you don’t miss the obvious bulge in his pants either. To know that your stepdad’s that aroused because of you has you more turned on than you thought possible.

“Do ya wanna do what we were really doin’ in the video? Ya think ya can handle Daddy?” Sonny asks teasingly but with a touch of sincerity at the same time. As much as he wants nothing more than to fuck you stupid, if you don’t want it then that’s that.

“I… I think so. I can handle it, I’m ready.” You psych yourself up as you spread your legs wider as an invitation. He chuckles as he rubs your inner thigh, you always were in a rush to grow up, even back then.

It’s bittersweet in a way. Doing this with you is the final nail in the coffin, his little baby will really be all grown up. He still has a couple of your old childhood stuffed animals in the office, you insisted they keep him company while he worked and he never had the heart to get rid of them when you got older.

Sonny sheds his pants and his boxers follow suit, cock standing tall and proud against his round belly. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, watching as he gives himself a few languid pumps, thumb smearing his precum around the tip.

“Don’t be shy, it’s not gonna bite ya.” He jokes as he steps closer and gently guides your hand to wrap around him. He helps you stroke him up and down as a soft sigh of relief leaves his lips. Oh, you sweetheart.

You feel it throb in your grip and it leaves you with an indescribable yearning, a desperation to feel him inside of you. To know you’re as close to your Daddy as two people possibly can be. He loves you more than anything in this world, that’s what he always reminded you before turning off the light before bed.

Impatiently, you try to guide him towards your entrance as you raise your hips. You’ve always been a stubborn kid. “Slow down, kiddo. You’ll get it.” He laughs in disbelief and you smile when you see his dimples.

He eases you back down on your back as he notches the fat tip of his cock at your tight little hole, guiding himself to your entrance. “Deep breath, honey.”

You brace yourself but it’s not enough, squeezing your eyes shut you let out a whimper as he slowly pushes himself inside you. You try to focus on the nice things instead of the burn that comes with his cock stretching you out. Like the groan that leaves him as he enters your tight wet heat, the way his thumb gently plays with your clit, and the fact that you get to have him like this at all. Just like the video.

“Jesus— look at that, kiddo.” Sonny sighs, watching the way his cock sinks into you as your bodies connect. God, he loves you. He really does.

“Dad, it’s too big—“ you wince as he pushes in inch by inch, hard cock sliding against your silken walls.

“You’ll get used t’me, jus’ relax sweetheart, it’ll fit. It’s gonna fit.”

You try to do as you’re told and relax the best you can. You trust him, Dad’s always right.

“Jus’ a bit more, y’almost there, sweetie. Doin’ so perfect for Daddy…” Sonny murmurs before sliding in the rest of the way, one and done. He knows you’re hurting, but his way is a whole lot easier than yours. “Fuck sweetheart, pussy’s heaven.”

It’s easy to forget about the pain when he praises you like that, and you’ll do just about anything to make him keep making those same noises of pleasure. “R—really? It's good?” You ask, doubting that you can make him feel the way he did in the video.

“Y’kiddin’? Ya makin’ ya old man feel better than he has in a long time. C’mere, give Daddy a kiss.” He leans over and you meet him halfway as he starts thrusting into you, tip kissing your cervix.

You make such pretty sounds as you clench around him, hips slowly working up to a steady pace. He looks down and watches how he slides into you with ease, cock covered in creamy ribbons of your arousal.

“Dad,” you whimper, “fuck, I—“ you reach out and wiggle your fingers at him.

He takes the hint, interlocking your fingers and pushing himself inside you as far as he can, belly pressed up against you. You feel indescribably full as your walls flutter around his length.

His hips move faster and faster, spurred on by the pretty little moans that fall out of your lips. The way your hands squeeze his with every thrust into your tight cunt has him harder than he’s ever been.

“Wanna feel ya cum around me, baby. Let Daddy see ya cum nice n’ hard now.” His fingers find your clit again as he rubs firm deliberate circles around you.

You gasp as your hips chase his fingers, desperate for that warm fuzzy feeling to wash over you again. His cock brushes against that special spot over and over again and you’re gone, eyes glazing over as you clench around him. Your back arches as you pulse and flutter around his pistoning cock.

“That’s it, so fuckin’ good. So so good, so perfect. Daddy loves ya sweetheart, Daddy loves ya so fuckin’ much—“

Sonny’s cock drives into you as he chases his own release, sweat rolling down his forehead as the desk shakes with the force of his thrusts. His belly glistens from your arousal as you soak him, and he’s loving every second. You’re so tight, so wet. So warm. Perfect. Always perfect.

“Fuck, Daddy’s gonna cum. Daddy’s gonna cum, baby.” With one last powerful thrust he empties himself inside you, milky cum spurting against your walls. His body shakes from the sheer force of it as he fucks rope after rope of his cum into your greedy pussy.

You hope you can commit that sound to memory. How deep and low it is, how it comes from somewhere deep in his chest. He pulls you up off your back and holds you tight against him, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He covers you in kisses, your hair, your face, your neck. Any piece of skin he can reach. “Ya did so good sweetheart, jus’ like I knew ya would.” He moans into your neck, peppering you in feather light kisses.

You try to catch your breath as you pull away from him and a blinking red dot catches your eye. The fucking laptop.

“Dad—!” You groan and harshly whack his arm. “You have to delete that— you’re gonna delete it, right?”

Sonny lets out a laugh as you hit him, unconcerned with your anger. There’s no chance in hell he’s ever deleting that. You’ll just have to get over it. Maybe if he buys you a new laptop.

[steveslevis]

throughout the great war

chapter 2 - maybe it's the past that's talking

azriel x hewn city escapee!reader

summary: you come to Velaris hoping for a way to escape the horrors of Hewn City, and you’re immediately taken into the custody of the High Lord of the Night Court. you don't expect him to accommodate you so willingly, and you definitely don't expect him to inform you that you'd be entering a courtship with his Spymaster, Azriel.

warnings: mentions of torture, death, and previous violence, trauma/trauma responses, arranged marriage, azriel being an ass

word count: 3.2k

a/n: FINALLY updating this!!! and here's a link to what i imagined for thee ring...enjoy <3

series masterlist

Your wedding night is anything but eventful.

Feyre gave you a simple white dress for the occasion, and gave you some mascara and lip stain to put on. They were true to their word when they said it would just be the two of them at the wedding, and you were more than grateful to not have too many eyes on you. 

The four of you stand on the balcony of your new home, the House of Wind, Rhys and Feyre watching as you exchange rings with Azriel, your beloved husband. 

Under any other circumstances, you’d be reveling in the way the orange and pink sunset dances on the horizon, how the light shining down on the two of you made it seem like this marriage truly was blessed by the Cauldron. 

But you knew better than to think that to actually be true.

You don’t dare look at the male as you slip the simple black band onto his finger, though you know his stare is boring eyes into the top of your head. He’s more than seething as he slides a ring onto your finger, but you almost gasp at the sight of it. It’s an intricate gold ring with an oval-shaped sapphire situated in the middle, with smaller diamonds and gold leaves adorning the center stone; it’s truly the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. Once the ring is settled on your finger, a tattoo blooms up your left hand and wraps around your wrist, one of wispy lines and stars, signifying your marriage to the male who now has a tattoo to match. 

Feyre and Rhys look at the two of you expectantly, and you know then that you have to kiss the angry male standing in front of you. You squeeze your eyes shut as he hastily grips your chin, pulling you in for a chaste kiss before turning away from you completely.

“Well, congratulations.” Feyre breathes out, giving you a sympathetic smile. “Go enjoy your new home, and don’t hesitate to call for us if you need anything.”

Before you can protest, you’re alone on the balcony with your new husband, the male who won’t even look your way.

Your heart lurches as you stalk behind him into the house, feeling pathetic as you follow like a lost puppy. 

“A—Azriel,” you call out as you close the door to the balcony behind you. The male stops in his tracks, turning on his heels to finally look at you. “Thank you, for everything, but especially for sparing me in that dungeon.”

Something flickers in his eyes, something like regret, but it only stays for a second before he flashes you an emotionless glare. 

“No need to thank me.” he murmurs, before turning on his heels to stalk up the stairs. 

Once he’s up the stairs, you’re left alone.

In a new home, on top of a hill in the middle of a new city with no way to escape. You know Rhys told you that you’re not a prisoner in this house and that you’re allowed to leave any time you want, that you’re free to explore the city. But you can’t help but feel like you’ve traded one prison for another nicer-looking one. 

You push the thought from your mind as you unconsciously walk up the stairs, heading towards the room Feyre had explained was your own. She’d promised that you would be able to re-design the room if you had the desire to, that you were able to make the space your own. 

Once you reach the second landing on the stairs, you’re utterly lost. The house is so large and all of the doors look the same. You know your room is on this floor, but can’t for the life of you remember which door it was. 

Was it the third or fourth door on the right?

You couldn’t be sure, your memory has been so foggy lately. So, you think it would be best to just check both rooms instead of guessing. There’s a strange feeling in your chest as your hand falls on the door handle to the third room on the right, but you slowly push the door open anyways.

The room is dimly lit, decorated in ebony wood furniture and navy fabrics. Only one fae light on the side table next to the bed lights the room, but you can see that this is definitely not where you’re supposed to be staying. If the perfectly made bed wasn’t telling enough, the dozen daggers meticulously sprawled out on the desk on the other side of the room give you a sinking suspicion of whose room you just invaded. 

You hear him before you see him, a low growl escapes his lips as he steps out of his en-suite bathroom. 

“What are you doing here?” Azriel questions harshly, making you stagger back a step as he takes a stalking step towards you. 

“I–I’m sorry, I–” 

“Did you just assume we were to share a bed just because we’re married now?” he scoffs, eyes narrowed on you as his shadows skitter around his head. “Just because Rhysand forced me to marry you doesn’t mean that we’re ever going to be anything except housemates. You sleep elsewhere.”

“I didn’t mean to, I–I know I’m not sleeping in here. I thought this door was my room.” you stammer out, tears shining in your eyes as you hold your hands up in surrender. You don’t notice the way his facade slips for a moment when you squeeze your eyes shut and flinch away from him, don’t notice the way he grips his chest to ease the ache his aggression is causing him. 

“Well, it’s not. Got it?” he snarls, putting his walls up as quickly as he’d let them fall, and you nod feverishly. “Now, go to your own room. Don’t bother me again, just–just stay out of my way. I don’t want anything to do with you, this whole arrangement is enough, I don’t need you following me around like a lost puppy on top of that.” 

You stumble out of the room then, quickly making your way to your bedroom next door. Tears stream down your cheeks as you slam the door closed and quickly change out of your Gods forsaken wedding dress and into some pajamas instead. You hastily tug the ring you’d been given off your finger, regardless of how much it makes your stomach ache to do so, and set it on your dresser. You can’t even be bothered to fully get un-ready before throwing yourself onto the bed, hiding under the sheets as sobs rack your body and tears burn your eyes.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall into a dreamless sleep, chest feeling so fucking hollow as you curl into a ball on the large bed. 

___________________________________

It’s been three days since your wedding, and you haven’t dared to leave your room since. You’re not quite sure if your inclination to stay in bed has been due to the sadness that fills your chest every time you try to sit up, or the fear that fills your thoughts every time you look over at the door, but you know it’s likely the latter that keeps you burrowed beneath the sheets. 

Luckily for you, Feyre had put you into a room with an en-suite bathroom, so you actually didn’t have to leave the room at all. The House finally had all but forced food down your throat last night when you laid in bed with a growling stomach. First by making a tray of food appear on your dresser across the room, which you ignored at first. That led to the tray making its way over to your bedside table, and eventually the House placed it right next to you on the bed and you finally gave in and ate a few bites of the food it had provided. 

The House made a pile of books and even a journal appear on your bedside table this morning, but you opted to continue sleeping away the pain. 

Azriel had tried not to let the fact that he hadn’t seen or heard you around the House get to him, but it was getting hard. 

Guilt gnaws at his chest whenever he thinks about the way you looked at him with so much fear filling your eyes when he’d yelled at you that first night. He hadn’t meant to be so aggressive, but his frustration with the situation had gotten the best of him in the moment. He tried to reason with himself by saying that the poor interaction was for the best, that he needed to distance himself and his yelling had made his intentions very clear.

He tried to push his thoughts of you out of his mind as much as possible, despite the fact that his shadows wanted to give him hour-by-hour updates on you and insisted on whispering mate, mate, mate in his ear every time. Every time they did, he’d order them to stop before they even hinted at your whereabouts, he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to be tempted to see you yet. He couldn’t think about you too much, or he’d forget everything he’d been working for and abandon his fake hatred for you and tell you everything right now.

The late morning sun beats down on Azriel’s bare back as he slides the practice sword back onto the rack after sparring with Cassian. He’s distracted, but has been trying his damndest to channel his frustration into training and throw himself at his work to avoid thoughts about you. Cassian slaps him on the shoulder once, saying something about it being a good spar. Azriel mumbles a mindless reply before turning away from the rack, only to be faced with Nesta, who looks to be more annoyed than usual. 

“What’s your wife up to today?” she asks bluntly, gray eyes flashing with anger as she speaks. 

Straight to the point, Azriel thinks. He knows better than to be a dick to Nesta, though, especially when that familiar silver flame dances in her eyes.

“Don’t know, haven’t seen her today.” he replies cooly, shrugging at her.

“Haven’t seen her today, or haven’t seen her at all since you screamed at her for accidentally walking into the wrong bedroom on the first night in the House?” Nesta snaps back, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares up at him. 

Azriel stills at her words and so does Cassian, who’d walked to wrap his arms around his mate from behind in greeting. Cassian raises a brow at his brother, but Azriel’s expression is stony, showing no emotion as he stares at Nesta.

“I haven’t seen her since our wedding night.” Azriel clarifies, swallowing thickly as his shadows skitter anxiously around his wings. 

“Well, aren’t you just the perfect husband?” she sneers, malice dripping from each word, “If you’d like to know, the House made it known to me that she hasn’t even left her fucking bed to do anything aside from use the restroom for the last three days.” Azriel’s heart clenches at her words, and his breath hitches Nesta takes a step toward him, “So if I were you, her fucking husband, fake or not, I would maybe go check on her and see if she’s still breathing before Feyre finds out about it. Because she’s taken a liking to the poor girl and I don’t think it will end well if she realizes you’re the one who’d told Y/N to go to her own room and stay out of your way.”

And with that, Nesta turns on her heel and marches toward the House with Cassian in tow, leaving Azriel to think about his actions on the roof. 

Shame fills Azriel’s chest as he stands on the sparring mat alone, mulling over his actions over the last few days. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing his chest to soothe the ache growing there before making his way inside.

Without a second thought, Azriel starts for your room. He scales the two flights of stairs, trying to ignore the way all of his instincts are screaming at him to run the other way. His heart races as he reaches your door, shadows swirling around as they report no sounds from the other side of the door. Before he can talk himself out of it, he knocks on your door while inhaling shakily.

On the other side of the door, you jolt from your sleep and sit upright quickly at the sound of soft knocking. 

Your heart kicks as you look around the room, realizing that you haven’t picked anything up off the floor from your post-wedding breakdown. Throwing the sheets off your body quickly, you stand from the bed and quickly grab the clothes off the floor to throw them in the hamper before smoothing out your comforter on your bed. 

There’s another knock on the door as you look down at the clothes you’re wearing, you definitely shouldn’t be opening the door in a thin cotton sleep set, but you don’t have time to change. Your breath hitches as you reach for the door and slowly swing it open, eyes widening when you see who’s on the other side.

You stagger back a step when you look up to Azriel, who’s staring down at you with a furrowed brow. His jaw feathers when his eyes flicker from you, to the bedroom behind you, then back to you. There’s a pile of untouched books and a tray with barely eaten food on your bedside table, and he can tell that you quickly attempted to make your room look better before answering the door, but it’s still in a slight disarray. Something tugs at his chest when his gaze rakes over you, finally seeing your bruised and scraped arms and legs in their full form for the first time. 

“A—Azriel, I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to—to stop by.” you stammer, forcing a small smile onto your face as you look up at him expectantly.

He shakes his head at you and frowns for half a second, the only real semblance of emotion he’s shown to you since you’ve been here. “I was coming to check in on you, nothing to apologize for.” he explains in a stoic tone as you watch his shadows swirling around him in an erratic fashion. “Are you alright?”

“I’m—Yeah. I’m fine, thank you.” you retort with a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been keeping to myself and out of the way in my room, like you asked.”

Azriel’s stone-faced facade slips at your words, worry flashing over his face then. He thinks back to the way he yelled at you that night, the way you’d scrambled out of his room and apologized profusely for your mistake. 

“You haven’t left at all?” he questions, hoping that Nesta was lying to get a rise out of him. 

You shake your head and furrow your brow at his words, treading carefully. Your mind is racing about this sudden visit, trying to decide if he’s testing your ability to follow directions or not. You stare down at your hands then, picking at the skin next to your nails just to avoid his gaze, “I did as I was told and stayed in my room, out of the way.” you manage, voice barely above a whisper as your throat constricts.

Azriel’s heart threatens to crack as he watches the way you fold into yourself as you speak, the way your hands are shaking, the way your lip quivers almost imperceptibly in true fear of his wrath.

Fuck. 

He didn’t know much about your past, as Feyre had refused to tell anyone your full story–she’d insisted that you should be the one to decide who hears it–but he did know that you were abused in some capacity prior to your arrival in Velaris. Your behaviors were very telling, so guilt racks Azriel’s body in the moment as he sees the fear he’d instilled into you with that one outburst. 

Gods, he couldn’t do anything right.  

“I didn’t mean you couldn’t leave your room.” he finally says, attempting to make his voice seem less harsh as he watches you continue to fidget under his gaze. “I was angry at this whole situation, I didn’t mean to make you feel like a prisoner in this home. I shouldn’t have told you to stay out of my way and banish you to your room, I had no right to do that. I’m–I’m sorry.” You look up at him then, eyes wide with hesitation at his apology. “You’re free to roam the House, and the city if you’d like. I know it’s a far hike down the ten thousand stairs, but you can always ask me or Cassian for a flight up and down the stairs if you’d like to explore your new hometown.”

The conversation is making your head spin, your gut telling you that he’s only testing you, only seeing if you’ll defy his initial orders. You only shake your head at the male, forcing a half-smile onto your face as you stare, “It’s really no problem. I don’t want to bother anyone, and–and the House has given me everything I need so far here, so it’s not a big deal for me to stay in my room.”

Azriel didn’t think he could feel any worse before coming up here, but somehow the shame burrows deeper into his skin, crawling over every inch of him as he stares down at your shaking hands and listens to your wavering voice.

 “No, I–I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay up here just because I told you to stay out of my way in the heat of the moment.” he says, shaking his head feverishly. “I was an asshole that day and I’m sorry. You have free reign of the House, don’t let anyone tell you differently. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, you come find me and I’ll tell them to fuck off.”

You swallow thickly, heart threatening to beat out of your chest as you stare up at him. A small nod in his direction is all you can muster in the moment, as your body betrays you and continues to shake under his gaze. 

“Have you eaten today?” he says abruptly, eyes flickering to the tray of untouched food on your bedside. 

“N–No.” you admit meekly, halfway expecting him to step into the room and yell at you for not being grateful for what the House has provided for you. 

Azriel nods slowly, “Would you like to join us for lunch?” he questions softly, but continues to explain when you only look up at him with uncertainty swimming in your eyes, “It’s just me, Nesta and Cassian here. So if that’s not too overwhelming, feel free to join us, we’ll be in the dining room.”

And with that, he’s closing the door, leaving you alone in your room. 

It should feel better to be alone right now, but the lingering scent of cedar and mist overwhelms your senses, leaving you aching to join them for lunch. 

When you turn around, you know that the House already knows your decision without you saying a single word. A pair of leggings and a warm sweater sit on the edge of your bed, ready for you to change into and face the members of the household.

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[xoxobuckybarnes]

July 2025 Reading List

Complete

Damn the Torpedoes (Rated: E, Words: 61K) by dorian_burberrycanary / @burberrycanary

Summary: That spring Steve hears a lot about what’s big in algebraic topology from Mary as she talks a mile a minute in the car passenger seat, across the dinner table, under worn-out beach umbrellas or climbing up him like he’s still her favorite jungle gym though she’s almost too big now. What he gathers mostly is that, in order to classify shapes, mathematicians spend a lot of time trying to distinguish between differences that matter and those that don’t. And isn’t that the trick in life, thinks Steve: figuring out what matters (Doesn’t help in explaining Bucky, though, but he’s not sure what would.) — Or: Steve as the single dad from Gifted and Bucky as the DJ from Monday. Sort of.

Only our footsteps on the leaves (Rated: T, Words: 34K) by cherryblossssom

Summary: Bucky’s phone starts ringing around 2AM. At first, he ignores it, mostly because he’s sure he’s dreaming it. But when the annoying sound doesn’t cease, he forces himself to open his eyes and pick it up. “’Ello?” he answers, his accent thick and his voice raspy. There’s no answer from the caller – at least not verbally. Bucky can hear somebody’s irregular breath and sobs, and he frowns. He puts the phone away from his ear to look at the ID, seeing the word Punk shining back at him on the screen. “Steve?” he tries again, hoping that his best friend will finally say something. “Buck.” The name comes out as a shaky breath, more than a word.

deep end (Rated: E, Words: 18K) by anincompletelist (soldouthaz) / @anincompletelist

Summary: “How’d it go with Barnes?” Natasha smirks. Steve finishes strapping on his helmet. “None of your business.” “He’s good, isn’t he?” The airlock disengages, loudly prying open the hatch at the back of the jet as Steve steps toward open sky and refuses to look at her self satisfied grin over his shoulder. “Shut up,” Steve says. And then he jumps out of the plane. -- or; try as he might, steve just can't seem to feel settled. in his body, in the things he wants, in this future timeline he's still not quite sure he belongs in. bucky's supposed to be stress relief, and he is. but he's more than that, too.

A Little Trouble Goes A Long Way (Rated: M, Words: 60K) by Tea_EarlGrey

Summary: Roughly a year after being defrosted Steve Rogers had found his routine. He gets up, goes running and takes as many missions as he can, to keep himself occupied. He's very alone though, the Avengers not really more than colleagues, even though some of them try. It's just that he's still mourning the loss of his other half: his best friend Bucky. But loneliness and order are crashed one beautiful morning and Steve finds himself in a little trouble, that he never wants to miss again.

Shameful Dreams (Rated: E, Words: 14K) by broodybuck

Summary: Steve and Bucky are each respectfully married to their wives, as any man should be in 1941. And yet, that doesn't stop Steve from having very shameful dreams about his married friend. Unexpectedly, things begin to happen outside of Steve's fantasies.

WIP

Sympathy For The Devil (Rated: E, Current Words: 33K) by Oh_i_swear / @oh-i-swear-writes & ThePirateStorm / @fsbc-librarian

Summary: When legendary rock band The 107 stunned the world by announcing a reunion tour after a fifteen-year silence—and revealed the fiery up-and-coming punk outfit SHIELD as their opening act—the music scene lit up like a match to gasoline. For Bucky Barnes, The 107’s infamous frontman and a recently sober icon of chaos and charisma, it was more than a comeback. It was a shot at redemption, a chance to rewrite the ending of a story he’d tried for years to forget—and to lose himself, once more, in the electric roar of a crowd that still remembered his name. For Steve Rogers, SHIELD’s 24-year-old frontman with raw talent and big dreams, it was everything. A backstage pass to the legends who shaped his sound, a chance to prove himself on the biggest stage of his life—and maybe, just maybe, find something real in a world that kept letting him down. Neither of them could have predicted how it would end. Or how it would begin. Because some tours don’t just make headlines. They change lives.

[alascawll]

️ ️ GREEK GOD - MV1

“Max is an idiot and you know it,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

You really don’t care if anyone heard or will continue to hear the next string of insults you’re about to throw.

“And don’t come telling me again that he’s nice to you.”

It was more of a rant directed at Lambiase. Even though he’s the one who spends all race long listening to Max, you are the one who does all the work afterward. And by “all the work,” you mean all of it. Every second he’s calling you, asking you to do something, grab something, say something.

Yes, yes, it’s your job, blah blah blah.

You don’t care.

Besides him, everything is perfect.

The pay is generous, and you only work on race weekends. You love Formula 1 and get paid to watch every race.

But watching Max has become a sacrifice.

You’d be lying if you said that when you look at him you don’t want to pour five liters of energy drink down his throat just to make him stop asking you to fetch his damn bottle.

You tried to convince yourself it’d only be like this at the beginning. That he just didn’t get along with strangers. But at this point in the season, you’re certain - he just doesn’t get along with you.

It’s stupid to care about that.

Why do I even think about him?

But nothing stops you from sticking around.

“You already know what I think,” GP shrugs, rolling his eyes. Deep down, he was cracking up.

It was amusing to watch his coworker suffer in Verstappen’s hands.

“I think ever since I stopped trying to make him like me, it got worse…” you complain again.

“And I think he’ll show up any second asking you to find his shoes,” Lambiase laughs, a laugh that isn’t satisfying at all given it comes from your terrible situation.

“You think? I’m fucking sure.”

You bite your tongue, forcing yourself off the wall and heading back to the garage. As you slowly walk to your post, you already spot the blond’s profile, pacing back and forth, making anxious hand gestures.

Here we go…

When his blue eyes meet yours, it takes only seconds before he storms toward you.

“Where were you?! I looked everywhere!”

“Just put a damn tracker on me already…” you think.

Or thought you did - because, in fact, you said it out loud. And you only realize it when his eyebrows knit together.

“I mean, sorry, I was in the paddock,” you look down, hiding your panic.

He could end your life.

“Alright,” he says simply. “I lost my phone. Could you help me find it?”

Could you help me…

What was that?

Nope. That was not Verstappen.

“Of course. It’s my job,” you offer a cynical smile, heading into the garage to look for your dear boss’s lost phone.

Half an hour later, you’re in his trailer. After tearing the place apart, you still haven’t found the phone.

God! Where did he shove this phone?!

Annoyed, you march tensely toward the trailer door, yank it open—only to find him standing outside in his race suit.

He should be in the garage. His eyebrows furrow when he sees your face. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, and he steps inside. The door slams shut behind him.

“I already found it,” he says casually. “It was with Jane.”

“Oh, great!” you respond, barely masking your irritation.

You lost half an hour of your break looking for a phone that was with the most obvious person ever.

Fucking Max Verstappen.

“I’ll be in the garage if you need me,” you mutter, brushing past him to open the door.

“Wait,” he says, and your body freezes. “Thanks.”

Thanks?

Looks like he finally learned the magic words.

“You’re welcome,” you grumble, tugging the handle.

But… the door doesn’t budge.

You try again, with more force.

Still nothing.

“Let me try,” he suddenly squeezes in front of you, yanking it repeatedly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought…” you mutter, arms crossed.

Men.

No… not men. Max.

“Perfect. Of course this thing breaks when I’m in here.”

His body stays still, like he’s thinking.

Your phone is in your bag, far from here. And well, you’re waiting for him to pull his out and call someone.

“Didn’t you find your phone?” you ask.

“Clearly not with me now,” he replies, matching your sarcasm.

Oh, perfect.

Just the best situation to be in.

“Everyone’s in the garage, far from here. How are we going to get out?” you add.

He falls silent. For an agonizingly long moment. Which is surprising, since he always has something to say.

“Fuck…” he mutters, throwing his head back.

You turn and plop onto the couch. Above all, you’re tired from walking everywhere searching for something for him.

“Finally, a break,” you murmur - again, accidentally out loud.

You can feel his gaze burning into you, but you don’t give in.

You refuse eye contact.

Yes, even though this is technically a break, the source of all your stress is still standing there, thinking.

And annoying you just by existing.

He could be calling someone right now with that damn phone it took you fifteen hours to find - at least that’s how it felt.

Fucking Verstappen.

Five minutes go by in deep silence.

Except for your sighs and eye rolls, which, to Max, seem deafening.

“If you’re so annoyed to be here, why not try thinking of a way to get us out?”

He snaps, like the know-it-all Max you’re so used to.

Oh sure, screw this.

You weren’t going to be the polite, sweet assistant anymore.

“Excuse me? What should I think of? That if I had an axe, I might be able to break the door down?”

“As if you could use an axe,” he replies so fast you’d think he regretted it before finishing the sentence.

“Give me the damn axe and I’ll show you whether I can or not!”

His eyes go wide.

Good.

“And how would you even know how to use an axe?”

You stare at him, seriously debating whether to reveal anything about your life before working for him - or, well, working for Red Bull Racing.

His grey eyes make you feel like they’ll burn you alive.

You don’t know exactly how to escape this, maybe bonding is the easiest route.

Even if he only asked because he doubts you.

Oh, idiot.

“I come from a family of lumberjacks. I’ve known how to use an axe since I was eight.”

Furrowed brow, disbelieving stare.

“Liar. You’re from Canada.”

“Oh fuck off, and what, Canada doesn’t have trees?!”

“I don’t think it’s legal to cut them without government permission.”

“And who said we didn’t have permission?”

“Your face gave it away the moment I said it’s illegal.”

“Well, you caught me, smartass.”

“And your family weren’t lumberjacks. Liar.”

“Fuck that! What now? You know my whole life? You read my hiring file?”

He goes quiet, a smirk forming on his lips.

“You did read it?!”

Wow, that’s worse than you imagined, because now he knows you could never use an axe.

And the whole lie just got so much worse.

“Why wouldn’t I? You were going to work with me, every race. I was the one who picked you.”

Oh. Shit.

“Right.”

You’ve got nothing left to say - just hateful thoughts flooding your mind.

You only have this job because Max wanted you here.

And even if he’s an idiot, maybe you should treat him like a damn baby.

“Thanks… then.”

You let your gaze drift across the trailer so you don’t have to meet his eyes while thanking him.

Not because you’re proud or anything, but because you really don’t want to feel humiliation eating away at your skin again.

And when you’re near him, it always feels worse.

You always end the day feeling small - and that’s normal, considering your job is to “serve” him - but when you never get a smile or a thank you or even a hint that he doesn’t hate you, it starts to feel more like an obligation than something you do willingly.

Fuck this guy.

“Why did you even hire me? If you hate me so much, why haven’t you asked them to fire me yet?”

“Hm?”

You don’t repeat it.

And he doesn’t answer.

You both stay quiet, avoiding eye contact, until someone appears at the door looking for Max because a race is about to start.

And then you’re free again.

And you should be happier.

But something tells you that you’ll either get a termination letter or things are about to get worse.

And you hate suffering in advance, but he’s already giving you the signs.

Back at the garage, he’s putting on his gear, and you’re in the corner watching, waiting for any sign of something good.

“Hey, help me,” he says - more like an order - but you don’t mind.

You’re just glad he’s still giving you something to do.

You step closer.

“Hold this.”

You do, holding his helmet while he adjusts his suit.

And you pretend not to notice there’s a workbench right there where he could’ve set it down.

As he pulls his zipper up, he keeps his eyes on your face. You don’t want to meet his gaze, but you do, at the last second. There’s a shadowed look on his face, like he’s angry, but he’s not acting on it.

You hand over the helmet, and he puts it on perfectly.

Then pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to you before walking away, saying nothing else.

Your eyes lock on the phone in your hand.

He had it the whole time? In the trailer?!

────୨ৎ────

i accept requests! and i could also do a part 2 of this one - sorry if there is any grammatical mistakes

[mylove-thresher]

This was really really really testing my patience.

[littlelamy]

“okay, but i’m serious this time,” you said, squirming back against the beach towel while rafe kissed down your stomach. “don’t, like.. do that thing with your tongue unless you’re prepared.”

he looked up from where his mouth hovered over your mound, brow raised, lips already shiny. “what thing? baby, my tongue’s got a long menu. you’re gonna need to be more specific.”

“you know what i mean!” you whined, wiggling under him, hands braced on his shoulders. “the curl..that evil curl thing. the one that makes my legs do the funky chicken.”

“ah,” he said, smiling slow. “you mean the soul-eater..noted.”

“you’re such a dick.”

“you love my dick,” he said, pressing a kiss right at the top of your slit, grinning when your whole body jumped. “and my tongue. and me.” you groaned, covering your face with one arm. “yes, i love you, now shut up and get back to work.”

“say please,” he said, licking a line from your entrance to your clit. your hips jerked automatically.

you gasped, “please..”

“good girl..” his hands instantly gripped the insides of your thighs, holding you open with casual strength, and then he buried his face between your legs like you were his first meal in a full-blown year.

you let out the loudest moan and whimper, “oh my gosh, rafe—”

his tongue worked you slow at first. lazy licks that teased more than they gave; he wanted you to whine, wanted you to squirm maybe even cry. he flattened his tongue, dragged it up your slit, then sucked your clit between his lips with obscene gentleness.

“you’re so wet already,” he said, pulling back just long enough to breathe against you. “what’s got you this needy, huh? was it the swimsuit? me telling you to bend over for sunscreen?”

“yes,” you gasped, toes curling. “you were rude about it!”

“i was honest.” he went right back in, licking with more purpose now, mouth noisy and shameless. your back arched, fingers twisting in his hair.

“rafe—fuck—oh oh my, don’t stop—” it's very obvious he didn't; his tongue flicked over your clit, faster now, then slower, then fast again. he knew exact what he was doing, and he wanted you to know that he knew. his fingers dug into your thighs to try and still your body, but you couldn’t help it, your hips rocked against his face, chasing everything you could.

“you taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, teasing you, “like fuckin’ candy..my pink sugar pussy?”

“you’re disgusting,” you moaned, your whole body tensing.

“and you’re about to cum.”

“no i’m not,” you lied immediately, not giving him the satisfaction.

he pulled back, blinked up at you, lips wet. “baby..”

you blinked down at him, wide-eyed, panting. “what?”

“you’re clenching like you’ve got a gun to your head. even your eyes are crossing, just cum.”

“don’t tell me to cum like it’s that easy—” as soon as he curled his tongue, you shrieked. it wasn’t a scream, exactly. more like a choked-out cry that you didn’t even recognize. your legs snapped around his head, body jerking from the immense pleasure and liquid coming from you.

your eyes flew open in panic. “rafe—” he pulled back, arousal dripping, stunned for half a second, then a proud grin graced his very attractive face.

“holy shit, you just squirted.” your face went nuclear. “oh my god—oh my gosh—no i didn’t—”

“you did! baby, i felt it hit my face! i saw it! dammit baby i felt it!” you tried to close your legs but he held them open, just staring at the mess. the towel underneath you was soaked. his chest was damp, and his chin was shiny.

“i—i think you broke me,” you wailed, covering your face. “i’m never coming back from this. i’m dead. bury me in the sand.”

he leaned up, kissed your wet thigh, nipped it with his teeth. “you’re so fuckin’ cute,” he said, voice softer now. “embarrassed over something that just made me hard as fuck.”

“you’re so annoying!”

“you’re so sensitive now. i could just look at your pussy and you’d flinch.” you whimpered as he blew cool air on your clit and laughed when you jerked. “stop! i’m tender!”

“i know, baby,” he said, crawling up to kiss your mouth, not caring at all that his face was soaked with you. “you’re perfect.”

“i can’t believe—”

“believe it,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “you squirted all over my face like the good little mess you are.”

“i’m never letting you go down on me again.”

“you say that every time.”

“i mean it this time.”

he just smiled, pressed his hand over your fluttering belly, right where the orgasm had wrecked you. “sure, sweetheart,” he said. “until next time.”

coco's notes: i’m having soooo much fun writing for chichi right now! and i just wanted to say the BIGGEST thank you for 5k followers—i’m seriously so grateful that any of you even take the time to read my stuff, let alone follow me! closer to the end of the month, a 5k celebration will be post so def look out for that!

❤︎‬ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @@ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @wintercrows @st8rkey @nemesyaaa

[mwphisto]

Post-marathon sex with Sylus and he’s still insatiable.

You’re wearing one of his button downs, barely buttoned and lounging on his couch while he’s shirtless in the kitchen making you both something to eat.

You’re peeking at him, admiring the red nail marks you left on the plains of his back and waist. The low hanging sweatpants doing nothing to help your running thoughts.

Especially since you know he has nothing on underneath.

You settle back, eyes fluttering shut as you try and calm yourself. You both woke up four hours ago and just managed to untangle from each other in the last twenty minutes. Still, your mind replayed everything he did to you over and over and over again. How could you relax?

“Kitten.” You still, eyes snapping open to see your lover towering over you. “I thought you were…” but Sylus only hums, cutting you off as he grabs one of your legs and moves it out of his way. “I’m hungry for something else.”

Had he heard you? Sensed all your filthy thoughts with that cursed eye of his? Whatever had been cooking on the stove now laid forgot in a pan with the burner off.

“Here?” Yet, you’re lifting your other leg, letting your behemoth of a lover push your thighs up to your chest and reveal your bare cunt. “This is our house, kitten.” And he’s settling between your thighs, the couch somehow accommodating his size as his mouth hovers.

“I sent the twins away for a while, if you’re truly that concerned about getting caught. But we are adults, y’know. And this is our house. Free to use however…”

And you’re relaxing, squished up into the side of the couch as he bares your pussy for his hungry mouth. “Leaving the bed with nothing but my shirt, you really thought I’d be able to resist such temptations?” He kisses your swollen lips, still sensitive from the rounds of sex.

“Think i’d be able see you laying here and not want to ravish you again?” Another kiss, this time he sucks on your cunt before releasing it. “Could have this pussy a million times and still crave you like I’ve never had it.”

His tongue splits your slit, poking your clit and you’re whimpering. Your feet fall onto his shoulders, his hands still keeping your thighs squished and immobile. You’re fully at his mercy, no escaping even if you begged.

“Tell me to stop.” Drool is pooling on Sylus’ tongue, dripping onto your needy cunt as he pants. “Tell me to stop and we’ll stop.” Now, it’s your turn to pant.

“Sy, I don’t wanna stop.”

Like a switch, you can see the temptation consume him. Carmine eyes swallowed by the black of his pupils

“Perfect, because I really can’t hold back anymore.” His mouth encompasses you, nose settling on your pubic bone as his mouth tears you apart. His eyes are shut, a sigh of pure contentment vibrating your cunt as you cry his name.

Did I ever mention I yearn for this man like he’s real

[ggukivrse]

JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content (mdni), car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here

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[ama3003]

Everything's Just Perfect

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And for once, maybe for the first time in forever, Bucky believed that was true.