#like. you want me to take the phone out of my pocket. turn on the screen. and then look at what song i have to select

[opheliabbarnes]

the garden of eden - bucky barnes

beefy!bucky barnes x reader

summary. bucky barnes, a man of repression, was more than willing to follow you into paradise after you'd taken the first bite. 12.6k words

cw. where to start.... fruit eating, i guess. smut. heavy makeouts. tons of groping. bit of perv!bucky but he's also extremely repressed and is fighting all his urges. unprotected p in v. nipple play. finger sucking. other.. things. garden of eden & adam and eve mentioned. takes place before cacw so he literally has no idea who he even is. minors dni

a/n. this is a different road to my usual fics. hopefully you guys enjoy it since it took me literally weeks to finish this :( i feel like people are gonna bring this up but the language is basic and repetitive to reflect bucky's state of mind in this. ALSO there is also inconsistency with which one is his metal arm (i'm so fried and i thought his metal arm was his right one. i'm such a terrible bucky fan and i am too lazy to fix that rn) not proofread!

dt. @54nboo OBV!! highly inspired by paradise rot (jenny hval!) so @fckmebarnes for recommending it to me!!! @demiebarnes the biggest beefy bucky enthusiast ever.

taglist. @kararchives @1dluver13xx @devililithh @iownguns @loki-licious-945ad @devililithh @ruexj283 @henrywinterreincarnate @biggestfangirl @buckybuckybuckysstuff @mrsalexstan @pretty-girl-rock-3 @riot-sounds @ambervanth @hiraethmae @btwbaureidrc @overwintering-soldier @fluorjscent @sweetserendipity65 @icwallittrashmagic @user27386 @buckysbaker @staley83

masterlist

the bucharest air is humid, almost vicious and you swore the heat was out for you. then you mix it with the cloying sweetness of overripe apricots and peaches battling the acrid sting of fumes and dust.

your phone is overheating against your ear. "no, really, it's like stepping into a time machine, except with more... cabbage," you say, eyes automatically scanning the vendor' deep purple plums.

then you feel it – you cut your gaze sideways without turning your head.

he's immense. to say he was jacked feels like a laughable understatement.

the faded red henley – long sleeves, you note, despite the oppressive heat – stretches tight across shoulders like slabs of quarried granite. the fabric was dangerous over biceps thick as your thighs.

his dark, slightly too-long hair falls around a face with a strong jawline clenched tight with tension.

his eyes, an ocean of blue, lock onto your face for a split second before darting away. and the gloves –swallowing both his hands whole despite the humid heat.

he's frozen, a plum held loosely in his hand. listening. to you.

you end the call abruptly, "gotta go, love you," pocketing the phone. a smile curves against your lips.

this mountain of tension trying to be subtle? adorable. and fucking recklessness surges into you.

you reach past him, your arm deliberately brushes against the warmth of his forearm. you don't flinch.

your fingers dance over the plums, rejecting the too-soft and the under-ripe ones, before finding the one – perfect. it's a deep, almost black purple.

you pluck it, hold it out towards him.

his reaction is to freeze completely, the plum in his own gloved hand forgotten. his eyes snap to yours, almost bewildered, furrowing that unfairly handsome brow. god.

a confusion wars in his eyes – suspicion mixed with curiosity? attraction?

"best one in the batch," you say, holding his gaze captive. "here ya go." you wiggle the perfect plum slightly.

he can smell the scent of it.

the confused man stares at the fruit in your hand, then back at your face. "why?" the word is hesitant, like he barely wanted to speak. there was an accent you can't quite place – eastern european but also american?

you shrug, letting your smile widen. "saw you looking. figured you needed an expert eye, big guy." you let your eyes travel, deliberately slow, appreciative, down the impossible expanse of his chest. oh, very interesting.

"foreigners gotta stick together, right? especially ones who stand out like... well, like you do." you tilt your head.

he hesitates. then, slowly, he closes his gloved hand around the plum you offered.

"thanks," he mutters, looking down and places the plum carefully into his plastic bag, avoiding your eyes like he'll burn under your gaze.

"not from around here either, huh?" you press, leaning your hip casually against the wood of the stall. you tilt your head, studying the line of his jaw. "the gloves are a dead giveaway. bit warm for them, no? even with the long sleeves." you gesture vaguely towards his covered arms.

his shoulders tense beneath the red fabric, pulling it even tighter across his back. "it works," he says shortly, before finally meets your eyes again – guarded, haunted, shadowed by things you can't fathom.

"you speak english. good." it sounds less like an observation and more like a desperate, relieved admission.

"better than my romanian, that's for sure," you laugh, leaning slightly closer, invading his space just a little bit more. "stuck here translating boring contracts. feels like everyone's speaking in code half the time. you? besides just 'passing through'?"

he shifts his weight. it's a small movement that makes the muscles in his arms and chest flex beneath the henley. his gaze flicks over your shoulder, scanning the crowd behind you with the assessment of a predator constantly on edge.

"passing through," he confirms, eyes darting back to yours, then down to the plums in his bag, then up again. "the plums... good?" he asks. the question is awkward, forced, like he's grasping for any thread to keep this... whatever this is... going.

"the best," you affirm, as you hold up another perfect specimen you'd subtly palmed. "especially when you know how to pick 'em. takes a certain... intuition." you bring the plum to your lips and bite into it slowly.

the skin gives way with a soft pop, juice bursting onto your tongue. you watch, fascinated, as his eyes track the movement, fixating on your mouth. a tiny muscle jumps in his jaw, clenching and unclenching as he watches you.

it suddenly becomes hotter.. in a way that has nothing to do with the bucharest sun.

"so," you say, wiping a trickle of glistening juice from your chin with the back of your hand. "'passing through'. where's a guy built like a brick house headed next?"

he shifts again. the crowd noise everywhere seems to fade, as if you're in a bubble.

"don't know yet." he's quieter now. "depends, i guess," his gaze flickers down to your mouth again, then back up, holding.

"depends on what?" you push playfully and take that half-step closer to him. you can see every detail on his face – the dark stubble along his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathes, the way his eyes dips down again, lingering on your lips.

he doesn't answer immediately. he just looks at you. really looks. he seems to be weighing something colossal, and dangerous. his eyes searching yours with longing and caution.

it's just the two of you in this bubble of plum-scented tension.

you see the conflict, the sheer want with ingrained fear.

he lifts his gloved hand slightly, a fractional movement towards your face, towards the juice still glistening faintly at the corner of your mouth, then stops, fingers curling back into a fist. frustration? yearning? finally, not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment, a surrender to the moment, touches his lips.

"on the company," he says. he takes a step back, breaking the spell as the space between you widening. but his eyes remain on yours.

"gotta go." he turns, the crowd seeming to instinctively part before the breadth of his shoulders.

you watch the flash of faded red henley vanish into the throng, swallowed by the market.

his presence lingers – the half-eaten plum in your hand feels suddenly cool.

you take another bite. the taste of the sweetness now has something far more potent, and bittersweet.

depends on the company. the words are unanswered question long after the red henley is gone.

you watched him from the chipped concrete steps leading up to the next floor.

he was a mountain of red cotton and faded denim. his back was to you, the same broad shoulders beneath that same long-sleeved henley. his gloved hands fumbled slightly with the old, stubborn lock on his door, and he grunts out of frustration. the sound was oddly intimate in the hallway.

you couldn't help it. the question slipped out, echoing slightly off the bare walls. "do you own any other shirts?"

he froze, still. not just his hands on the lock, but his entire massive frame seemed to solidify, like he'd seen medusa herself.

then, slowly, he turned. those blue eyes, filled with shock and alertness as they locked onto you. you saw the recognition, followed by a wariness. his gaze swept the cramped hallway behind you, up the stairs, assessing exits, threats as if the predator awakened.

you raised a hand in a casual wave. "hi," you offered, keeping your voice friendly. "just so we're clear? totally not stalking you." you point a thumb over your shoulder towards your door, the one with the paint peeling around the frame. "that one's mine. number four."

he didn't move or blink. but his stare felt like it was dissecting you. the silence stretched, broken only by the distant drip of a leaky pipe near you, the one your landlord refused to fix.

you saw the confusion with suspicion in the tightness of his jaw.

"small world, huh?" you continued, leaning back on your elbows on the step behind you. "figured it was just market coincidence. then i saw the huge patch of red disappearing into this building yesterday." you gestured vaguely towards his door. "and then again today. kinda hard to miss." you tilted your head, "seriously though. is it like... a uniform? everyday laundry crisis? secret superhero avenger thing?"

a muscle jumped violently in his jaw. hit a nerve?

he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. "didn't know," his voice felt more like a vibration than in the confined space. his eyes flicked past you again, towards your door, then back to your face as if you were lying. "you live... here?"

"yep," you popped the 'p'. "moved in last week. top floor on the right side. the one with the crooked '4' on the door." you watched him process this information. "guess that makes us neighbours. officially. awkward neighbor who maybe teased you about your shirt choice? that's me."

his eyes dropped to your door number again, then scanned your face once more, lingering on your eyes, your mouth. "didn't..." he started, then stopped, clearing his throat. "didn't expect... neighbors. talking." he sounded almost bewildered at the thought of you being neighbours.

"well, most neighbors around here just glare through their peepholes," you chuckled softly, pushing yourself up to stand. you were still a few steps below him, but the action brought you closer, forcing him to look slightly down at you.

"i figure, life's too short for silent hallways. especially when you share a building with someone who looks like they could bench-press a dump truck." you let your eyes travel over his chest, the way the red covered his biceps, down to the gloves. "the henley's... working for you, don't get me wrong. just making an observation. variety is the spice of life and all that."

a flush crept up his neck again, visible even in the dim yellow light. he looked away, down at his own gloved hands, flexing them.

"it... works," he muttered, echoing his words from the market. it sounded less defensive this time, more... flustered. he glanced back at his stubborn lock, then at you, then back at the lock. the internal struggle was comical – the ingrained need to flee warring with a flicker of that connection from the market.

"stubborn lock?" you asked, nodding towards his door, taking another step up.

you were nearly level with him now in the narrow hallway. "old buildings, right? found out mine sticks when it rains. had to shoulder-barge it a few nights ago."

he looked at the lock, then back at you. "yeah," he grunted. he lifted his gloved hand towards the key still in the lock. "just... so stiff."

"want a hand?" you offered, the words out before you could think. you immediately held up your own bare hands. "figuratively. not literally. unless you need someone to talk dirty to it? sometimes that works.

his lips twitched, in the barest upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. it vanished almost instantly like he was scared of emotions, but you saw it.

he huffed. "i got it." he turned back to the door, giving the key a firm twist. the lock finally clicked open with a scrape.

he pushed the door open a fraction, revealing the dim interior.

he paused, half in, half out of the doorway, frame blocking most of the view. he looked back at you, standing there on the step below.

the eyes held yours for a long moment – an acknowledgement, that unspoken tension between you.

"so... neighbour," you said softly, holding his gaze.

he swallowed again. he glanced into his apartment, then back at you. finally, he gave the smallest nod known to man. "bucky," he said, the name offered like a fragile thing.

"nice to officially meet you, bucky," you replied with your smile widening, genuine this time. you tell him your name, tilting your head towards your own door. "if the lock gives you any more trouble... or you ever decide to risk wearing a different colour... you know where to find me."

he held your gaze for another heartbeat. those eyes seem to see right through you. then, without another word, he stepped fully into his apartment and pushed the door close.

the hallway felt abruptly cold and empty. you stood there for a moment, leaning against the rough plaster wall, the echo of his name – bucky – and the lingering.

the red henley might be a uniform, but the man inside it? definitely not boring.

you turned with a smile on your face and headed for your own crooked-numbered door.

the basement laundry room was a concrete cave smelling of mildew, cheap detergent, and the ghosts of cigarettes.

you perched on the only unused washing machine, thighs sticking dented metal lid. the denim of your shorts felt rough and your tiny tank top left your midriff exposed to the  air.

you took another bite of the ripe plum you'd snagged from the market, juice bursting sweet and tart on your tongue.

the metal door at the top of the stairs creaked open, then slammed shut with a clang. footsteps thudded on the creaky, wooden steps.

you knew who it was before you saw him.

he filled the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. it's a dark silhouette against the grimy light from above. he's in that deep grey hoodie and zipped halfway up. the hood was pulled low, but you'd recognize that massive frame anywhere. bucky. he carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, filled with his laundry. turns out he had more than that red henley.

his steps stuttered for a second when he saw you. then he moved with silence, with his eyes down on the cracked concrete floor as he approached the machines.

he stopped a few feet away, the duffel bag hitting the floor.

he didn't look at you. not at your face, not at your bare legs swinging idly beside the machine you occupied, not at the strip of skin bared by your tiny top.

his focus remained resolutely downward, on the dusty floor, on his own gloved hand now clenching and unclenching as they always do.

"need that machine?" it wasn't quite a question, more a statement of fact delivered with forced neutrality.

you swallowed the sweet flesh of the plum, tilting your head. "yep. all yours, soon as i'm done enjoying the view." you gestured vaguely around the dismal basement with the half-eaten plum. "which, admittedly, is mostly pipes and sad, lonely socks."

his eyes flickered upwards, skimming past your bare knees before snapping back down.

"hot down here," you observed casually, taking another slow bite. juice welled at the corner of your mouth. you didn't wipe it away. "like, sauna hot. especially for someone rocking a hoodie."

"run cold," he muttered. his gaze remained glued to a particular crack in the floor near your discarded flip-flops. his gloved hand flexed again.

"run cold?" you echoed, skepticism filling your tone. you swung your legs a little. "in bucharest summer? in a basement that feels like satan's armpit? that hoodie must be magic." you leaned forward slightly, bringing your face a little closer to his downturned one. "or maybe you're just hiding something spectacular underneath?"

a sharp intake of breath. his head jerked up. those blue eyes finally meet yourswith a flash of panic, shock, and something dark, hot, utterly forbidden.

it was raw, primal, consuming.

but just as quickly, he wrenched his gaze away, staring fixedly at the churning dryer drum across the room. his chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thick grey fabric.

you could see the tension coiling through him, the way his shoulders bunched. there was unspoken need and profound, ingrained repression filling the space between you.

"just... cold," he repeated, tighter and more forced than before. then he cleared his throat roughly. "machine free soon?"

"mmhmm," you hummed, watching him. you're fascinated by the battle behind his eyes. you slowly licked the sticky plum juice from the corner of your mouth, making sure he caught the movemen. "almost done with my snack." you held up the plum pit. "see?"

he didn't look. his hands were fists now, the leather of his glove straining.

you could practically feel the heat off him, warring with his claim of running cold.

it wasn't just body heat. it was arousal, thick and potent, a desperate, caged thing he was physically trying to compress inside the too-warm hoodie.

the effort was visible, painful. the humid basement air felt suddenly charged, pressing in on all sides.

you slid off the washing machine lid, landing lightly on your feet. the movement made him flinch minutely.

"all yours, neighbor," you said softly, stepping aside but not moving away.

you popped the last small piece of plum flesh into your mouth, letting your fingers linger near your lips for a second. "hope your clothes appreciate the sacrifice. wearing that hoodie down here? that's dedication."

he moved, grabbing his duffel bag and stepping forward. he kept his gaze averted, focusing intently on opening the machine's lid.

"thanks," he said, lost under the rumble of the dryer. he began shoving clothes into the drum with unnecessary force.

you lingered, leaning against the cold concrete wall, watching the muscles in his back shift beneath the grey hoodie as he bent over the machine.

the silence stretched with everything unsaid.

the repressed energy rolling off him was almost palpable, a storm contained by sheer willpower and decades of conditioning. it was terrifying and exhilarating.

"guess i'll leave you to your... chilly laundry," you said, pushing off the wall. you walked slowly towards the stairs, feeling the weight of his gaze finally land on your back.

you didn't turn around. the door creaked open, then slammed shut behind you, leaving bucky alone in the darkness with his laundry machine and the unbearable heat he couldn't and wouldn't acknowledge.

there was a stifling heat of the late bucharest afternoon.

you stood shivering, but not from cold. more from the thin towel knotted above your breasts, which felt perilously inadequate. the damp terrycloth clung to your wet skin. water droplets traced paths from your hair, down your neck, over your collarbones, and onto the floor between your bare feet.

you took a shaky breath, and knocked sharply on apartment 7's door.

you could hear the immediate distinct sound of multiple locks disengaging from the inside.

the door opened a few cautious inches, revealing a slice of his dim apartment and one blue eye. then the eye widened. and the door opened wider.

bucky stood frozen, filling the doorway.

predictably, he was swathed in another long-sleeved shirt – dark blue this time. the leather glove covered his left hand.

his gaze didn't snap to your face, not immediately.

it dropped slowly, stunned as if taking in the entire picture: the dripping hair plastered to your neck and shoulders on your chest and your face. there was an expanse of bare legs below the towel as the puddle slowly formed around your feet on the floor.

his mouth opened, then closed. a deep colour crawled up his neck, staining his cheeks.

"hey," you blurted. "bucky. hi. sorry. god, so sorry to just... show up like this." you gestured vaguely down at yourself, making the towel shift.

his eyes trailed down again, then snapped back up to your eyes with painful force.

"it's my shower. it just... it went ice cold. like, arctic plunge cold. right in the middle of rinsing my hair. i nearly screamed. and i tried the taps, jiggled everything, but it's just... freezing." you ran a hand through your wet hair, pushing it back from your face, acutely aware of how the action lifted your chest slightly against the towel. "i don't know the super, obviously, barely speak the language, and i thought... well, you're big, you look like you know how things work, and you're right here..." you trailed off, rambling. "is this insane? it feels insane. i'm so sorry."

he didn't speak for a long moment. his eyes scanned your face, then dipped again, drawn to towel covering your body and the water droplets tracing a path down the slope of your breast just visible above the towel.

he swallowed hard. "cold shower?"

"freezing!" you confirmed, wrapping your arms around yourself instinctively, though it did little against the towel's dampness. "like, heart-stoppingly cold. i couldn't finish." you shivered again, genuinely this time at the memory. "do you... maybe... know anything about plumbing? or just where the main water heater thingy might be? i feel ridiculous asking, standing here like a drowned rat in a towel."

he blinked, eyes finally settling somewhere near your left shoulder, avoiding direct eye contact and avoiding looking lower. "uh. yeah. maybe. i can... i can look." he held a note of reluctant acquiescence. he glanced down at himself – the long sleeves, the glove – then back at your near-nakedness. "just... give me one second."

"oh, don't worry about getting changed on my account," you said quickly. you gestured towards his covered arm. "seriously, bucky. it's a sauna out there, and you're still rocking the full winter lumberjack look. long sleeves? glove? how are you not melting?" you took a half-step closer, realizing the sheer absurdity of his bundled-up state contrasted with your near-nudity. "you run cold, i get it. but this is extreme. are you secretly part reptile? cold blooded?"

he flinched at the comment about the glove, his left hand curling into a tighter fist inside the leather.

you saw the struggle in his eyes – the ingrained habit of hiding, mixed with the visceral impact of your presence in the dripping, barely covering towel in his doorway.

his eyes ran down your body again, like a slow, helpless sweep that he can't control, lingering for a second on the curve of your hip where the towel ended, before wrenching itself back up to the relative safety of the wall behind you.

"just... wait," he said but didn't answer the glove comment.

instead, he turned, leaving the door open, and disappeared into his apartment. you heard the soft rustle of fabric, the clink of tools maybe?

you stood there in the hallway, suddenly aware of every drip of water falling from your hair.

the silence stretched.

you hugged the towel tighter around yourself. the damp terrycloth the only barrier between you and everything else, waiting for the man hidden behind layers of fabric and secrets to come back out.

the short walk down the hall to your apartment felt like crossing a minefield. every step made the knot perilously loose between your breasts.

bucky followed a step behind, his footsteps unnervingly silent like some sort of trained assassin creeping up on you.

you could feel his eyes burning into your back, your shoulders ad you pushed open your door open.

"in here," you mumbled, leading him past the cramped living area and towards the tiny bathroom still moist with steam.

the cold tile stung your soles. you gestured towards the shower stall, where the faucet still dripped icy water. "see? just... frigid."

bucky hesitated on the threshold, his massive frame filling the small bathroom doorway.

his eyes swept the room with tactical efficiency – the sink, the mirror fogged with condensation, the damp bath rug discarded on the floor and the shower itself.

he avoided looking directly at you, focusing on the plumbing instead. he stepped inside and the space shrinking instantly around him.

he crouched down, movements surprisingly fluid for his size, examining the taps. his gloved left hand reached out, turned the hot water handle.

nothing but a cold trickle. he tried the cold. stronger, but still icy. he jiggled other things beneath. the muscles in his back shifting under the dark blue fabric.

the silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water. you hugged your arms tighter around yourself, aware of every inch of exposed skin, the way the damp towel felt cool against your flesh.

finally, he straightened up, turning to face you. his eyes landed somewhere near your collarbone, refusing to travel lower.

he cleared his throat roughly. "i.. don't know," he admitted. "valve maybe. behind the wall. and i will.. need tools." he gestured vaguely towards the pipes. "is complicated."

you sighed, a genuine sound of frustration mixed with the awkwardness of the situation.

"great. fantastic." you ran a hand through your wet hair, pushing it back. "guess i'm washing my hair in the sink like a caveman tonight. or just... smelling like unrinsed conditioner forever." you tried for a smile, but it felt weak. the thought of finishing the ice-cold shower was absolutely unbearable.

he just stood there, looking down at you, posture radiating uncomfortable awkwardness. the blue eyes flickered over your face, down to the towel, then snapped back up.

he shifted his weight again, the floorboard creaking beneath him.

the silence somehow became oppressive, especially your near-nakedness.

the heat of the bathroom seemed to amplify, pressing in. beads of sweat were forming at his temples, darkening near his hairline, and despite his claim of running cold, the long sleeves and glove looked absurdly out of place.

you gestured helplessly. "look at you. you're practically steaming in that getup. long sleeves, bucky? seriously? in this?" you shook your head, a strand of wet hair sticking to your cheek. "i don't understand how are your organs aren't cooking. it's like a rainforest in here."

he flinched at the mention of the sleeves again. "told you. cold," he muttered, but it sounded weak, and defensive.

his eyes dropped again, this time lingering on the curve of your hip where the towel ended, before he forcibly dragged it back to your eyes.

then it happened. the words tumbled out, almost before he could stop them, like a raw impulse escaping. "you... you could use mine." he froze the moment the words left his lips, his eyes widening slightly in shock, as if horrified by his own offer.

"the shower. mine. it's... working. hot." he swallowed so hard you could almost hear it. the implications hung heavy and immediate in the steam-filled air.

a girl. in his shower. naked.

your emotions were surprise, then pure relief flooded you, followed instantly by a giddy thrill at his obvious, flustered panic.

"bucky!" you gasped, a genuine smile breaking across your face. "are you offering me the use of your shower?"

he looked like he wanted the tiles to swallow him whole. "just... if you need... hot water," he stammered. "since yours is... broken." he couldn't meet your eyes anymore, staring fixedly at the dripping faucet behind you.

the image – your image, wet and naked in his shower – was clearly already searing itself into his mind.

without thinking, propelled by relief and a surge of happiness fueled by his adorable awkwardness, you stepped forward. "oh my god, you are an actual lifesaver!" you squealed, echoing in the small room.

and then you hugged him.

it was impulsive. you flung your arms around his torso, pressing your towel-clad body against the solid wall of his chest.

every muscle in his massive frame locked rigidly. he froze completely, arms stiff at his sides, not touching you.

your cheek pressed against the cotton of his shirt, smelling detergent, warm skin, leather, and that metal you always smelled when near him.

the towel provided almost no barrier; the press of your breasts against his ribs, your bare thighs brushing his pants – it was intimate.

"thank you thank you thank you!" you babbled into his shirt, squeezing him tighter for a second, oblivious to the meltdown you were causing within him. "you have no idea! i was facing conditioner-hair doom!"

you pulled back just as abruptly as you'd embraced him, beaming up at him. his face was a mask of stun, his lips parted, his entire body still frozen in the spot where you'd touched him.

"right! lead the way, my hot water hero!" you chirped, already turning. the towel, thankfully, was still holding. "i promise i won't use all your fancy soap! well, maybe just a little fancy soap..."

you didn't wait for a response. you darted past his frozen form in the doorway, air hitting your skin as you practically skipped towards his open apartment door down the hall.

the image of him standing in your steamy bathroom, looking like he'd been hit by a truck made of confusing desire, was burned into your mind.

"coming?" you called over your shoulder, already crossing his threshold, leaving him alone in your bathroom with the the scent of your skin on his shirt, and the terrifying prospect of you, naked, in his shower.

the sound of running water starting in his apartment a moment later was the only sound in the suddenly silent hallway.

the rhythm settled into domesticity between you two, thanks to bucky's ancient pipes.

your shower remained stubbornly arctic, and his door became the one you knocked on with breathless apologies. "landlord's still claiming it's 'complex'. swear he's just hoping i'll freeze to death and stop complaining. mind if i...?"

he'd just nod, stepping aside for you. his eyes averted as you scurried past. the scent of your shampoo trailed behind you, already becoming familiar in his sparse hallway.

inevitably, your presence seeped into his space like a parasite.

first, it was just the damp towel draped over his shower rail. then, a pink bottle of that floral shampoo appeared next to his utilitarian bar of soap on the ledge. a pink razor perched precariously on the sink's edge.

a second, fluffier towel joined the first on the rail.

finally, a small pile of clean clothes – tiny shorts, soft tanks, a pair of pajamas too small for him – found a semi-permanent home folded on the single chair pushed against his wall.

it was... an invasion. a colonization.

and bucky's mind was a battlefield.

every time he walked into the bathroom, the scent of your hit him – floral shampoo, sweet body wash, the clean cotton smell of her clothes.

the sight of your toiletries next to his dull ones was jarringly intimate.

the damp towels were like flags claiming territory.

his thoughts, treacherous, circled back to the core fact: she was naked in here. regularly. the steam, the shape of her blurred behind the curtain...

his imagination, which was starved and ravenous, supplied horrifyingly vivid details. the curve of your spine slick with water, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip, the way your hair would cling dark and wet to her neck and shoulders...

he'd clench his gloved hand, focusing on the newspaper-covered window, the peeling paint on the doorframe – anything but the images flooding his mind.

you emerged one evening, dressed in soft grey shorts and a thin white tank top.

you padded barefoot into the small living area where bucky sat at his tiny table, pretending to read a week-old newspaper.

"sorry, sorry, sorry," you babbled immediately, heading towards your little pile of clothes on the chair. "i know i'm basically staging a hostile takeover of your bathroom. it's getting ridiculous. my shampoo, my soap, my radioactive pink razor..." you gestured wildly at the chair pile. "my entire summer wardrobe is migrating over here. i promise, the second that sadistic landlord fixes the pipes, i'll evacuate. full retreat and you'll get your sink back."

he grunted, not looking up from the paper. "s'fine," he mumbled.

it wasn't just fine. it was... overwhelming, terrifying, and strangely anchoring. the clutter, the scent, the evidence of you was a constant in his sterile existence, pulling him out of the suffocating silence. and he didn't know how to articulate that.

you paused, spotting the small bowl on the table.

plums. deep purple.

a tiny, pleased sound escaped you. "ooh, plums! you restocked." without hesitation, you reached over his shoulder, arm brushing against the fabric of his red long-sleeved henley (and yes, he still wore them, even indoors, even with the steam from your shower).

he froze. you plucked the perfect one – you'd gotten good at picking them – and pulled back, taking a bite right there. juice glistened on your lower lip.

"mmm, so good. still the best in the batch, huh?" you smiled, leaning your hip against the table edge beside him.

he managed a nod, still fixed on the newspaper yet seeing nothing but the scent of the plum mixed with the scent rising from your skin and hair, inches away.

the casual intimacy of you taking food from his table, standing so close in your soft, revealing clothes, fresh from his shower... it sent another wave of heat crashing through him. he shifted slightly in the hard chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

"seriously, bucky," you continued, wiping the juice from your chin with the back of your hand. "i feel awful. it's your space. and i'm just... here. all the time. with my chaos." you took another bite, studying his profile. "you must be counting the minutes till your bathroom is a one-person operation again."

he finally lifted his gaze, looking somewhere near your neck. "i don't," he starts, "don't... count. quiet before... louder." it was the closest he could get to admitting that the silence before your chaotic, scented and damp invasion had been a desolate roar.

your presence, however overwhelming, however much it made his body burn with unfamiliar need, was a distraction. a connection. something real amidst the ghosts he faced.

you hummed, and finally sank into the other rickety chair at the small table, facing him. you propped your elbows on the worn wood, the plum cradled in your hands. "louder quiet. i like that." you smiled at him, a genuine thing that crinkled the corners of your eyes. "maybe i'll just... accidentally break my shower permanently. for the sake of combating loud quiet. totally selfless."

a sound escaped him. it wasn't quite a laugh. more like a release of tension.

the ghost of something – amusement? exasperation? – flickered across, softening the harsh lines on his face for a second.

his eyes, when they finally flickered up to meet yours, held a storm: panic, awkwardness, a deep-seated wariness... but underneath, a fragile warmth.

the warmth of shared space, shared plums, shared... towels.

he looked down, focusing on the plum in your hand, the juice glistening on your fingers. the silence that fell wasn't quiet nor was it loud.

it was the scent of fruit and steam, the tension, and the simple, terrifying fact of you, there, in his chair, at his table, like a splash of color in his newspaper-dulled world.

he didn't want it to end. and that terrified him most of all.

his world hadn't just narrowed; it had collapsed, imploded, until existence was the deep purple curve of the plum held loosely in your fingers.

he watched, utterly transfixed, as your teeth – white, and impossibly intimate – sank into the ripe flesh.

the sound wasn't just wet; it was obscene. a soft, yielding pop of surrender under your teeth and lips. juice glistening and dark as heart's blood, welled instantly, a living thing tracing a path down the curve of your thumb. it slid over the delicate bones of your wrist, catching the light like liquid.

it didn't stop. a single, fat drop swelled, trembling at the precipice of your knuckle. it hung there, suspended. then it fell. with impossible, agonizing, painful slowness, it plunged through the air, landing with a tiny, definitive splat on the bare skin of your thigh.

it sat there, a bead of liquid, a jewel against the vulnerable expanse of your skin. just glistening. a target.

his breath was trapped, burning in his chest. the sound was obscenely loud in the silence.

his gaze followed the juice's treacherous path with focus, then snapped back, magnetized to your mouth as you pulled the violated fruit away.

your lips glistened, covered with stolen sweetness from the fruit, witg a smear of purple clinging to the corner of your lips.

you chewed slowly, thoughtfully, utterly, devastatingly oblivious. the floral ghost of his shower soap clinging to your hair, the sweet-tart perfume of the plum itself – it all mingled like a toxic, intoxicating cloud pulling him deeper into a vortex of sensation he'd been starved of for lifetimes.

decades of ice shattered under the sudden, brutal heat of you eating a fucking plum.

his mind wasn't just a fever dream; it was a riot in his mind.

the wet slide of your teeth breaking the skin.

the yielding flesh of the fruit beneath, giving way like something forbidden.

the juice, impossibly sweet, tracing paths he ached to follow, not with his eyes, but with his tongue, licking it clean from your wrist, chasing it down your thumb...

that single, insolent drop on your thigh – he could feel the warmth of your skin from beneath it, taste the plum mixed with the maddening salt of you.

the urge to lean forward, to close the scant inches, to swipe it away with his thumb, to press his mouth there instead...

it was a physical agony.

the damp strands of hair clinging to the side of your neck, where his soap scent lingered strongest, marking you as his.

the thin top clung to you, betraying the soft curve beneath as you leaned slightly forward, offering the fruit... offering fucking everything...

he couldn't blink or breathe.

the newspaper in his gloved fist was crushed beyond recognition, like a casualty. the sheer, unbearable weight of his stare – a stare that felt like a physical touch branding you.

he was drowning. suffocating. consumed by the devastating simplicity of you, here, now, eating fruit on his couch, fresh from the steam of his shower, wearing the warmth of his water on your skin, smelling of his space.

"bucky?" the soft question wrapped in velvet, broke through the haze.

it was a physical jolt, like ice water down his spine. he flinched, his entire frame tensing, like steel springs locking.

a hum vibrated deep in his chest. primal, involuntary. he blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to focus, to tear themselves away from the mesmerizing, treacherous sight of the plum's remains glistening on your lip, with the faint, tempting sheen on your thigh where the drop still sat, defiantly against your skin.

"mm?" scraped raw straight from his throat suddenly desert-dry. barely human at all.

you tilted your head, a smile playing on those glistening lips. "you zoned out there for a sec. plum-induced coma?" you held up the half-eaten fruit.

it's a sacrificial offering.

the deep indentation of your bit against the bruised purple flesh, glistening wetly with your saliva. "it is good, but maybe not that good?" your eyes sparkled, innocent torment in their depths.

words deserted him. his eyes welded to the bite mark, to the wet and intimate shine where your mouth had claimed the fruit.

his own mouth felt parched and barren. an ache low in his stomach tightened. ahot, insistent coil of pure, unadulterated need, like a beast roaring to life after decades of frozen silence.

"want a bite?" you offered. it was as casual as a knife thrust, extending the plum towards him. you held it suspended right before his face, an inch from his lips.

the indentations of your teeth were vivid. personal. juice welled where your fingers pressed, threatening to overflow.

the scent – sweet plum, yes, but overwhelmingly layered with the devastatingly intimate trace of you, your breath, your skin, your mouth.

he nodded. pure, raw instinct, the animal beneath the conditioning, overrode decades of caution, repression, fear. thought evaporated.

he leaned forward, drawn by an invisible wire. his eyes never left the plum, specifically the ravaged place where your teeth had sunk in, where you lingered. his own lips parted in a silent gasp.

you held it steady.

he moved closer, his breath ghosting over your fingers, stirring the fine hairs on your skin.

then, slowly, with a reverence that felt obscene in this silence and space, his mouth closed over the exact, ravaged spot where your bite began.

his lips, chapped, brushed against the indentations you had made, the grooves still warm from your possession.

his teeth sank into the flesh, piercing the same ruptured cells, encountering the same torn pathways. the taste exploded on his tongue – sweet, tart plum, yes, but overwhelmingly, devastatingly, unmistakable salt-sweet taste of your saliva.

it wasn't just a taste; it was an invasion. a communion.

a shockwave detonated through him.

intimate. primal. obscene.

he was tasting where you had tasted.

his lips were touching where your lips had been. his teeth were meeting the marks of your teeth, sharing the violence done to the fruit, sharing the spoils. the juice, released anew by his bite, burst forth, hotter than before.

it overflowed his mouth. too much.

a sticky rivulet traced a burning path down the rough stubble of his chin, dripping with slowness onto the dark fabric of his henley, over the muscles of his chest.

he didn't notice. couldn't care.

the world was reduced to the texture of the fruit yielding to his teeth, the lingering trace of you on it, the overwhelming scent of your proximity, the visual of the juice dripping down his own chin.

he chewed, mechanically, robotically.

his senses were overloaded, synapses firing wildly. heat flooded him, a molten wave so intense it felt like his bones might liquefy.

he kept chewing, lost in a whirlwind of sensation and forbidden connection.

you watched him, suspended in your own body.

you saw it carved into his frozen face, the line of his jaw, the working of his throat as he forced himself to swallow.

you tracked the slow, viscous trail of purple juice making its sticky way down his chin. you saw the raw, almost agonized concentration on his face, the pupils blown black with barely leashed hunger.

the space between you wasn't just charged; it was incandescent. filled with the unspoken, screaming implication of shared spit, shared violence to the fruit, shared... intimacy. a bridge built of plum pulp and saliva.

"messy eater," you murmured, your voice scraped raw itself, barely a whisper.

the teasing had gone. incinerated. replaced by awe, and dawning understanding, a visceral reaction to the overwhelming magnitude of the silent confession hanging in the juice-scented air.

you reached out, slowly, tentatively, your fingers hovering a breath away from his juice-smeared chin. "you've got..."

he flinched almost violently, with a full-body recoil and snapping his head back as if burned, shattering the moment.

a smear of plum pulp clung stubbornly to his lower lip. his eyes, feral with panic and a desperate hunger, locked onto yours. they held no shield, no defense – pure, unvarnished shame warring with a need so profound it looked like pain.

the juice dripped with a heavy, accusing drop landing on the fabric stretched over his thigh.

the shared plum, the mingled saliva glistening on its ravaged flesh, the dripping juice – a confession was explicit, damning, than any words could ever be.

he looked devastatingly destroyed, caught in the act of consuming not just the fruit, but your intimacy, the taste of you lingering like fire on his tongue.

bucky sat there, paralyzed with the taste of you – your saliva mixed with the fruit's tang – still burning like a brand on his tongue. his eyes fixed on the ravaged plum still in your hand, his mind a maelstrom.

she's going to eat it.

she's going to put her mouth where my mouth was.

she's going to taste my spit.

my lips were there.

now they'll be inside her.

the thought was obscene. he watched, hypnotized, as your fingers tightened slightly on the fruit. your eyes, heavy-lidded, moved from his juice-smeared chin back to the bite mark he had left beside yours. a shared violation of the fruit.

slowly, you brought the plum back to your lips. your eyes locked onto his, holding him captive as your teeth sank into the flesh he had just torn. right where his mouth had been. right where his saliva mingled with the juice.

you chewed slowly, your throat working as you swallowed him down with the fruit. your tongue darted out, catching a stray drop of purple nectar clinging to your own lip – nectar that had been on his mouth moments before.

he swore he stopped breathing.

the sight of you consuming the evidence of his intimacy, the unthinkable act of you taking him into your mouth... it shattered the last vestiges of control.

you finished the bite, the plum little more than a pit and a few clinging shreds of flesh in your fingers. you held his gaze, lips glistening with you, him and the fruit.

then it happened.

maybe he leaned in, drawn by a magnet, pulling him in a way he couldn't resist. maybe a flicker of his desperate hunger flashed in his eyes. maybe it was simply the inevitable collapse of the tension they'd been building brick by brick.

you moved, decisively.

you closed the inches between you. your free hand, the one not holding the pit, came up, brushing the sticky juice cooling on his stubbled chin.

it wasn't a flinch this time. he froze, utterly still, a statue carved from desire and terror.

then your mouth was on his. insistently.

it wasn't a gentle exploration. it was a claiming. a completion of the circuit sparked by the shared fruit, the shared spit, the shared breath.

your lips pressed against his, tasting the lingering juices of plum, and him. the pulp clung to his lip smeared against yours, loitering like a tresspasser.

bucky didn't move. his world exploded into pure sensation. the soft, impossible pressure of your lips. the warmth. the sweet-sticky taste transferred from his mouth to yours. your damp hair, his soap flooded his senses. the overwhelming reality of contact after a lifetime of frozen isolation.

it was too much. not enough. everything.

his gloved hand spasmed, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans. his other hand, bare, twitched at his side, yearning to touch, to pull you closer, to bury itself in your hair, but paralyzed by decades of conditioning, by the terrifying enormity of what was happening.

you pulled back, just an inch. your eyes, fathomless, searched his – the panic, the shock, the drowning hunger. a smile touched your kiss-swollen lips.

your tongue darted out, not to your own lip this time, but to his. a hot swipe across the lower curve, catching the last traces of sticky plum pulp and the taste of his own mouth and spit mixed with yours.

"tastes good," the whisper seared straight through him.

tastes good.

the shared plum. the shared spit. him.

you'd tasted him and found it good.

the simple statement, laden with layers of meaning, shattered whatever fragile hold on reality he had left.

the world tilted. the newspaper-covered walls, the dim light, the wooden chair – it all faded into a blur.

the only things that existed were the heat of your lips on his, the trail your tongue had left, the echo of your voice saying he tastes good, and the unbearable knowledge that you had kissed him. you tasted him. and you wanted more.

the gasp that tore from bucky's lungs wasn't just air escaping; it was the sound of the dam bursting, decades of ice cracking under an avalanche.

your whispered words – tastes good – echoed in the hollows of his skull, like a detonation in the silence. the heat of your tongue on his lip, the residue of plum and her it left behind, burned like a brand.

then your hands were on his shoulders. claiming and anchoring him.

the contact, direct through the cotton of his henley, seared him. he felt the press of your thighs against the outside of his legs as you rose.

and then you were on the couch. straddling his lap. settling onto the plane of his thighs. the heat of you, even through your shorts, was a shockwave. your knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his hips, caging him in warmth and you.

he looked up. he had to look up.

his head tilted back, those blue eyes, wide and desperate with drowning hunger, locked onto yours.

the distance was inches. and your lips. god, your lips. still glistening, swollen from the kiss.. his kiss, stained a deeper purple at the corners where the plum pulp clung, decadently.

his bite mark, his saliva with the fruit, smeared on your mouth. the sight was devastating.

his hands, which had lain frozen at his sides, moved as if pulled by magnets. his left hand, bare, found the curve of your waist. his fingers splayed over the tank top. his touch was hesitant at first, then pulled you infinitesimally closer.

the need to feel you was overwhelming.

his right hand, gloved in leather, rose almost of its own volition. it didn't hesitate this time. it slid upwards. fingers threaded into the damp hair at the nape of your neck, not gripping, cradling. he tilted your head down towards his, aligning your mouths. eyes never left your lips, tracing the sticky purple residue.

there was an ozone-sharp tang of pure, unleashed want.

he saw your lips part slightly, and the last thread of restraint snapped.

he surged up. his mouth crashed against yours. possessive. starving.

the kiss wasn't gentle; it was a desperate need and attempt to consume the taste, the feel, the reality of you after a lifetime of barren isolation. his lips moved over yours with almost bruising intentions, driven by a need so profound it bordered on violence.

he tasted it immediately – the plum pulp smearing between your joined lips with the salt-sweetness of you.

it was the taste from the fruit, amplified a thousandfold, and that faint metallic hint that was so uniquely him, and layered now with the hot reality of your mouth.

his pulp. his spit. on her lips. inside her mouth now.

his gloved hand tightened minutely in your damp hair, holding you, angling your head to deepen the kiss. his bare hand slid from your waist around to the small of your back. he could feel the hammering of your heart against his ribs, matching the frantic drumming in his own. the heat where your bodies met was provocative.

he kissed you passionately with a rawness that stole your breath. his tongue swept against the seam of your lips, seeking entrance into you, tasting the lingering sweetness.

when you opened for him, a groan ensued from him, vibrating against your mouth. the kiss became a tangle of heat and wetness and shared breath, a frantic exploration. he chased the taste – the plum, yes, but more, the taste of you beneath it, the intoxicating flavor of this impossible connection forged in sticky fruit juice and shared vulnerability. his tongue slid against yours, tasting the remnants of his bite, his essence, now irrevocably mixed with hers.

he kissed her like a man drowning, and you were the only air he could breathe.

the plum on your lips was the sweetest ambrosia, the shared taste a sacrament in the drowned room.

the glove in your hair, his bare hand branding your back, your weight solid and perfect on his lap – it was a fragile, desperate anchor in the storm of sensation he'd been thrust into.

he didn't know how to stop. not that he really wanted to.

the decades of cold were incinerated in the heat of your mouth, your body and the shared, sticky sweetness of the plum that had started it all.

his gloved hand slid from your hair, tracing a path down the side of your neck, over the slope of your shoulder.

it came to rest on your upper arm, needing to hold. his bare hand roamed lower on your back, beneath the hem to find the bare skin just above the waistband of your shorts.

the contact, skin on skin, made him gasp into your mouth, his hips jerking involuntarily upwards.

a muffled sound escaped him, half-shame, half-unbearable relief.

"you..." he gasped against your lips, fractured, andlost in the wet heat of the kiss.

he broke away for a desperate gulp of air, his forehead pressing hard against yours. his eyes were squeezed shut, expression one of agonized ecstasy. "can't... can't stop..." he admitted, the confession torn from him. it was raw and needy.

his hips rocked up again, seeking you wity the repressed tension of decades screaming for release against the cradle of your body. "please..."

the garden was long lost.

eden was dust.

but here, in this space, amidst the scent of newsprint and damp towels and crushed plum, they had taken that first, fatal bite together.

the knowledge was forbidden, terrifying, absolutelt fucking intoxicating.

it was the taste of the fruit on your tongue, the salt of his sweat on your skin, the shared breath that was life and damnation intertwined.

he kissed you again, tongue delving, tasting the echo of his own desire reflected back at him.

his hands moved – the gloved one tracing the line of your spin, the bare one sliding up beneath your tank top, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ribs, making you arch into him with a gasp that he swallowed greedily.

he was everywhere – his scent, his heat, the desperate press of his body.

he was drowning, and he was dragging her down with him, into the sweet darkness of the fall.

and god, it tasted good.

the kiss broke, not from lack of want, but from the suffocating need for air.

bucky pulled back first, breath mingling with yours in the scant space between your mouths. his eyes, dilated black pools, held yours. the taste of plum and shared breath lingered as the forbidden nectar from eden's core.

his gaze dropped to your collarbone, then lower, to the swell of your breast barely contained by the fabric, stained faintly purple near the neckline from the plum's juice.

"this..." his fingers found the edge of the strap, hooking under it. "need... gone." the command was barely audible with a need that mirrored the hunger that had driven adam to reach for the fruit offered by eve, knowing damnation followed but powerless to resist the allure.

he was following you down, willingly, into the fall.

his touch was purposeful, driven by the same primal urge that had him biting into the plum where your mouth had been.

his hand left your hair, sliding down to join the other at your shoulder. together, they pushed the thin strap down your arm.

the movement was slow, like peeling back the skin of ripe fruit to reveal the sweetness beneath. the fabric yielded, pooling around your elbow, baring your shoulder, the curve of your upper breast.

his eyes were fixed on the newly exposed skin. he leaned in, his lips brushing the hollow where your shoulder met your neck, tasting salt and steam sweetness of the plum that felt like consecration.

"more," he breathed against your throat. his hands moved to the hem of your tank top, fingers curling into the fabric. he didn't ask. he pulled it upwards, over your head in one clumsy motion. the fabric catches briefly on your hair before surrendering.

it landed somewhere on the floor, discarded like the fig leaves of shame, but there was no shame here, only desperate, aching need.

you sat astride him, bare from the waist up. his blue eyes raked over you like a starving man presented with a feast after decades of famine.

the rise and fall of your chest, the curves, your skin blooming with the plum's juice – it was paradise regained after the frozen wasteland of the soldier's existence.

his hands, one leather, one bare, came up to cradle your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, a touch so reverent it burned.

he leaned forward, burying his face in the valley between them, inhaling deeply – the scent of his soap, your skin, the ghost of plum, th perfume, his eve in this reclaimed garden.

another groan, more pained, escaped him. "so... beautiful. mine." the possessiveness wasn't harsh; it was awed, disbelieving, the claim of a man who'd never owned anything, least of all this.

his lips found your skin again, trailing kisses across your skin.. on the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out to taste.

his bare hand slid around your back, fumbling with the clasp of your bra. it was a small thing, a barrier, but his fingers, usually so precise, fumbled – years of handling weapons, not delicate fastenings, years of having autonomy ripped away, leaving him clumsy with this simple act of claiming pleasure. a frustrated growl left him.

"bucky..." you whispered, your own hands coming up to cover his, guiding his fingers. the clasp released. the bra straps slid down his arms as he pushed it away, joining the tank top on the floor.

he stared, utterly mesmerized, as if seeing sunlight for the first time after an endless winter. the air in his lungs were gone, like the consequence for biting the fruit. his hands rose, hovering for a heartbeat, then cupped the full weight of you. the sensation made you arch against him, a moan tearing from your lips that he swallowed with another kiss. his tongue plunges deep, tasting you, claiming you lost in the garden he'd followed you into.

the need became unbearable. he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours again. "you... too much. not enough." his hands slid down your back, over the curve of your hips, finding the waistband of your grey shorts. his fingers hooked into the fabric and the thin barrier beneath. "these... gone. now."

he didn't wait. he just pulled.

you shifted, letting the shorts and underwear slid down your thighs, catching at your knees before he yanked them free, tossing them aside with a haste that bordered on violence.

he stared, his eyes devouring the newly bared expanse of your hips, your stomach, the apex of your thighs.

the drop of plum juice long gone, but the memory, the target, was seared into his mind. he traced the line of your hipbone with a bare fingertip, a pilgrim touching sacred ground.

then his hands were on his own clothes.

the red henley. the symbol of his constant hiding. his fingers, still clumsy with adrenaline and decades of repression, fumbled. a curse escaped him. he gripped the fabric at the collar and pulled. the buttons flew, pinging off the couch, the wall.

the worn cotton ripped open, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, damp with sweat, scarred with the history he carried. he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall, discarded armour.

he was adam, shedding the last vestige of his imposed isolation, following his eve into the warmth, into the knowledge, into the fall.

he didn't stop. his hands went to his belt, and the leather slid free. the button of his jeans popped. the zipper rasped down. he shoved the fabric over his hips, kicking them off in a tangle of denim, leaving him as bare as you in the light, only in his briefs and the single, dark glove.

the metal arm, usually hidden, gleamed dully in the shadows, a stark reminder of the soldier, yet now, in this context, just another part of the man reclaiming his body, his desire.

he looked at you, sitting astride him, both of you stripped bare.

the scent of the ravaged plum, sex, sweat, and liberation. paradise wasn't a place; it was this. this closeness, this desperate, shared need after years of being a weapon, stripped of choice, of warmth, of this.

his gaze, stripped of all defenses now, held only awe, hunger, and a vulnerability.

"you," his bare hand reaching up to cradle your cheek. his thumb brushes your kiss-swollen, plum-stained lips.

the glove on his other hand felt alien now, the last barrier. his eyes flickered to it, then back to yours, in the deep blue depths.

"all of me... for you."

it was surrender. it was offering.

it was adam, standing naked before eve, ready for the exile, because the taste of the fruit, the taste of her, was worth every consequence.

he leaned in, lips seeking yours again, ready to lose himself completely in the garden they'd cultivated together, in the paradise found amidst the ruins of bucharest.

but it broke when your eyes drifted from his eyes over the sculpted plane of his chest still heaving, to land on the junction where scarred flesh met metal at his left shoulder.

he froze. the vulnerability slammed back into him, sharper than any blade he's felt.

decades of hiding, of shame, of seeing that arm only as a weapon, a reminder of the monster... laid bare before you. he braced for the flinch, the revulsion, the fear he knew was rational, deserved.

instead, your fingers, impossibly gentle, traced the seam. not recoiling, but mapping it out. your touch traced the ridges of scar tissue, the smooth curve of the titanium where it fused with him. your eyes followed your fingertips, a soft hum vibrating in your throat. not horror. but admiration.

he couldn't breathe or move. he could only watch, as you leaned in. your lips pressed against the scarred flesh just above the metal joint. a kiss. not pity, but reverence.

you pulled back slightly, only to kiss it again, lower this time, where the skin gave way to the cool alloy. another kiss, directly on the surface of the shoulder cap. each press of your lips was a brand, searing away layers of ingrained shame.

you looked up, meeting his hopeful eyes.

"all of you," you whispered, echoing his earlier surrender. your hand slid down from his shoulder, over the cool metal of his bicep, past the elbow joint, until your fingers found the edge of the leather glove still encasing his left hand. the last barrier. the final shield.

he understood.

a tremor ran through him. his right hand, bare on your hip. he looked down at your fingers resting on the glove, then back up at your eyes. the question, the plea, was answered in your steady gaze.

with a convulsive movement, he pulled his left hand back slightly. his right hand fumbled for the edge of the glove at his wrist. the leather resisted, like a muzzle.

a sound escaped him out of frustration. he tugged harder, the leather loud in the silence. you grabbed his wrist, gently, helping him tug it off.

finally, it gave. you both peeled the glove down, over the plates of his knuckles, over the smooth back of his hand, revealing the titanium beneath. it felt like shedding his skin, exposing raw nerve endings.

the glove hit the couch, forgotten.

his left hand lay bare between you. intricate. utterly inhuman. he held it, frozen, unable to look away from your face, waiting for the inevitable recoil.

your breath caught, but not in fear. in awe. your eyes drank in the sight – the plates, the seams, the way the light caught the polished metal.

slowly, deliberately, you reached out. your soft fingers slid beneath his cool metal ones, lifting his hand. the contrast was startling – your fragile humanity cradling his strength.

without breaking eye contact, you lowered your head. your lips brushed the smooth, cool metal of his palm. a kiss.

then another, on the central plate.

another, on the ridge of his knuckles.

you turned his hand slightly, kissing near his wrist. your lips trailed down the length of his index finger, then the middle finger, placing kisses on each tip.

each kiss was an absolution, a benediction spoken without words.

bucky's vision blurred. a hot and stinging pressure built behind his eyes. then, a single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek, followed by another.

he didn't sob or make a sound. he just trembled silently as you worshipped the instrument of his damnation with your lips. the cool metal under your warm mouth felt like a miracle. like coming home to a part of himself he'd been exiled from.

your lips lingered on the tips of his metal fingers. his index and middle fingers brushed against your bottom lip.

you didn't pull away, parting your lips and still looking into his tear-filled eyes, you took the tips of his two metal fingers into your mouth.

his breath audibly stopped. the soft heat of your mouth enveloping the unfeeling metal. your tongue touched the smooth tips, exploring pressure. you sucked lightly, drawing his fingers deeper.

it wasn't overtly sexual, though the intimacy was scorching. it was something deeper. a silent, devastating declaration.

i know what this hand has done. i know the blood. the ice. the pain. and i'm not afraid. i accept it. i accept you. all of you. the weapon and the man.

the message seared into his soul, hotter than any furnace. the tears fell freely now, tracks cutting through the grime and sweat on his face.

the last wall, the deepest fortress within him, crumbled to dust under the soft suction of your mouth, an the trust in your eyes.

his metal fingers rested passively on your tongue, a surrendered weapon, finally finding peace in the warmth of your acceptance.

the garden, once forbidden, now bloomed around them, drenched in tears and the silent, sacred language of touch.

the silent declaration in your eyes – i know. i accept. – echoed louder than any scream. tears tracked freely.

paradise wasn't sunlight and songbirds; it was this. the plum, shared sweat, and the unbearable intimacy of your mouth around the instrument of his damnation.

your free hand moved. not to push away, but to seek. it slid down the hard plane of his stomach, over the muscles, finding the straining bulge confined by the fabric of his briefs.

"need you," you whispered around his metal fingers. your eyes held a hunger that mirrored his own, stripped bare of any pretense. it wasn't just want.

his own free hand – flesh and blood – instinctively moved to cover yours, his fingers tangling with yours over the desperate hardness beneath the fabric.

the soldier, the conditioned weapon, surfaced for panicked second. "condom," he choked out. "gotta... gotta use..." the habit of caution, of control, of preventing consequences in a world where consequences were always catastrophic.

adam, remembering the rules even as he reached for the fruit.

your hand beneath his squeezed. you pulled his metal fingers gently from your mouth, a string of spit connecting your lips to his fingers till it breaks. the cool tips glistened with your saliva. you didn't wipe your lips.

instead, your hands rose, warm palms cradling his face as your thumbs brushed away the wet tears on his cheeks.

"bucky, look at me." his eyes focused desperately on yours. "i need you."

the emphasis was unmistakable. no latex barrier. no symbolic fig leaf. no separation.

you wanted the soldier, the weapon, the man, the sin, the salvation – whole. you weren't afraid of the fall, of the consequences, of the potential damnation. you craved the unvarnished truth of him, the way eve craved the knowledge, the bitter-sweetness of the core.

he understood. truly, finally understood. the last vestige of the winter soldier's caution, the ingrained fear of contamination, of causing unintended harm, dissolved like frost under a sudden sun.

you weren't just accepting the metal; you were demanding everything. the vulnerability, the potential for ruin, the terrifying intimacy of complete exposure.

you wanted the garden, thorns and all. the banishment be damned.

the tears flowed anew, silent, but they weren't tears of shame now. they were tears of surrender, of profound, disbelieving gratitude. "you... sure?" the question was barely audible, needing the final confirmation before the plunge.

"yes," you breathed. your hands slid from his face, down his neck, over the shoulders, coming to rest on the waistband of his briefs. your eyes held his. "all of you."

he didn't hesitate. his hands joined yours, fumbling only slightly in his haste. together, they pushed the final barrier down his hips, freeing him completely.

he sprang free, thick with need, glistening at the tip. the sight of himself, so exposed, so wanted in his entirety, stole what little breath he had left.

your raked over him, not with clinical assessment, but with pure hunger.

your hand wrapped around him with a possessive stroke. "see?" you said. "perfect. all of you."

he couldn't speak because words were dust.

his hands found your hips, guiding you and pulling you forward on his lap. you rose slightly, knees digging into the couch cushions, positioning yourself over him. the head of his cock brushed against your wet folds, causing both of you to gasp.

"please," he begged, ripped from the deepest, most starved part of him. adam, poised on the precipice, no longer fearing the serpent or the god, only craving the taste of paradise offered in your body. "need... need you too."

you sank down slowly. taking him inside inch by exquisite inch. the stretch was profound, a claiming as deep as the one you'd made of his metal hand.

his head fell back against the couch, a cry escaping his lips as your cunt enveloped him. tight and wet and fuckin' perfect.

you seated yourself fully, taking him all the way. a moan comes from you as you felt him buried deep inside like he's a part of you now.

he was inside you. completely. no barriers. no separation. just flesh and heat and the shared, forbidden knowledge of each other.

the fruit wasn't just tasted; it was consumed. the garden wasn't just entered; it was lived in.

his tears mingled with the sweat on his chest. his metal hand, freed, found its way to your hip. his flesh hand gripped your thigh as the world tilted on its axis.

he looked up at you, riding him as your eyes grew dark with the same desperate wonder he felt.

paradise wasn't lost. it was found right here, in the ruin of bucharest, on a battered couch, with the taste of plum on your shared breath and the echo of the first, fatal bite resonating in every shared gasp.

he was banished from the cold, empty garden of his solitude, and he'd follow you into any exile, any consequence, for this warmth. for this you. he began to move.

he watched you. god, he watched you. with his eyes wide, drowning, fixed on your face as you moved above him. every shift, every breath, every flutter of your lashes was a revelation.

paradise wasn't a place with trees; it was the curve of your lip caught between your teeth, the gasp escaping you as you sank down onto him again, taking him impossibly deep.

he was adam, cast out, lost, but finding a new eden in the cradle of your hips, in the wetness and warmth surrounding him.

"feel you," he mumbled. his bare hand slid from your thigh up your side, tracing the line of your ribs, skimming the swell of your breast. his thumb found your nipple, already a hard, and brushed over it. "feel you... everywhere."

it wasn't just the physical joining; the knowledge of good and evil? it was this. the sweet agony of being known, truly known, metal and scars and fractured soul, and being wanted anyway. eve hadn't just taken the fruit; she'd offered it, shared it, damned them both into this intimacy.

you arched, a soft cry escaping as his thumb circled your nipple. "bucky..."

you leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders, your hair falling around his face like a curtain. the movement shifted him inside you. "so good... you feel... so good inside me."

he surged up to meet your next downward stroke, his hips pistoning upwards.

the slap of skin on skin, the wet sound of your pussy taking him. his metal hand is cool against your skin, hot and sticky, slid around to grip your ass, pulling you harder onto him with each thrust.

"want... want you to..." he struggled for the words lost in decades of silence. "want you... to feel it too. please... let me see."

he needed it. he needed to witness your fall, your surrender to the pleasure he was giving you. it was his offering, his desperate attempt to give back some fraction of the absolution you'd granted him.

his thumb abandoned your breast, sliding down to your stomach, through the mess where your bodies met, finding your swollen clit, right above where he filled you.

the first touch made you cry out, clenching tightly around him. "oh god! bucky!" you gasped, your head falling back, exposing your neck to him.

"yes," his eyes devoured you – the way your mouth fell open as you bounced on his cock. he circled that tight knot of nerves with pressure.

his eyes were intently locked on your face, watching every sensation, and tremor that ran through you. "like that... show me. show me you... let go. for me. please."

the thick fullness of him was moving deep within you.

the garden walls dissolved; there was only this, this pressure, this man beneath you, worshipping you with his body, his eyes, his voice.

you were eve, taking the final, irrevocable bite, not of knowledge, but of pure ecstasy.

"i'm... bucky, i'm gonna..." the warning was a choked sob.

"yes," he commanded, thrusts becoming harder, deeper, driving you towards the edge. his thumb pressed harder, circling faster. "fall. fall with me. take it... take everything..."

it broke. a raw, beautiful moan tore from you as your body shattered around him.

wave after wave of pure, blinding pleasure crashed through you, your muscles milking him in pulses.

you panted above him, fingers digging into his shoulders, your vision going white as paradise flooded your veins.

watching you come undone, feeling you clamp around him, hearing your cries fill the air he breathed – it was the final, fatal bite for him too.

the control he'd clung to, the soldier's discipline had immediately vaporized.

a moan ripped from him as his own climax detonated. his hips slammed up, burying himself inside you as he slipped deep.

his seed spilled into your cunt, marking you, and claiming you in the most intimate way possible.

adam, following eve into the fall, spilling his essence into the fertile ground of her acceptance, damnation be damned.

he held you tight, both arms wrapping around you – flesh and metal – as the orgasm wracked both your bodies.

his face was buried in your neck. his tears mixed with the sweat on his cheeks and your shoulder.

it wasn't sadness; it was the overwhelming flood of release, of connection, of finally being home after an eternity of exile.

he spilled into you, not just his seed, but decades of loneliness, the poison of hydra, the weight of the soldier, all washed away in the tide of this shared, forbidden paradise.

"you..." he choked out against your skin. "inside... you... all of me..."

it was a broken litany, a prayer of gratitude and surrender. he stayed buried deep as the last pulses faded, holding you close.

your shared breath was the last sound in the reclaimed garden of their battered bucharest haven.

the consequences could wait. for now, they had the fruit, the warmth, and each other, exposed and finally whole.

[chlomdtvv]

painfully obvious- a.frederick 

synopsis: out with a group of friends, a stranger tries to hit on you but arthur thankfully stepped in just in time. 

c/w: non-established relationship. fluff, alcohol consumption, flirting? , kissing

a/n: definitely one of my favs !! hope u enjoy x + pls send request cus i’m running out of ideas 💔

˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

—YOU NEVER NOTICED but he did. 

there she was, sitting across from me and giggling at a joke that sabina made at josh - i didn’t catch it but i didn’t care much either. God she looked beautiful.

arthur felt a nudge on the side of his arm before snapping out of his thoughts. “mate your staring again” chris whispered so the others wouldn’t hear him. “wha- what?” arthur scoffed - shaking his head, cupping his chin as his fingers ran down the stubble on his face — his face turning a light shade of pink that he begged nobody noticed.

“not to burst your bubble but your proper gawking at y/n” chris chuckled teasingly. “no i’m not — don’t be ridiculous!” arthur stammered, laughing awkwardly. “oh yeah, cause you just so happen to have your eyes on her the whole night” chris nodded sarcastically, his bottom lip puffing out teasingly. “i’m just zoned out that’s all..” arthur uttered but they both knew it wasn’t true. “–like she looks good, yeah — more than good, like she looks gorgeous…” he paused. “but y’know..ahem.” he cleared his throat awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck nervously, taking a swig of his pint as his eyes latched onto anything to avoid the conversation , the overhead lights, the pint glass, the table — anything. 

“y’alright arth?” y/n asked with a caring smile spread across her lips as she looked over at him. he nodded quickly “yeah, yeah just zoned out, that’s all..” he responded over the loud pub music with a smile. she nods and continues talking with sabina — both laugh and hitting each other playfully whilst josh rolled his eyes, the joke was probably about him. arthur picks his pint up off the table, taking a big gulp before licking the foam off his top lip while sitting the glass back down on the table, the foam bubbling in his pint glass. it was like he was trying to at anything but her, which in his part was incredibly hard

chris and cal sharing a glare at each other, a look like “it’s so obvious” type of look. “i’m gonna order another drink” y/n said before scooting her chair back and standing up, her hands running down her skirt to flatten it. “d’you want help?” arthur offered quick, maybe a little too quick.

nonetheless she agreed with a soft smile. 

the pair making their way up to the bar — neither of them noticed but a tall blonde man was definitely eyeing her.

 “i can pay for it” arthur said as he took his phone out of his pocket. she immediately shook her head “no, no, i got it — it’s alright” she insisted but arthur didn’t listen, the card machine turned and he didn’t hesitate to tap his phone on the pay tab. she groaned “arthur! i could pay for it myself” she said as she hit his chest gently, he chuckled and and shook his head “i ordered one for myself — don’t worry about it” he shrugged it off with a cheeky grin. 

“i’ll be back — i’m just gonna go toilet” arthur said in her ear before walking away to head to the men’s restroom. 

-

“oh it’s so obvious!” sabina exclaimed to the group which made the lads chuckle. “and - and y’know he’s always like staring at her” cal added with enthusiasm. “his beady eyes!” chris added with a laugh. “y’know she rates him — like she proper fancies him” sabina nodded, emphasising the word “proper” surprisingly enough, the others weren’t too shocked. their flirty jokes, the subtle touches, the closeness between them that screamed “more than friends”. it was so painfully obvious.

—

“your three pints miss” the bartender said to the girl as he slides the three glasses of guinness to her. “sorry — i think there’s been a mistake, we ordered two, not three” she said politely. the bartender smirks and shakes his head, “ah the third pint was from the handsome man over there” he said as he jerked his head towards the tall blonde man, making his way to her with a smug grin.

“hey“ he said smoothly, his eyes looking at her body up and down shamelessly. “hi” y/n replied awkwardly - a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. “i just thought you were really gorgeous, could i get your number by any chance?“ he asked straightforwardly — the smug smirk never leaving his face. “you really didn’t have to buy me this” she said sheepishly before adding, “you seem like a nice lad but i don’t give my number out, sorry” she declined politely which made the man’s smirk falter, he raised a brow “aw why not girl? you nervous.?” he chuckled, reaching to brush a strand of hair behind her ear which she rejected, taking a step back — biting her bottom lip nervously. “no-it’s just i’m not comfortable with that, that’s all” she shook her head, her heart beating faster by the second. “ah cmonnn” he laughed, pushing it as he took a step closer towards her, a bit to close for comfort. 

before she could reply, she felt someone’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. 

glancing at the weirdly familiar touch, she saw the watch on the strangers wrist — it was no stranger, it was arthur. 

she felt a wave of relief wash over her when she saw his face, his brown eyes staring down the man like a whole different person. “y’alright darling?” arthur asked genuinely, looking down at the girl with a comforting smile. “is he bothering you?” he added. before she could speak up, the blond man interrupted “who the fuck are you?” he questioned judgementally. “her boyfriend mate” arthur said cockily, his composure calm and confident with a cheeky glint in his eyes. the blond man scoffed. “you’re not though, are you?“ he accused which made arthur roll his eyes. even though it was true, his jaw tightening at the cheek of the man. “look mate, she’s not interested in you” he replied. the blond man scowled before shooting arthur a dirty look as he walked away.

when he was out of sight, arthur looked back at her. “you okay?” he asked with pure concern. she slowly nodded — “yeah, i dunno — that was weird” she said with a relieved sigh. “wanna go take a breather outside?” he asks. “yeah that would be great actually” she nods as she grabbed the pints and they both made their way back to the others. she set the glass on the table but didn’t sit back down yet. “everything okay? you two took a while” cal asked. arthur nodded “yeah we’re alright, some lad was hitting on her — was super odd but i handled it” the others looked weirded out at the description of the situation, followed by “are you okay”s to the girl.

“arthur and i are just gonna go out for a bit, we’ll be back” y/n informed the group and all of them couldn’t help but hold back a little smirk. “alright, you to have funn” sabina winked at the girl “not too much fun!” chris added jokingly which made the group chuckle. arthur rolled his eyes with a laugh before they both made their way to the exit.

the cold air hitting them as soon as they stepped out, a shiver washed over her body which arthur, of course noticed. “d’you want my jacket?” he offered. “no, i’m grand but thank you.” she denied with a smile, arthur didn’t buy it — so of course he unzipped his jacket and put it on her shoulders, leaving him in his plain black shirt and jeans which he didn’t even seem to mind. “arthur” she drawed at his stubbornness . “you’re cold, just have it” he insisted once again whxih made her roll her eyes playfully. “thank you by the way, the guy was making me so uncomfortable” she sighed, arthur couldn’t help but groan at the mention of the blond stranger. “he was such a dick” 

“i know right? he kept asking me for my number, like fuck off” she huffed. “you don’t have to thank me, i would never let a man treat you like that” arthur shrugged, y/n couldn’t help but blush at his words, the way he smiled at her so sincerely, the way his gaze softened every time his eyes fixated on her — her stomach fluttering by simply just looking at him. 

it was so painfully obvious.

his gaze lingers on her. soft, almost unreadable, but there's something beneath it. something alive. she could feel tension tightening in the breezy air between them, thickening the quiet, making her skin prickle, definitely not from the cold wind.

“you look beautiful tonight” he complimented softly — it’s like he was effortlessly trying to make her blush. “you look very handsome” she complimented back with a little nervous giggle.

they both slowed down their steps before they both stood there, the two staring at each other in comfortable silence for a few moments before his face contemplating something she couldn’t put a finger on — as if he was holding back something before he finally spoke up. “i really like you y/n, more than anything and if you don’t feel the same, like-  it’s totally fine but i- uhm y’know-“ arthur rambles before he was shortly interrupted by her lips crashing onto his. he froze for a few seconds before kissing her back. she leans up, basically on her tippy-toes as her hand slowly sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing his fluffy brunette hair as their lips connect. the kiss starts slow. like testing the waters. but it doesn't stay that way too for long, as soon as he felt her melt into the kiss - her body leaning ever so  close, her lips parting just slightly. arthur deepens it with a low sound in his throat. they both pull away for a few seconds, he smiles against her lips as she kisses him once again and again and again before finally pulling away properly with a pink flustered expression. 

“i’d love to take you out on a proper date and be your boyfriend, not just to piss off random guys” arthur said sweetly, his smile wide to the point his little fangs were showing. “of course, i’d love that” she agreed contently.

definitely a night she wouldn’t forget.

_____

tags: @livvymd

[shra-vasti]

TEASER [MDNI]

DRUNK-DAZED, PJS & PSH

• SYNOPSIS: Jay tells himself it doesn’t matter, that the lines beginning to blur between you and Sunghoon are none of his business. That the way Sunghoon looks at you, or the way you look back at him, shouldn’t concern him. Then why does something twist in his chest every time he thinks of the two of you together?

And worse, when he looks at you, he doesn’t know what he wants more: to take your place beside Sunghoon or to steal your gaze for himself.

"You were drunk when you fucked Sunghoon, you were dazed when you fucked Jay."

• PAIRING: Park Jongseong x afab!reader x Park Sunghoon

• WORD COUNT: approx. 25k

• TEASER WORD COUNT: 1.06k

• RELEASE DATE: 13th of August, 2025

• CONTENT TAGS: Non idol au, university settings, fwb!sunghoon, classmate!jay, sunghoon and jay are roommates, minor fight scene, reader gets stalked and harassed, reader smokes and drinks.

THERE'S NO SMUT IN THE TEASER

• WARNING TAGS FOR MAIN FIC: MDNI, smut, switch!Jay, soft dom!sunghoon, switch!reader, threesome, oral (fem & male receiving), unprotected sex, multiple sex scenes, car sex, blind folded, hand cuffs, a bit manhandling, there's mxm action (don't read if you aren't comfortable, you have been warned), anal, don't like then don't read! More will be added in the fic!

• IMPORTANT NOTE: Okay I'll make some things clear here, I am trying to write different genres like I've mentioned in "me and my preferences" section in the pinned post. This is one of them, don't read if you aren't comfortable, read the warning tags before interacting with this teaser of even the original fic which I'll post later. Your media consumption is not my responsibility. If you are uncomfortable reading any of the mentioned things don't interact, even if you are my follower!

Your bare foot brushed against the cold floor, the apartment too quiet. You check your group chat in case there's any update as you round the corner into the living room. You keep your phone in your pocket, finally raising your head, when you stop. The sunlight casted a warm glow on your bare hands and feet, and you turned your head slightly and finally noticed the floor-to-ceiling glass that stretched from one end of the room to the other.

Your feet led you towards the glass, and you looked down the city, the tiny cars threading through the streets below, buildings catching the morning light, the soft haze of the early morning covering the city, the room basked in it. You stand there for a long second. Last night, the blinds were drawn and you were too much indulged in Sunghoon's kisses to even notice how beautiful the view was.

You snapped out of the trance when you heard the door click open, heartbeat quickening at the voice that suddenly disrupted the quiet that surrounded earlier in the apartment. You turned around, holding your breath for a second as you heard a shuffle down the main entrance of the apartment. Jay stepped into your view, kicking off his shoes, his tank top sticking to him in patches, headphones draped around his neck. He didn't look up yet and your feet moved thoughtlessly.

When he finally looked up, he froze. For a moment, neither of you moved, like the time had stilled when he caught your sight, in his apartment. “You're here…” he said, more like wondered, when he looked at you up and down. You nodded, calm, “morning.” You stood there for a moment as his eyes flickered towards your slightly damp hair, your clothes, the way your hand tightened around your phone. “I was just heading out,” you answered before he could even ask you anything and his eyebrows furrowed, then slowly with caution, he asked, “you stayed over?”

You held his gaze, shifting your weight on the other leg, “yeah, Sunghoon was too tired to drop me home, he offered to stay since I had morning class today.” Jay's expression didn't change much, but you saw the way his jaw tensed, barely, but it was enough for you to notice. You didn't blame him for reacting though since you knew Sunghoon doesn't do the staying over thing and neither does Jay. Even though you were also surprised when Sunghoon offered, but you could care less about their issues, it wasn't your battle to fight.

Jay didn't need to ask you anything further, because he knew, of course he did. It wasn't exactly a secret between you three that Sunghoon was hooking up with you, but this was new, you staying over. That wasn't the part of the pattern you and Sunghoon followed. He cleared his throat, his voice tight, “you're heading out now?” You nodded, stepping closer to him, “yeah, I was, but then I saw this,” you gestured towards the view, “couldn't help myself.”

He let out a short breath of laughter, “hmm, Sunghoon keeps the blinds down, says it makes him feel exposed.” You smile at his words, looking at the view, “I know.” He hummed in response, fingers curling into a tight fist in his pocket, you looked back at him, “but now that I've seen how beautiful it looks, I love it.” Silence stretched between the two of you, and Jay looked at you as if he's trying to understand you.

“You want coffee before you head out?” He asked, diverting the topic. “I want to,” you pouted, stepping closer and reaching out to remove a piece of leaf sticking on his shoulder. His breath hitched at the proximity, “but I don't want to be late, maybe next time handsome.” His eyes narrowed, but he didn't make a move to get away. “I'll see you in class,” you smiled, the same sickeningly sweet smile you always wore “see you later.” And you were out the door before Jay could even open his mouth to say something.

Jay shook his head, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he made his way inside his room to take a shower. He stood below the shower, warm water cascading down his body like temptation, pooling around his feet like it doesn't want to leave. He groaned, rubbing his face as if doing so would keep the thoughts from invading his head. He changed his clothes, moving towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast. He placed his bag on the counter, taking the ingredients from the cabinets when he heard quiet footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“I bumped into your girl while I came back from my run,” Jay stated, not even turning back to look at Sunghoon as he entered the kitchen. Sunghoon's steps flattered, “she's not my girl.” Jay scoffed, watching the tea boil, “you sure don't act like it.” Jay turned to face Sunghoon, who leaned against the doorframe as he watched Jay, “you never let any girl stay over, you don't fuck the same girl over and over, you're making it too obvious.” Jay turned around, plating the breakfast. “It's not that serious, don't fret over it,” Sunghoon mumbled, stepping inside. Jay clenched his jaw, biting back the words that were dying to spill out of his mouth, “if that's what you say.”

“Aren't you getting late for your morning class?” Sunghoon's voice chimed from behind him. Jay turned his head as Sunghoon opened the refrigerator to get some fruits. “I'm not,” he replied lazily before preparing two plates, one for Sunghoon and other for himself. Sunghoon frowned, clearly remembering about your text from morning, “don't you two share the same classes?” Jay just nodded, eating his breakfast.

“She likes leaving early to grab breakfast at the cafe near the campus before class,” Jay stated, like it's a common fact. Sunghoon paused and raised his eyebrows, “and you know that because?” Jay stopped, barely looking up before shrugging like it wasn't a big deal, “she mentioned it once.” Sunghoon leaned back against the chair, eyes trained on Jay as he washed his plate, “she never told me.” Jay dried his hands, taking the bag he placed on the counter, slinging it on his shoulder as he made his way out of the kitchen, “she did, maybe you weren't listening.”

[lacydaydream]

Heaven Ain’t Close In A Place Like This

⤷ mark meachum

estelle yapping: part one can be found here! <3

cw: mdni. no use of y/n. no detail on the reader's appearance. explicit sexual content. rough sex. p in v. unprotected sex ( don't be silly, wrap the willy ). slight degradation. praise kink. size kink. dom!mark. dirty talk. Mark being a bit of a menace. pet names [ angel, sweetheart, my girl, baby, sweet girl ].

word count: 2.7K

last time…

“Because, angel,” he murmurs, hand sliding down your abdomen to cup your heat. “I want this to be just for me. I’m not gentle. I take what I want— and I need you to want it, too. Do you understand me?”

In just three seconds, you had willingly sold your soul. And the worst part was this: you didn’t want it back.

“Yes, I understand.”

Mark stills.

As if the Heavens had opened up and shone a light down on his probably pervy ass. In a split second– just for a beat, that was more than enough– he entirely forgot his strife from just a few hours ago.

All you can hear is his breath as his body cages you against your front door. He’s a statue, all hard muscle and sharp edges. His breath is low and ragged against your neck, and you swear for just a second, you thought you heard him murmur a prayer.

Like he’d been a match struck in gasoline, he moves. His hand cups your heat, fingers running through your folds. His thumb bumps and rubs over your overstimulated clit, grinning against your skin when you whimper.

“Good.” He grunts. “That’s real good, sweetheart.”

His big hands find your hips and yanks you back. Your spine arches. A startle gasp breaks past your lips s he turns you in a firm grip, spun until your inches away from his chest. His mouth is still glistening with your slick, coating his beard and dribbling down his chin. His eyes are pools of black, the color void as desire drinks him in.

He takes a long look at you. Your flushed face, your shirt hanging uselessly open, your heaving chest, the ruined panties still at your ankles. You’re a damn vision. A seraph standing in front of him– was there an order of angels higher than a seraph? He wasn’t sure. But he knew if there was, it would be you.

His hand stretches out, a devilish glint in his eyes. His voice comes out soft but commanding. “Panties.”

In your flushed state, you were sure just what he wanted. All you could focus on was how he towered over you and the ghost of his cock pressing against you. Your brows knit together, lips parting as pants barrel from your lungs. “What?”

“Gimmie your fukin’ panties, angel.”

Again and again, this man has proven to be able to make you rethink just how red you could turn. With trembling hands and legs, you step out of the ruined fabric. You bend down to pick them up– shaking the entire way, and if he notices, he says nothing– and hand them over to him.

He grins and takes the wet fabric into his hand, holding it as if he was reacquainting himself with something holy. He pockets them. As if it was the most natural thing in the world– like he was just slipping his phone into his pocket.

“That’s my girl.” He murmurs.

His palm flattens against your stomach, feeling your skin as he drags his hand up, settling to cup your breast through your bra. His thumb flicks over your nipple through the lace, a reverent sigh leaving his lips.

You shudder. His hand moves away, settling to bring both of them under your thighs. He lifts you like you’re a feather, easily holding you to his chest. His words slither up your spine and into your ears and around your sex-hazed mind. “Where’s your room, baby?”

Your arms link around his neck, thighs clamping around his waist. He has you settled over his hips. The pressure of hardness in his jeans presses just shy of where you need him. A needy whimper rips from your chest– it’s almost pornographic. When you try to speak, your words come out breathy and stuttering. “Last door on the right.”

When he walks you down the hall, every step brings him just a little closer to you. And you can’t help yourself from trying to grind down on him. He’s thick and heavy through his jeans, straining to burst right through his zipper.

He crosses the hallway in three easy strides, almost tripping over his feet. He kicks in your door, the hinges rattling with the sheer force. It cracks against the wall. The sound ricochets off the walls and your grip on him tightens.

When a ball of fur runs through the doors threshold, Mark stops. It’s a cat– one that looks like a cloud. An actual cloud. All fluffy and zigging down the hall. He tries his best to keep up his sexy, dominant vibe but he breaks.

“You have a cloud.” He chuckles softly.

“Mark.” You whine, grinding down on him.

“Needy little angel.” He chastises, walking into the room and kicking it shut softly. “Just can’t wait to get stuffed, hm?”

He drops his right hand from your thigh, supporting your body weight with one hand. His palm cracks against your ass, the moment of levity burning out like a fire. “Don’t be greedy.”

Mark sets you down, admiring your trembling legs. His voice drops an octave. Command wraps around his words like a dagger in silk. “Get on the bed.”

You obey instantly, stumbling over towards your mattress. Your thighs are still slick and trembling, but you climb up without any hesitation. Need simmers beneath your skin, running through your veins. You want this.

Mark doesn’t follow you right away. He watches. Let his eyes crawl over your body like a starved man at a feast. You spread your legs slightly, giving him an unobstructed view of your glistening cunt, a clear open invitation. A growl leaves his throat, low and vibrating through your very soul.

He drags his shirt over his head in one clean, fluid motion. His hand palms himself, eyes pinning you down onto the bed. His cock is straining against his pants, ready to burst through the fabric of his jeans. The pressure is almost too much to take. His jeans and boxers follow his shirt.

You glance down, and your eyes widen.

Jesus Christ.

That’s a fucking weapon. There’s no way he was gonna fit– anywhere. He’s thick, girthy enough to already feel the stretch in your cunt just from looking at him. He’s veiny, angry red and leaking at the tip. And you’re pretty sure it’s a foot long– okay, that's an overestimate. But he’s definitely above average.

Your mouth waters at the sheer size of him, and the way his hand wraps around the base like he’s barely holding back. Like he’s about a second away from pouncing on you.

“You look scared, angel.” He teases, crawling onto the bed like a predator. His voice is overly smug, but his eyes are burning– brighter than the sun. “You scared?” He asks you, voice mocking as he grips onto your thighs.

He yanks you down the bed, manhandling you with perfect ease. His cock rests right against your thigh, thick and heavy, and somehow bigger. The air that had once been in your lungs felt like it had been punched out, and the only thing you could do was stare up at him.

“Not scared.” Your voice is breathy, slightly higher pitched. Your eyes are locked on his. “Need you, Mark.”

The second the words leave your lips, he’s on you. His mouth crashes against yours, hand coming down to rest against your pubic bone. He kneads your breast with one palm, the other pressing his thumb through your folds and pressing against your clit. He grins into you as your breath catches, pleasure shooting through your veins. Mark’s tongue devours you, licking into your mouth like you’re the first taste of water he’s had in years.

“Gonna ruin this pussy, sweetheart.” He pants, breaking away from your lips, his own dark and bruising. His thumb circles against your clit, pressing with the perfect amount of pressure that has your thighs trying to press together. “But we gotta stretch you out first.”

You whimper, hips chasing his hand.

He grips onto himself with one hand, his other continuing the brutal pace on your bundle of nerves. He nudges the tip of his cock up to your entrance, circling your aching nerves. He collects all the slick dripping from you, groaning as he watches.

Your thighs jolt, a sigh falling from your lips. But it’s not enough. Your chest rises with every batted breath, eyes looking down to watch him.

“Where are your condoms, pretty girl?” He asks, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds.

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “W-well, I’m clean..”

Mark stops. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut. A brow raises as he looks down at you, eyes darkening. “Are you asking for something, angel?”

Your cheeks flush a dark pink, mouth openings and closing like somewhat of an idiot. “I mean, I’m just saying that if you wanted to.. I’m clean, I got tested last month–”

He leans over you, pressing a finger to your lips. His voice is low and firm, cutting through any sort of fluff. “Do you want me to fuck this perfect pussy without protection? Use that voice.”

“Yes.” You say shyly, face flushed from need and embarrassment. “I want it raw.”

Mark’s head tilts up, like he’s looking up through your ceiling and into the Heavens. He’s thanking God. He’s thanking every god he could think of. Hell, if she were alive, he’d thank the fucking queen.

An animalistic groan rumbles through his chest. His eyes fall back to you, nodding a little more quickly than he’d like to admit. “We can do that. Christ, you’re lettin’ me ruin you.”

His thumb continues with circling your clit, roughly. Slick sounds of his digit swirling through your wetness fills the room. When his head finally connects back to his body, his eyes narrow down to you. “You make a habit of this, angel? Lettin’ boys fuck you raw?”

Your head shakes, hips bucking up to chase the delicious pressure. “No!” You gasp out. “Just.. fuck, Mark, just want you to.”

Mark’s lips curl into a grin. One so devilish it makes your stomach twist itself into knots. Makes heat erupt between your thighs. He looms over you– shoulders broad and eyes boring straight through your fucking soul.

“Yeah.” He mutters, hand returning to your thigh, ignoring the whimper falling past your lips.. “That’s what I thought. Bet you didn’t let any of those boys between these legs, huh? Too fuckin’ stupid to know what to do with a sweet girl like you.”

His tone had shifted. It’s even more filthy than before. Mocking now. A dire wrapped snarl dragging from somewhere deep in his chest. “Bet they don’t even know how to touch you right. Kiss you all sweet, hump your leg like a dog, then blow their load before they even find your clit. That right baby?”

His grip on your thigh tightens. Your cheeks flush with fire. You squirm, shame licking at your nerves. His words shouldn’t turn you on– but fuck if they don’t. You’d truly never been so turned on in your life. HIs mouth drips with venom, and you’d gladly drink every drop.

You try to look away, the feeling just a bit too much as so much of you is exposed– but his free hand fists your jaw, fingers tipping your chin back towards him.

“Nuh-uh. Look at me when I’m takin’ to you.”

And of course, your eyes flutter up to look at him.

“S’that what happens, angel?” He murmurs, face inches away from yours, hard cock still pressed against your slit. “You get all dressed up, let some fuck stick take you home, and he doesn’t even touch you?”

Your voice is small, feeling like you’re breathing through water. “Yeah.”

He chuckles– the sound low and cruel. “Poor baby.” He coos, but his voice is all too mocking. “Left all needy, soaked, untouched. Don’t even get to cum, do you?”

When you shake your head, he grins like the Devil himself. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll fix that. I’ll make it up for you, baby.”

Then without a warning, he slides himself into you.

The stretch rips the air from your lungs. Thick and unrelenting, his cock pushes in slow, dragging against your walls with sinful precision. The burn is brutal– just a fraction of a bit too much– and your back arches right off the bed.

Your nails dig into the skin of his back, raking them down his shoulders. Your body trembles as he nudges himself deeper, only waiting a moment between every inch that disappears into your cunt.

“Fuuuuuck” He hisses, his forehead dropping to yours. He stills, letting you adjust to him. “S’fuckin’ tight, angel. Goddamn.”

You gasp out, clutching at anywhere you can touch, legs trembling around his waist. “Fuck– Mark, y’so big, mhmph–”

“Yeah?” He grits out. “This what you need? A cock that’ll break you open?”

You nod, breathless, and already a little fucked out. He starts to move. Slow at first. Measured. But the second he sees your lips parting, eyes rolling back, and feeling your thighs start to shake? He loses whatever shred of control he’d been holding onto.

He snaps his hips forward, grinning when you cry out.

“F-fuck!” You’re gasping now, back arched, hair sticking to the dribble of spit to your chin and cheeks. “Oh my– yes, god.”

“That’s it, angel.” He pants, hands prying your thighs open. “Take it. Be a good fuckin’ girl and take it.”

His pace grows relentless. His hips slam into yours like aman possessed. Your slick coats the inside of your thighs, dripping down and making a mess of the sheets below. Obscene sounds ricochet off the walls each time he drives into you.

His hand migrates from your thigh to thumb your clit, circling and teasing that bundle of nerves until you’re trembling underneath him. He rubs over your clit like he’s done it a million times– knows exactly what to do to have your mind feeling dizzy.

“You feel that?” He pants. “Feel how deep I am?”

You nod, voice caught somewhere deep in your throat.

He sneers, pace staying unrelenting. “Words, angel. Use that pretty voice. I know you can.”

“Y-yes, fuck.. Mark, m’feel it.”

He grins, cock twitching inside you. “That’s right.” He grunts, the sound of skin slapping against skin growing louder. “Yeah you fuckin’ do.”

He leans down, voice barely a whisper against your skin. “Ever take cock so deep before? Hm?”

You whimper, hips twitching, shaking your head. “Never.. No one’s ever– Nnngh, Mark.”

“I know.” He grits, focusing on hitting that perfect spot over and over. “I know, baby.”

He kisses you then. It’s brutal. Teeth and tongue and the heat between you bursting up into flames. He fucks you harder– deeper, driving into you with the precision of a marksmen. His chest is pressed against yours, glistening with sweat and rumbling from every groan and grunt spilling from his lips.

Your orgasm builds, fast and hot and all-consuming. Your walls clench around his cock and you swear you see his eyes actually light up.

“Come on.” He mumbles, fucking you straight over the edge. “Cum on my cock, angel. Need it, baby.”

You fall apart with a scream, nobody locking up and spasming as white hot ecstasy pummels through your veins. Your walls squeeze around him– so tight it makes a guttural moan rip from his chest.

His pace stutters and he pulls out. He wraps a hand around the base of his cock, jerking himself off and coming with a broken groan. Spurts of cum land on your stomach, the heat seeping into your skin.

There's silence for a moment. Just the sound of your ragged breathing. His sweat-slick chest glistening as he looks down at you like he’d just witnessed an angel getting its wings. It feels like years before your pulse returns to normal.

Mark leans over to press a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. Then your shoulder. Then your sternum. His lips are soft, almost erasing the roughness he’d just been inflicting upon you. And when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. Quiet.

“Told you I’d ruin you.”

You giggle, feeling all too dazed and fucked out. “Yeah.” You murmur softly. “You did.”

“Let’s run you a bath, pretty girl.” He whispers against your skin, hand coming up to rest on your arm. His thumb rubs gentle circles against your skin.

“Okay.”

este yaps some more: hi, honey! you can find my other works here. my requests are currently open. and if you’d like, join the taglist!

taglist: @poisonivy2267 , @ladykitana90 , @lyarr24 , @kimxwinchester , @castielsonlyangel , @podiumackles , @deansbbyx

divider credits to the lovely @anitalenia

[asmodaya]

Husband Choi Moo-jin - Headcanons

Choi Moo-jin x Fem!reader

Warnings: SFW+ NSFW (everything and anything - don’t read if you’re under 18)

A/N: I got really happy seeing you guys say I write him well and actually get his character, it seriously made my whole day and gave me the push I needed to finish these headcanons I’d been working on. It’s a mix of soft moments and… yeah, the filthy stuff too. Just little scenarios I’ve imagined him in that I might turn into full fics later. Hope you enjoy them! Let me know if you did, and please send requests! I’m in the mood to write more of him right now. (not proofread, finished this at 3AM and english is not my first language so pls be kind!)

SFW

Husband Moo-jin who casually drapes his jacket over your shoulders when you’re cold, acting like it’s no big deal, but shoots a glare at anyone else who notices.

Husband Moo-jin who refuses to eat breakfast unless you’re sitting at the table with him, even if you’re half-asleep and grumpy about being awake that early.

Husband Moo-jin who listens silently while you rant about something trivial, and though he doesn’t say much, the next day he’s fixed the problem without you even asking.

Husband Moo-jin who never raises his voice at you, even when he’s furious at everyone else in the room, his tone softens when his eyes meet yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Husband Moo-jin who is feared by everyone in the room during meetings, but the second you walk in, he pulls out a chair for you like a gentleman and anyone who notices the shift in his demeanor knows better than to mention it.

Husband Moo-jin who lets you fuss at him for coming home with split knuckles, sitting still while you clean and bandage them. He never admits it, but he likes when you scold him because it reminds him there’s someone who cares enough to be angry.

Husband Moo-jin who rarely texts, but when you check your phone in the middle of the day, there’s always one unread message: a picture of something mundane like the skyline from his office, a plate of food he didn’t finish, captioned only with "You’d like this"

Husband Moo-jin who finds out you’re pregnant and stands frozen for a beat, eyes wide, then suddenly his whole face lights up with a joy you’ve never seen before. “I’m gonna be a father,” he says, almost like he can’t quite believe it himself. Then, without warning, he pulls you into a hug, like he’s holding onto the best thing in the world, his hands trembling slightly as he presses close, whispering promises you know he means to build a family and protect it with everything he has.

Husband Moo-jin who hates crowds and noise, but will stand behind you at the market, hands in his pockets, glaring at anyone who gets too close, following silently as you shop, pushing the cart like a bodyguard rather than a husband.

Husband Moo-jin who only ever calls you by pet names: sweetheart, honey, baby. He says them so often that hearing your real name on his lips feels strange, almost jarring. The rare times he does use it, his voice drops low, calm in a way that makes your stomach twist, because you know it means something’s wrong.

Husband Moo-jin who grows quietly excited about holidays over the years, not for himself, but because seeing you light up makes him want to share it. He’ll even hang stockings, muttering about “not overdoing it” as he secretly enjoys every second.

Husband Moo-jin who sits silently on the bathroom counter while you do your skincare or makeup at night, not saying a word, just watching you in the mirror.

Husband Moo-jin who doesn’t like taking photos, but always angles his phone toward you when you’re not looking, half his gallery is candid shots of you smiling, cooking, even sleeping.

Husband Moo-jin who can’t sleep when you’re not next to him. On nights you fall asleep on the couch, he scoops you up without waking you, carrying you to bed with surprising gentleness for a man whose hands have broken bones.

Husband Moo-jin who doesn’t do PDA, but at parties or meetings, always rests a possessive hand on the small of your back, subtle but firm, a quiet warning to anyone looking too long.

Husband Moo-jin who doesn’t know how to cook anything fancy but insists on making you ramyeon after long nights, leaning on the counter in sweatpants and watching you eat like seeing you happy is more satisfying than the meal itself.

Husband Moo-jin who always drives, no questions asked. You’ve never touched the steering wheel since you married him.

Husband Moo-jin who won’t say “I miss you,” but shows up at your work unannounced, leaning against his car until you come outside, cigarette between his fingers, eyes soft in a way they never are with anyone else.

Husband Moo-jin who lets you win arguments most of the time, but when he finally calls you by your real name mid-argument, you know he’s dead serious.

Husband Moo-jin who falls asleep on the couch watching TV with you, arm draped over your stomach, the rare deep lines of stress on his face finally gone. You never wake him, you like seeing him this unguarded.

Husband Moo-jin who doesn’t take you out on dates often, but when he does, it’s always to places where no one will bother you like quiet restaurants, secluded rooftops, empty parks late at night, where he can hold your hand without anyone watching.

Husband Moo-jin who keeps one photo of you in his wallet, just one, folded and worn at the edges.

Husband Moo-jin who notices when your eyes linger on something, a necklace in a shop window, a dress on a mannequin, a plant at the market and says nothing. But the next morning, it’s there waiting for you, unwrapped, no note attached. Just there. Like magic.

Husband Moo-jin who never laughs in front of anyone, except you. And when he does, it’s unguarded and quiet, almost like it surprises even him.

Husband Moo-jin who’s terrifying to everyone else, but when you’re upset, crouches down to your level, voice soft, almost begging: “Look at me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Husband Moo-jin who remembers every anniversary and date like the first time you met, the day you moved in together, the exact second he realized he loved you. He never brags about it, just quietly plans something small but meaningful every year.

NSFW

Husband Moo-jin who sits you on his lap during business calls, his cock buried deep inside you, one arm caging you to his chest while the other holds his phone to his ear. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let you move, “Quiet, sweetheart". Every time you clench around him, his hand squeezes your thigh hard enough to bruise.

Husband Moo-jin who wakes you in the middle of the night with his hand between your thighs, voice low and raspy in your ear “Can’t sleep. Need you”. He doesn’t bother taking your panties off just pulls them aside and fucks you slow, half-asleep kisses pressed to your shoulder as if he’s too tired to exist anywhere but inside you.

Husband Moo-jin who loves marking you up: teeth, fingers, bruises and gets pissed when they fade.

Husband Moo-jin who fucks you in front of the mirror after you try on the dress he bought one hand on your throat, the other on your stomach, making you watch every thrust. “Look how perfect you are”

Husband Moo-jin who fingers you under the dinner table at a restaurant, face completely blank to anyone watching but his thumb presses just right against your clit every time you answer the waiter, voice trembling as you pretend nothing’s happening.

Husband Moo-jin who comes home bloodied and furious, wordless as he strips you bare and fucks you on the nearest surface, rough, needy, almost desperate.

Husband Moo-jin who takes you from behind in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, one hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip so tight it’ll ache tomorrow. He murmurs, “Let them see,” against your ear, voice full of dark pride.

Husband Moo-jin who growls in your ear when you tease him in public, dragging you into the nearest empty hallway, hiking your skirt up, and fucking you hard enough to leave your legs trembling.

Husband Moo-jin who loves when you ride him slow, his hands gripping your hips, lazy thrusts meeting yours because he gets to watch you lose yourself on top of him, his normally sharp eyes gone dark and soft as he breathes out, “That’s it, baby. Take what you need.”

Husband Moo-jin who fucks you rough after a fight, slamming you against the bedroom wall before you can finish yelling, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other gripping your jaw as he growls, “You done? Or do I need to fuck it out of you?”

Husband Moo-jin who fucks you in the shower after a particularly bad day, pressing you against the tile, steam curling around his shoulders, his voice quiet as he mutters, “Let me take it out on you, baby.”

Husband Moo-jin who can’t resist fucking you slow after you tell him you want kids, whispering filthy promises in your ear about filling you up, breeding you, giving you everything you’ve ever asked for. He presses a kiss to your stomach after, as if the idea alone makes him weak.

Husband Moo-jin who texts you a picture of his hand wrapped tightly around his cock, with the caption: “Counting down the minutes till I’m inside you.”

Husband Moo-jin who catches you stretching and pulls you against him from behind, hands sliding under your shirt “You’re not going anywhere.”

Husband Moo-jin who takes you from behind in front of the mirror after a night out, one hand buried in your hair, the other gripping your throat as he forces you to watch your reflection. “Look at yourself,” he growls, thrusts sharp and deep. “Look at how good you take me.”

Husband Moo-jin who sneaks dirty texts between meetings: “Been thinking about bending you over the kitchen counter since this morning.”

[kkbeauty86]

Hey guys so I’m new to writing fanfics but I just love Sinners and Smoke and Annie so much. I wanted to write about their love. This an AU 2025. I am going to split this up into like 3 different parts. The song by Leon Thomas “Yes It Is” inspired me to write this. Let me know if you guys like it.

Part 1

⸻

“Just Say yes”

Smoke stopped mid-stride, deep in the middle of purchasing another property with his brother. He pulled out his phone and scrolled straight to Annie’s name. He had to act fast—build the courage and just ask her before the moment passed him by. Just as his fingers hovered over the screen, a voice cut through his focus.

“Aye Smoke, you here?! What you doin’? We almost done.”

Smoke looked up, instantly irritated that his brother had thwarted his plan. He sucked his teeth and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Man, damn. I can’t check my phone?” he snapped.

Stack raised an eyebrow. “Nah man, we gotta finish this. Then you can go on ’bout your business. I doubt it was that important anyway.”

⸻

Annie sat at her desk typing a routine email when Dominique wheeled her chair over, bumping into her cubicle.

“What you doing this weekend? I just know you got plans. You stay in these streets, Annie!”

Annie threw her head back and laughed. “Now Domino, don’t make it sound like I’m for the streets. I just know how to enjoy my life—something I try hard to live by.”

Dominique rolled her eyes. “Oh I know you ain’t FOR the streets. Smoke would NEVER have that,” she teased, cackling.

Annie turned toward her. “What you mean? Smoke doesn’t mind me living life how I want.”

Dominique scoffed. “Here you go, Annie. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant Smoke adores you. If he could spend every moment with you, he would.”

Annie’s face softened, a twinge of guilt touching her expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get defensive. You know how I am about my freedom.”

“I know,” Dominique said, shrugging it off. “But anyway—you still didn’t answer my question. If you’re not tied down, let’s hit a speakeasy this weekend. I’ve been working on some poetry and need inspiration.”

“That actually sounds like fun. I’ll get back to you.”

⸻

Smoke finally got to his car and didn’t even put the key in the ignition. Instead, he grabbed his phone, heart racing. He had to get to her before someone else beat him to her time.

He knew Annie—knew how she worked hard, but lived even harder. The next trip, next concert, next football game—she stayed on the move. She was wild and free and damn, he loved that most about her. That she lived life on her terms and she never let anyone take that from her. She never compromised, never dimmed her light for anyone. She was strong, inquisitive, radiant. Just… Annie. His Annie.

He opened her thread and typed:

How’s work today??? You stressing yet???

————

Annie was still mid-conversation with Dominique. “You know, I think I will—”

Her phone buzzed. She paused. A smile spread across her face when she saw his name.

Dominique narrowed her eyes. “I know who that issss!”

“Here you go,” Annie laughed, giggling as she opened the message and replied:

The usual. But thank God it’s almost Friday—no complaints. You finish the deal?

She was surprised to hear from him this early, knowing how busy he stayed. But that was something she loved about Smoke—Loved that he was his own man, loved that he had his hands in multiple endeavors, but he always made time for her, even if his hard-headed ass brother didn’t approve, Smoke made sure she came first and CAME first. Annie shudders at the thought. Thinking about the way he made her feel. Made her feel like it was her world and he was just happy to be apart of it. Had her smiling like the damn Cheshire Cat.

⸻

Smoke read the reply and grinned. Happy that she was in a good mood. He knew it would make easier for her to say yes to what he wanted. He replies back.

That’s good, baby. Glad no one’s tap dancing on them nerves today. And yeah, finished the deal—can’t wait to see the finished product. Got a question for you tho…

Annie inhaled sharply. That was… different. Smoke never asked permission to ask a question. He just asked. She started to worry. Was something wrong? Anxiety started to creep in. Annie’s mental Rolodex starting rolling. Smoke had his jealous ways. Always on her social media, watching her stories and looking through her comments. Looking to see if a man shows up

More than once. Smoke wasn’t insecure but he didn’t tolerate disrespect. Didn’t like the comments men left when they knew she had a man. Smoke was posted all up and down her page, not hidden at all. So anything other than an emoji or Gif Smoke saw as disrespectful and he had no issue conveying those feelings to Annie. She thought back to the last thing she posted on social media. Was this about that bikini pic she posted? The one from Thailand? All she had put as the caption is “So ready to run this back”. Of course there were a lot of reactions and comments. Annie never went through them though, never entertained them. She didn’t feel the need to. She knew where her heart was. Anytime Smoke pointed it out she immediately blocked the guy because she knew her man. Knew him like she knew the words to her favorite song. She knew and understood he didn’t tolerate disrespect. She always saw it from Smokes point of view. She put herself in his shoes and thought about how it would feel if women did those things in his comments. Which she is sure they did. She never subjected herself to look though . She knew women were thirsty. Her man was fine and she understood that was what came with the territory.

She sighed and typed:

That’s good, baby. I’m excited for you. Can’t wait to be at the ribbon cutting, right next to you. And yes, you can ask me anything.

⸻

Smoke’s thumb hovered over the send button. His heart raced.

Thank you, love. You know I gotta have you next to me—especially during my best moments. Speaking of needing you next to me… Spend the weekend with me. I want to take you out of town. We can leave tomorrow morning. I know you have work, but take off—I’ll pay you double. I just need this time with you.

He chuckled, nervous as hell. He hated asking, hated the idea of anyone else getting her time. But he loved her. And she was always in demand. Her smile, her energy—people craved it. Just like he did. The way she would hype you up if you were down. The way she quotes movies and songs. Smoke chuckled just thinking about it. No matter how selfish Smoke wanted to be he understood people needed her light and good energy. Her Aura drew people in, it was what drew him to her in the first place. He was also nervous because he knew Annie worked hard, never skipping a day of work. She prided herself on being hardworking and dependable. As a black woman she had to work twice as hard. Being born with two strikes against her made her want to give more and prove herself. Smoke thought about this “Ask” and knew it was a shot in the dark but it was one he had to take. He had to have her beside him and in all ways. Anyway that he could have her he wanted her.

⸻

Annie laughed when she read the message, relief flooding her. She thought he was about to accuse her of something.

She paused. She didn’t want to answer too quickly—wanted him to squirm a little. Her mama always said, “Make a man chase you. Find one who loves you more than you love him—that’s how it lasts.”

She snickered, started typing, stopped, then started again.

⸻

Smoke stared at his screen, eyes locked on the blinking dots. She was typing. Then not. Then again. His heart racing he smiled a half smile. He didn’t wanna double text and didn’t wanna seem to desperate. Fuck it this was Annie, he WAS DESPERATE. Just as he started to type, her message appeared.

Awww baby, that’s sweet. But I don’t know… missing work? That’s kinda big for me. You know how I am. And Dominique wants me to hit a speakeasy with her this weekend. I haven’t told her yes yet though.

“Damn it,” Smoke muttered, heart sinking.

He tried to prepare for this but still, it stung. He had to come stronger.

Damn baby, I get it—but you never call off. I didn’t see you last weekend. I miss that pretty smile. I promise to make it worth your while and to have you smiling all weekend . I need your energy. Please, baby… I need you like I need the air I breathe. Pleeease say yes.

He didn’t even bring up Dominique. He loved Dominique and loved their friendship even more. He hated stepping on her toes but Annie was his though so Dominique would just have to understand.

⸻

Annie’s face softened. Her heart warmed. She loved the way he talked to her—loved making him squirm just a little. She couldn’t lie she was excited. Annie knew love was a verb and Smoke showed his love for her in the best ways. Loved that he planned a trip even without knowing if she would say yes. Dominique rolled back over to her cubicle.

“What you smiling at?”

“If you must know nosey…” Annie grinned and then wrinkled her face . “Smoke wants me to call off work and go away with him this weekend.”

“YOU?! Call off?! Never seen it.”

“I know, but he really wants me to.”

Dominique nodded. “You should go. Stop being loyal to a job that would replace you if you died tomorrow.”

Annie’s jaw dropped. “Wow. I never thought about it like that.”

“Exactly. Give that man what he wants. That’s a good man, Savannah!”

“Shut up, Domino!” Annie says cackling “You’re insane.”

“I’m insane for love. Black love, at that.”

“You’re not mad I’m skipping the speakeasy?”

“Girl, hell no. If it was me, I’d leave in a New York minute.”

Annie giggled that was what she loved most about her best friend-her honesty.

Annie began typing.

⸻

Smoke sat on edge, thumb hovering over his screen, ready to text again. But the dots appeared. He exhaled in relief.

Lol damn baby, you really missing me huh? 😂 Well… I guess I can call off this one time. I really miss you too. You can have my hours, my days, my whole weekend—and maybe my body too. ☺️

She chuckled, knowing that would get to him. She could already see him shifting in his seat.

⸻

Smoke read the message and grinned like he hit the lottery. That last part? Damn, she knew how to drive him wild.

He closed his eyes and imagined her body in all its glory beneath him—his Goddess, his sun, moon, and stars. He perks up, excited for what’s to come.

Yessss baby! Thank you for saying yes. You don’t know the feeling you just gave me. I could run for miles right now. 😂 I’ll pick you up at 10 AM sharp. Be ready—I need all that time with you. 😉

⸻

Annie floated. She loved making him happy. Smoke was a good man. And this? This was a healthy love—one where they were full as individuals and even better together.

She responded:

Great, my love. So glad I can make you happy. Don’t worry—I’ll be ready. See you tomorrow at 10 AM 💕🥰

⸻

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Ransom Chapter 6

The "Ransom" oneshot turned into a series. Hope you like it!

Warnings: over-possessiveness, controlling behavior, eventual smut, language

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Over the next few months Bucky had to split his time between being back home handling business and Romania.  He kept the security detail for Y/N and her family that was to keep a very low profile so as not to alert Lorelai or Wanda that they were being monitored, as well as connections with everyone related to Lorelai’s care, giving him updates about treatments and how much longer she had left.  Y/N kept as positive an attitude about it as possible, not wanting to dwell on the impending doom of Lorelai’s diagnosis.  They started to lay off of treatments after the six month mark, letting Lorelai live the rest of her time comfortably.

Although Wanda was not his biggest fan, she was cordial whenever he visited.  He became close with Lorelai, and grew fond of their one-on-one chats that she insisted on having with him.  “You’ve been so good to my dear girl,” she said on his most recent visit.  She held his hand gently as they sat on the terrace of the apartment, watching the sun set.

“She is one of the greatest things to happen to me,” he said, his thumb rubbing along her finger.  

She hummed in acknowledgement.  “You know, I don’t have much longer.”  Bucky sighed and looked at her sadly.  Lorelai smiled at him kindly.  “It’s alright, honey, I’ve made my peace with it,” she said, her other hand settling on top of their intertwined hands.  “But she will struggle with it.  I know she’s putting on a brave face right now, but when I’m gone she will need help to get through it.  She will need you.”  Bucky swallowed back the lump in his throat and looked down at their hands.

“I love her,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand gently as he met her gaze again.  “I want you to know that.  And I’ll do whatever it takes to take care of her and give her the life she deserves.”

Lorelai’s eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled.  “We’ve had hard lives,” she whispered.  “It’s high time she gets to just rest and be loved.”  She pulled his hand up and kissed the back of it before setting it back down but keeping them together as she looked out at the sunset again.  “Thank you,” she breathed.

***

Bucky was overseeing a major shipment back in the States when he got the call.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and smiled at seeing Y/N’s name and answered it.  “Hey spitfire–”

“Buck,” she cried.

He frowned and stiffened, and all the noise in the room around him stopped at his sudden change in demeanor.  “What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, turning away from his people watching him.

“She’s gone,” Y/N sobbed, her voice sounding broken and exhausted.  “Mom is gone.”

Bucky shut his eyes and hung his head, his heart breaking as he sighed.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered as she cried.  “I’m coming, okay?  I’ll be there as soon as I can.��

She sniffed and let out a shaky sigh.  “Please…”

He said a quick goodbye and turned back to the room.  “Sam, you’re in charge,” he said, his tone of voice leaving no room for argument.  “I’m going to Romania.”

A little over ten hours later Bucky rushed into her apartment building.  His men were already there in her apartment, waiting for him to get to her door and filling him in on who had come and gone since Loreali passed.  He dismissed them all and shut the door behind them soundly before walking to her room.  The door was shut and locked, from what security told him, and he softly knocked on the door.

“Y/N?  It’s me,” he called out just loud enough for her to hear.  

There was a clattering noise, then loud footsteps before she wrenched the door open.  She looked like a mess, her face tear stained, her eyes red and puffy, her hair a tangled mess and her clothes in disarray.  She sputtered a choked sob and flung herself into his arms.  “Bucky,” she cried as he caught her and held her firmly, walking back into her room.  “She’s gone.  My mom is dead.”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said, his hands rubbing her back as he laid her back on her bed and laid himself next to her, keeping her close as he tried to tuck her into bed to rest.  “I’m so sorry.  She was…she was amazing,” he said, his own emotions getting the better of him.  She cried harder, clinging to him like a lifeline.  He let her cry for a long time.  He knew she would need to just get it all out, fully grieve the loss.  After what felt like an hour of gentle praises and reassurances whispered in her ear and her desperately holding him she relaxed a little bit, her breathing evening out and her hold on him loosening.

“You lost your parents,” she said quietly, sniffling and wiping her face as she looked up at him.  He nodded solemnly.  “How did you get past it?” she whispered.  “How do you…just live, knowing they’re gone?”

Bucky sighed and looked up at the ceiling.  “I never knew my mom,” he explained.  “Not really.  She didn’t raise me, the maids, tutors and handlers did.”  Y/N’s hand on his chest rubbed him comfortingly.  He smiled at her before continuing.  “She was the quintessential mob wife.  Always on my dad’s arm as his pretty thing to show off, then he’d hide her away and keep her happy with gifts and luxury.  Once she gave him a son he didn’t care much about her afterwards.  When she died it was sad but I didn’t have a personal connection with her.  My dad was…”  He drifted off, his chest feeling tight.  “It was complicated.  I loved him, and he loved me.  But he wasn’t nice to my sisters.  I was close with them and they hated him, and hated how he doted on me because I was the son.  I would take over the family business, not them.”  He sighed again.  “Which is a shame because Rebecca is the most ruthless woman I’ve ever met.”

Y/N let out a small laugh, and he looked at her.  She was watching him with subdued interest, her eyes still wet and puffy but more relaxed now.  “Where is she now?” she asked quietly.

Bucky smirked.  “Married off to one of my father’s rivals as a peace treaty.  Her husband is the face of that family, but she’s the real boss behind it all.  We meet up as often as we can, both for business and otherwise.  She’s awesome.”

Y/N smiled.  “She sounds awesome,” she agreed.  “It’s nice to hear you talk about your family.”

He huffed a laugh.  “It’s all a big, dysfunctional mess.  And even though I was sad when my dad died, I knew about all his flaws, so it humanized him for me.  I grieved, but got over it quickly since I had to take care of everyone and everything afterwards.”  She nodded, her fingers tracing over the buttons on his shirt.  He gripped her hand and brought it up to his face, kissing her fingers and her palm.  “So even though I lost my parents, I never had the same relationship with them that you had with your mom.  Lorelai was personable, empathetic, kind, quietly strong and trusting to a fault.  And she did her best in raising…what did she say?  An independent and headstrong girl.”  Y/N’s tears welled up again as she listened to him, and he felt his own tears starting to build as he swallowed back the lump in his throat again.  “Just in the way she loved me over the past few months, I got a glimpse of what a real mother was supposed to be like.  I will always be grateful to her for that.  And she raised this clever, kind, funny, spunky, self-assured, beautiful and intelligent woman I get to call mine.”  Y/N sniffled again, and he pressed his forehead against her forehead, letting the first few tears fall as he met her gaze.  “I’ll miss her, too.”

She watched his tears fall, her hands moving up to wipe them away.  “I never thought I’d see you cry,” she smirked sadly.

Bucky smiled softly back at her.  “It doesn’t happen often.  Gotta keep up my big, bad boss image.”

Y/N giggled and nuzzled his nose.  “So big and bad,” she teased.  She snuggled close to him, keeping her face close to his face.  “Wanda left,” she said, her tone shifting back to sadness.  “She said she couldn’t stay when I’d made deals with the devil.”

Bucky sighed angrily, frowning as he squeezed her tighter.  “I knew she would,” he said quietly.  “She told me during that first lunch we had all together that she knew who I was.”  Y/N frowned as well as her eyes flicked back and forth between his eyes.  “I made arrangements for her to leave when the time came.  She’ll be taken care of financially as long as she keeps quiet.”  She closed her eyes and shook her head, a few more tears trickling down.  “Is that okay?” he asked, unsure of her reaction.

“Yes,” she said, her chin quivering as she took a shuddering breath.  “I’m just…sad.  And alone.  I don’t have a family anymore.”

Bucky hummed in a disagreeing tone.  “You’re not alone.  You still have Walker, although he drives me insane.”  That pulled a scoff from her.  “And you have me.  I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N silently cried, the tears continuously flowing but she was no longer fully sobbing like before, her breathing evening out as she let herself relax against him.  Bucky softly scratched up and down her back with his metal hand while his flesh arm was wound around her and holding her close.  He kept kissing away her tears, murmuring soft praises and reassurances to her.  She suddenly sat up and moved off the bed.  He watched her curiously as she walked around the room and started cleaning up the mess she had made in her grief.  He sat up as she finished and then met his gaze.  “Is everyone gone?” she asked.  He nodded.  She nodded back.  “Wanna take a shower with me?”

Bucky slowly smiled.  “Always,” he replied.

She silently turned and walked to the adjoining bathroom.  He quickly followed, unsure of what it was she was wanting but willing to help however he could.  Y/N stripped herself then turned on the water, then turned to him and started pulling his clothes off.  He let her, helping kick off his pants and underwear.  She took his hand and pulled him into the shower with her as she stepped in.  For a moment she faced away from him and let the water run over her face and hair, then turned to face him as she wiped the water off.  She opened her arms and he stepped into her embrace, holding her body flush against him.  

They just stood there like that for a long time, letting the water spray her back and his arms, with his cheek leaning on the top of her head and her cheek against his sternum.  He tried not to let himself get excited, but his cock wouldn’t listen to reason and slowly hardened, nestled between his legs and the pit of her stomach.  She ignored it at first, but when it pulsed she giggled.

“I’m sorry, spitfire, just ignore it,” Bucky chuckled, kissing her hair.  

“Just couldn’t help yourself,” she mumbled into his skin.

“Hey, it’s not my fault,” he teased.  “I’m naked and holding a naked, pretty lady.  What do you want from me?”

Y/N snorted and turned her face to look up at him.  The red puffiness around her eyes was lessening, and under the sadness there was still that sly quip awaiting.  “I’m fully blaming you,” she joked.  “You savage of a man.”

Bucky laughed and rolled his eyes, and she lightly giggled with him.  His hands slid up her back to hold her face, and he leaned down and kissed her.  “Fine.  You’re right.  I’m a savage…for you,” he said lowly, nipping at her bottom lip and then licking the sting of his bite.   She chased his lips, but he pulled away and slightly frowned.  “Baby, we don’t have to do anything tonight,” he said.  “I’m not trying to start anything, I promise–”

“I know,” Y/N nodded, her hands moving to grip his hips.  “I know now is probably not the best time, or the right time.  That I’m grieving.  But I just…I just want to focus on something other than that for a moment.  Please?”

Bucky’s frown deepened and morphed into a lustful frown.  “I understand,” he nodded, kissing her again.  “You don’t ever have to beg or ask for that.  I’m here for whatever you need, Y/N.”

Y/N stared at him, more tears brimming in her eyes but her lips quirking up in a small smile.  “Thank you,” she breathed.  She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him, and he kissed her back gently at first.  He didn’t want to push or make the first moves.  He wanted her to take it at her pace.  She broke the kiss and then dragged her lips down his chin, his neck, his chest, and her hands pushed him back by the hips until he sat on the bench built into the shower wall.  He let her guide him, but as she got on her knees and her hand started stroking his cock he tensed up.

“Y/N, no, you don’t have to–”

“I want to,” she said, glancing up at him.

They had slept together a few times at that point, but she hadn’t given him head yet.  A part of him wanted it, of course, but considering the way their relationship started, he didn’t think it was appropriate to ask for it, especially in this position where she was on her knees in front of him.  “I don’t want you to feel like–”

“Buck, I know how you think this looks,” she said, still slowly stroking him.  “And I appreciate you wanting to help me feel like we’re on an equal footing.  But if anything, me being here, holding the most sensitive part of you…”  Her hand tightened around his cock and sped up for a moment, making his eyelids flutter and his head fall back as his hips trembled.  “This is the most powerful position I can hold,” she said, lowering her head and licking along his shaft slowly.  He watched her with his mouth agape, breaths shallow and fast at finally getting to feel her tongue on him.  She was right.  He was incapacitated like this, the firm strokes and soft kiss to the tip of his cock nearly sending him into oblivion already.  “You’re at my mercy, Boss.  Right where I want you.”

Then she took him fully in her mouth.  He let out a guttural sound, his hands flying to her hair to pull it away so he could see how well she swallowed him whole.  Her free hand moved to his balls, gently rolling and massaging them in her palm as she sucked his cock, bobbing her head up and down with her tongue swirling around the tip every time she was at the top again.  She let out her own little whimpers and moans as she sucked him, her and stroking what she couldn’t comfortably reach without gagging.  

“Oh my god, baby…fuck…Y/N,” he sputtered, his hands tightening in her hair.  “Holy shit you’re good at this.”

She hummed around him as she sucked on the tip like it was her favorite popsicle, her tongue flicking along the underside of the tip on the prominent vein there that had him shaking trying to hold back his orgasm.  She was right, as usual.  This was the most powerful position.  Reducing a man to a mewling, quivering, emotional mess with just her mouth.  Just like she did all those months ago when they first met, and she had kissed him after pulling off the most daring yet successful kidnapping.  Y/N had always held the cards, and would always win when it came to Bucky.  It was a strange, bittersweet realization for him to come to in the middle of a blowjob, but it was also freeing in a way.  It was a moment for him to let go of control, and surrender fully to her.

His hips jerked as she took him as far back as she could, hitting the back of her throat.  “I’m gonna cum,” he warned, his voice breathy and wrecked.  “Baby, I’m gonna…wait…”

Y/N slowly pulled up off of him, sucking him the whole way up until she let off his tip with a pop.  “Not yet, Boss,” she said, arching an eyebrow at him.  She stood up and stepped between his legs, her hands reaching up to cup his face in her hands.  “You only get to cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” Bucky whimpered, his arms looping around her and holding her close.  He pushed his face in between her breasts, kissing and licking them before sucking on her nipples.  His flesh hand moved between her legs, feeling how wet she was already.  “Did you get this wet from sucking me off?” he moaned against her skin.

“Yes,” she breathed, her head falling back at the way his mouth moved on her.  “I love it.”

“God, you’re perfect,” he mused, smiling as his fingers found her clit and started to rub and flick over it.  She whined, her legs shaking as her hands steadied herself on his shoulders.  

“I can’t wait anymore,” she said, suddenly stepping back and pulling his hands to stand up.  Bucky let her guide him as she turned around and faced the bench, bending over so her ass was on full display towards him and her hands braced on the bench.  She looked back at him and jiggled her ass.  “Fuck me and fill me up, Boss.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.  His hands gripped her hips to hold her steady as his cock pulsed and put him in line with her pussy.  “Yes, Boss,” he smirked.  Before she could answer he thrust all the way inside until his hips met hers, and her head hung low as she let out a guttural sound.  Bucky fucked her slow, needing to feel the way her pussy fully encompassed his cock so perfectly.  The water sprayed his back, wetting his hair as his hands kneaded her hips and her ass.  She let out a steady chorus of groans and whimpers, her hands moving from the bench to the wall, then she lifted her right leg up onto the bench and arched her back.  That made his cock hit a little further inside and she squealed.  “Good girl, ah…shit,” he groaned.  “Take it, baby.  It’s yours.  I’m yours.”  

His metal hand reached around and found her clit, making her legs shake.  “Boss,” she grunted.  “Fuck…Bucky…I’m cumming!”

Bucky fucked her harder, his metal fingers flicking her clit fast as his right hand spanked her ass before he reached around her front and grabbed her right breast, pulling her up so her back was against his front.  He bent his knees so he could angle his cock to thrust more upwards, and her head wrenched back against his shoulder.  He nudged her head to face him better, then gave her an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue invading her mouth.  She stiffened, then shook violently in his arms as she came with a scream into his mouth.  Her pussy squeezed him so tight that he saw stars and came deep inside her, his knees shaking as he pressed her into the wall so he wouldn’t fall and take them both down.  The sound that escaped his mouth and was swallowed by hers was anything but manly, and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  

They stood shaking for a long few minutes, kissing each other sloppily and lazily until he finally pulled away and rested his cheek against her head and caught his breath.  “Goddamn, baby,” he grunted, his voice hoarse with how much noise he’d been making.  “That was so good, thank you.  Fuck.”

Y/N silently laughed, her hands reaching to where his hands were on her body and holding him there for a beat longer.  “Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy as well.  “Thank you for helping me just…feel something good.”

“Anytime,” he chuckled, then pulled them away from the wall.  He carefully made sure her leg got off the bench and she was standing upright before he pulled his cock out of her slowly.  They both made groaning sounds at the loss, then didn’t speak again as they actually took a shower, helping each other get clean before they got out and got ready for bed.  Bucky brought her back to bed and cuddled with her as she started to drift off.  “Rest, spitfire,” he said, kissing different spots on her face.  “We’ll figure out everything else in the morning.”

Her eyes were already closed, her breathing evening out as she hummed and snuggled closer to him.  “Mmkay,” she slurred.  Bucky smiled as he watched her falling asleep.  He leaned down and pecked her lips softly, and when he pulled away she smiled sleepily.  “Love you,” she breathed.

Bucky lightly gasped, staring at her in shock as she slept.  She said it.  She finally said it.  Whether she meant to remained to be seen, but she did, in her most vulnerable state, settled in his arms.  He smiled wide and kissed the spot between her eyebrows.  “I love you,” he whispered.

@thriving-n-jiving @buckysgirl27 @vicmc624 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @angywritesstuff @quickreadz @the-fantasy-loving-angel @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @princesschyanne @ilovetaquitosmmmm @lostinspace33 @levisungjingwoo2099

[reverie-starlight]

gn!reader, no physical descriptions. slight manga spoilers. some kazutora fluff is extremely overdue!! this is so short, but I love him and wanted to get this out of my drafts <3

kazutora doesn't like it when he has to leave for work.

he hates that he has an earlier start than you, hates that he has to leave you in bed, hates the way you pout when he presses a goodbye kiss against your forehead.

but he loves the way you turn around and cling to him as soon as his first alarm goes off. his arm immediately finds its place curled around your torso.

he loves the way you nuzzle against his body, like you’re trying to crawl into his skin and live there forever. he thinks he'd let you if he had ample time to get used to it.

he loves the way you tell him all about how mean it is that he's scheduled so early. every exhale tickles his skin and leaves a patch of goosebumps in its wake.

“take it up with chifuyu,” he says. his voice is kept soft of course, because he would also hate to disrupt you more than he already has.

“I’ll fight him,” you mumble, words slurred and laced with sleep.

he smiles, reaching up to drag a hand down his face in an attempt to wipe away his drowsiness. “yeah? you’re gonna fight him for me?”

“mhm,” you nod against him. “gonna win, too. I can take him.”

he laughs this time, smoothing his hand up and down your back. “thank you, baby.”

kazutora has started setting an earlier alarm to account for your new morning routine. it’s a win-win situation in his eyes because you'll get your fix of affection and he won't run the risk of sitting through a chifuyu lecture for being late again. what's a few extra minutes of sleep when he gets to wake up not knowing where he starts and you end?

you, of course, haven't realized this yet, so kazutora will continue to let you think you're savouring those last few precious moments before he has to leave; that strange pocket of time that feels infinite despite the reality of it... but should you ever find out, he's prepared to lay in bed with you for as long as you'd like as 'retribution'.

he doubts you'd even be that annoyed with him over something so trivial... but he knows you, and he's sure you'll play it up to get some extra cuddles in. he'd try it too if the roles were reversed.

before he can think about it anymore, a notification on his phone lights up the room and the time on his screen lets him know that infinity has finally run out.

he gently rolls you back onto your side of the bed and you whine a bit, but put up no fight this time. when he comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later you're not quite asleep yet, so he crosses the room and presses a kiss to your temple. "have a good day, baby, I love you."

he's not expecting more than a grunt of acknowledgement, so when you string together a little "love you, tora," his heart melts and he has to force himself to walk through the door.

for everyone's sake, he'll have to talk to chifuyu about changing his hours around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 3

i’m burnt out, shit, i need some rest. but how can i escape you if you’re in my head? /// chase atlantic, uncomfortable

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining & reader’s attempted resistance, strong language, suggestive themes, angst, fluff, crackhead behaviour bc beomgyu is here a lot and he’s a cute idiot, alcohol consumption, biased professors

words: 11k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ──── FEBRUARY 11, 2025. 12:45 AM

You and Yeonjun finally wrapped up your review session just before 1 AM. To preserve your sanity, you tried not to dwell on all the hours you’d lost to his complaints and criticism.

“You still live on Vineyard?” he asked, slipping on his jacket. He was, true to his word, about to drive you home.

You glanced up from the table in his kitchen, slightly wary. “I do. How—”

“I’ve picked up Soobin from your place at least five times now,” he said. His GPS already had 124 Vineyard Lane starred as a favourite.

That explained it.

You’d tried to be out whenever Reina had dates with Soobin at your flat, and now you knew that’d been the right decision.

“Right,” you said. “Well, you don’t need to drive me the whole way anyway. Just drop me off at—”

“It’s 1 AM,” he interrupted. “I’m taking you to your door, not to a corner across the street.”

You scoffed, bending to lace your boots. “Why? Scared I’ll sneak back here?”

“Yes,” he said, deadpan. “Terrified you’ll return to a house that I own and have two spare bedrooms in.”

You paused, more distracted by his casual mention of owning the house than the idea of staying in one of his spare bedrooms.

“How come you live in a house this big,” you asked, accepting your coat from him as you stood, “but haven’t started a frat?”

“Bin and I don’t like people we don’t know,” he replied with practised ease, like he’d considered this before. “We pay the bills ourselves, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You paused on the porch while he locked up, a cold breeze slithering through the trees around his house.

“Not worried,” you said. “Just curious.”

He glanced back. “About the size of my house?”

“Mhmm.” You pulled gloves from your pockets. “In a house this big, you could afford bigger wardrobes.”

Yeonjun laughed—caught off guard by the mention—and the sound skittered like static across your nerves. You turned without a word and climbed down the porch steps.

“No, no,” he said, unlocking his Mercedes with a satisfying beep. “I think the wardrobes are exactly the right size.”

You ignored him, which he expected, then paused at the car. He stopped, too, waiting to see if you’d actually get in or bolt into the woods at the last minute instead.

You got in.

He held the door while you settled, then circled the car to the driver’s side. As you waited, you spotted his blue Nissan parked in the garage—a separate car just for racing—and tried not to scowl at his noisy wealth.

“Shouldn’t take long,” Yeonjun said, climbing in and fastening his seatbelt. “Usually I’m there in about half an hour.”

“You don’t have to bother,” you said as the car surprised you once more by purring to life—absurdly quiet for how expensive it clearly was. “It’s five minutes from the library to my fla—”

“No. Can’t have it on my conscience if you get mauled by a stray dog. Or kidnapped off the street.” He met your eyeroll with a smirk. “Not to mention, I’d have to talk to the police as the last person to see you alive.”

You turned away with a click of your tongue.

“Good point,” you said. “Wouldn’t want everyone to know that you were the last person to see me alive. Take me home, then.”

He opened the GPS on his phone. You watched, not quite in horror, as it suggested your address before he even typed it in.

Then he pulled out of the driveway, took a left past the line of trees, and headed downhill. The streetlights blurred behind the windows as the car seamlessly switched gears.

There was no one else on the road. Still, Yeonjun caught you sneaking glances at the map on his phone and let out a soft laugh.

“Scared I’m taking you the wrong way?”

You shifted your gaze. “Just making sure you don’t get lost.”

“Where?” He nodded at the windshield. “The streets are empty.”

“I’m sure you’d still manage.”

He snorted but didn’t respond—although he wanted to. He wondered why you thought there was a chance he’d take you anywhere other than your house.

Then, he wondered where else he could take you.

Then, he shook the thought away and gripped the wheel tighter.

You pulled out your phone, checking if Reina had texted back. You’d told her you’d be late, but figured she might still wait up.

There was no reply. Just the faint glow of your screen as your battery reached its last percentiles.

Twenty minutes later, Yeonjun’s Mercedes coasted onto your street, its headlights catching the row of buildings and scaring a black cat into the sharp branches of a dead hydrangea bush.

“This one, yeah?” Yeonjun asked, his voice on the edge of a yawn, as he nodded at the building closest to the parking lot.

You looked up from your phone. “Yeah. Thanks. What’s your fare?”

He raised an eyebrow while you unbuckled your seatbelt.

“I’m not a taxi,” he said.

“Obviously,” you replied, gathering all your belongings so you wouldn’t have to beg him to return them later. “But you didn’t have to drive me and I don’t want to owe you anything, so—”

“I don’t take money.”

You let go of your bag to look at him. “Okay… Is that supposed to imply you take something else, or—?”

He looked like he was about to say—or suggest—something, but the late hour caught up to him. He waved it off and turned back to the windshield.

“Just go,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything. Consider it goodwill.”

This was almost the nicest thing he’s ever said to you—then he added the last part.

You opened the door with a noncomittal groan. “Thanks. You’re so kind.”

“That I am,” he agreed, the teasing in his words dull with fatigue.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” you warned, stepping out. “Or I’ll start without you.”

“You wish,” he returned. “Sleep tight.”

“Goodnight.”

You watched his car pull away, the taillights shrinking at the end of the street. Then you turned toward your building.

It pained you to admit it—and you’d never imagined you’d be admitting it in the first place—but you felt grateful. Yeonjun ranked bottom-tier for people you’d feel comfortable with, but he’d taken you to his place, and now he’d taken you back. And it hadn’t been awful.

By the time you reached the fifth floor and slipped your keys into the lock of your flat, you realised you dreaded tomorrow’s workshop a little less.

✦ • ──── FEBRUARY 11, 2025. 9 AM

It would’ve been hard to believe had you not been there yourself, but your first workshop kicked off remarkably smoothly.

Sure, Yeonjun reflexively assumed centre stage and spent half the class rattling off things that weren’t relevant or important, but other than that, it wasn’t terrible. The students—some your age, most only a few years younger—actually participated. They made jokes, laughed at yours, and even high-fived you and Yeonjun at the end.

It wasn’t exactly conventional, but you were twenty-five; you hardly strived to be professors.

Still, being close in age to your students had its downsides, too.

Yeonjun was collecting the exercise papers when he looked up to see one of your students loitering by your desk and grinning outrageously widely, radiating the kind of shameless confidence that begged for a kick in a place better not named.

“If I had your number,” the student—Joel? Chad?—was saying, “I could reach out anytime I had questions. You know? I’m really into this class.”

You smiled politely, but, even from across the room, Yeonjun could see your fight-or-flight instincts gearing up. You kept glancing at the door, fiddling with your phone, and stretching your smile tighter with every word the guy uttered, as though you could scare him off by turning into Joker.

Yeonjun set the papers down and leaned his hip against the desk at the back row, waiting for his cue.

“You’ve got my email for emergencies, Eric,” you said.

Eric, Yeonjun thought. Shit name. He’s never met an Eric he liked.

“I know,” Eric said. “But what if it’s urgent and I can’t reach you quickly enough through email? Having your number would, like—it would really help.”

“How about we cross that bridge when we get there?” you suggested. Yeonjun crossed the auditorium towards you. “You can email either me or Yeonjun. If neither of us replies, call the admin office. They’ll put you through.”

“Probably to me, though,” Yeonjun interjected, settling beside your desk. “I live for emergencies. And I’m always available.”

“Oh—” Eric’s eyes flickered between your brittle smile and the unspoken warning in Yeonjun’s gaze. He seemed to come to a conclusion that forced his ears to flush several shades of pink. “Okay, cool! Yeah. I’ll do that.”

He grabbed his bag, flung it over his shoulder, and made a graceful—hurried—exit.

You watched him go, wondering briefly whether this exchange would sour the workshop for him. You felt a flicker of guilt for being so dismissive—then stopped yourself. You didn’t owe anyone your phone number simply because that might make them like your class more.

Yeonjun, for his part, didn’t look remotely concerned about Eric’s future attendance. He didn’t really have to worry, you supposed. He could do whatever he wanted at the workshop—including all that you couldn’t—without it costing him a thing. Not respect, not recognition, not his actual safety.

Blissfully clueless, Yeonjun shuffled the papers into a neat pile and glanced up at you. “Weren’t interested?”

You shot him a glare for an answer. He nodded, chuckling.

“Got it,” he said. “Looks like I showed up right on time.”

You cleared your throat and handed over the rest of the papers for him to sort.

“Appreciate it,” you said. “But I had it under control.”

“Did you, love?” He tilted his head, amused. “That why you dropped my name in there?”

You hadn’t meant that as a rescue flare.

It was an old, reliable defence tactic – mentioning a man usually acted as a proper repellent for other men. You had no doubt this would work here as well; men only ever respected other men.

And that, you realised suddenly, might’ve been precisely why Professor Myers had brought Yeonjun into your workshop.

Clenching your jaw, you turned to close the browser tabs on your laptop.

“Just reminded him that there were two teachers in this workshop,” you said.

“Oh, sure.” Smirking, Yeonjun handed you the sorted stack. “You’re welcome, in any case.”

You took the papers back from him without meeting his eye.

“Thanks,” you said. “But I don’t need protecting. I said I had it.”

He caught the edge in your voice—it was hard not to—and straightened.

“I wasn’t protecting you,” he said. “Just had your back. And, for your information, I fully expect the same from you when someone flirts with me after class.”

His absolute certainty—as though it was inevitable that someone would eventually hit on him (it probably was)—made you snort.

“Yeah? And what if you like them?”

“I don’t mess around with students.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But teachers aren’t off-limits?”

He shrugged. “Depends on the teacher.”

Scoffing at the meaningful glint in his eyes, you pulled your laptop sleeve from under the desk.

“Alright, then,” you played along. “Guess I’ll make sure to have your back, too, partner.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, but wondered, nonetheless, what was the matter with his heart regarding the nickname. “Thanks, love.”

He located his phone in his pocket while you slipped the papers into the sleeve next to your laptop.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got time for lunch before our next class.”

You looked up. “You—you’re actually going to class?”

Your reaction forced him to pause and replay what he’d just said to you.

“You’re more shocked about that,” he asked, “than about my suggestion we get lunch together?”

You stared at him for a full five seconds, then remembered how to blink and looked away.

“Didn’t think you meant we have lunch together.”

“Why would I bring it up, then?”

There was this obviousness in his tone that you’d heard before. As though getting lunch together, and driving you home—or, God, having each other’s backs—was nothing strange for the two of you.

It forced confused goosebumps to set up camp at the back of your neck.

“Thought that’s a segue to end the conversation,” you replied, “and go our separate ways.”

Yeonjun nodded slowly, arriving at a conclusion he chose not to vocalise.

He knew you disliked him—or tried to, anyway; he was in the process of analysing that—but he was still surprised about how terrible you were at picking up his social cues.

It seemed like all you expected from him was a spit in the mouth and a knife to the chest. And while he would’ve complied with the former, he’d never had a wish to follow through on the latter.

“It was supposed to be a subtle—never mind.” He waved a dismissive hand. “D’you need the invitation in writing, or is mentioning it going to be enough?”

You pursed your lips. “Mentioning’s enough. But maybe send an email next time.”

He grinned. “But what if it’s urgent? Having your number would, like, really help.”

Your smile slipped out of your restraints. And then, in a shocked realisation, you glanced at the door to make sure Eric hadn’t lingered.

“Oh, wow,” Yeonjun remarked right away. “Scared he’ll hear us making fun of him, and change his opinion of you?”

You stiffened slightly, but covered it up by looking down and zipping your bag.

“I don’t care about his opinion,” you said.

“Sure,” he replied, strolling out of the auditorium. He paused while you turned off the lights. “S’probably why you didn’t reject him outright.”

Scowling at his volume, you joined him in the hall. Groups of students darted past, chatting amongst themselves, oblivious to everything else.

“I did reject him,” you said, shutting the door and double-checking if the lock clicked. “But I kept it civil. He’s our student.”

Wordlessly, you both turned for the stairs.

“He was being sleazy and pushy,” Yeonjun said, taking note of your taut expression. “Thought that wasn’t your type.”

You turned to meet his gaze, and he saw something on your face relax.

“No,” you said. “That’s just you.”

From the look in your eyes, he’d almost expected a confession. But this was significantly better.

You’d relaxed, then, because arguing with him had become comfortable by now. A second nature, almost—especially compared to some blockhead hitting on you.

Yeonjun suspected this would go straight to his head.

“Yeah?” He was grinning again. “D’you really mean it?”

Groaning—how he thrived at the sound—you gave him a nudge towards the staircase. “Keep walking.”

“M’walking, love.” He deliberately slowed down, resisting your push. “Let me take my time.”

“Take your time faster.”

Laughing, he stopped at the top of the stairwell to let you pass. He watched you glance around before you jogged down, as though trying to avoid someone—or everyone—you knew. Then he came down after you.

✦ • ──── FEBRUARY 11, 2025. 12 PM

Right after you and Yeonjun arrived at the canteen, you considered messaging Reina and Soobin—just to have someone else here with you.

But before you could, Beomgyu plonked himself at your table. He took a seat next to you, opposite Yeonjun, and placed a pleading hand on your shoulder before you even had a chance to taste your salad. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—that you and Yeonjun were here together.

“Listen,” he said, flicking his eyes between the two of you. “Kai and I are throwing a party this weekend, right? After the race.”

Yeonjun nodded. “Right.”

“Of course,” you agreed, finally taking a bite.

“Well,” Beomgyu continued, “I want to invite certain people. But I don’t know how.”

You turned to Yeonjun, who appeared just as confused by the problem.

There wasn’t anything new about Beomgyu cornering random people with urgent questions that most people did not consider urgent (“Should I have prawns for dinner? Because I had a tuna sandwich for lunch.”). But talking to someone had never seemed to rank among his struggles. If nerves ever showed up, he just drowned them in alcohol.

“Have you considered, uh, texting?” you offered.

Beomgyu shot you a fiery glare.

“No,” he said. “Figured I’d try owl mail first.”

You hid your grin behind another bite.

He really was sensitive about this. You wondered if it had anything to do with his crush on Nara.

“Owls this time of year…” Yeonjun mused. “Not trustworthy.”

You nodded. “Maybe consider sending a letter the traditional way.”

Beomgyu shut his eyes and exhaled like you and Yeonjun were testing what little was left of his patience.

“Alright, you two comedians, you quirky little clowns,” he mumbled, placing his feet on the bench and drawing his knees to his chest. “I need real help.”

“I don’t understand,” Yeonjun said, pausing to chew a stubborn slice of asparagus. “What’s wrong with texting this person?”

“That’s too obvious,” Beomgyu replied.

Silence followed as the rest of the table tried to process that.

“How—what’s so obvious about a text invite to a party?” Yeonjun asked.

Beomgyu groaned, curling further into himself.

“Well, it—” He grimaced. “It’s needy. Isn’t it?”

Yeonjun blinked twice, then turned to you. “Is he an idiot?”

You pursed your lips. “I think that might be an accurate diagnosis.”

Beomgyu slumped dramatically.

“You guys are no help,” he complained. You patted his hand to stop his groaning; it was beginning to attract curious looks from others in the canteen.

“We don’t understand, Gyu,” you said. Yeonjun smirked at the pronoun (you were a unit now—a proper ‘we.’ How amusing). “What’s the matter with you?”

“I just told you,” Beomgyu mumbled, voice softer in response to your quiet tone, “we’re having a party and I want to invite—”

“—your crush,” Yeonjun finished for him. “We got that part, love. Why are you being such a wimp about it?”

Beomgyu turned to him, the previous hostility returning to his eyes.

“It’s not my crush,” he stated firmly, the word almost a slur. “It’s just some people who are cool.”

Oh, this was absolutely about Nara.

You coughed into your fist. “Sounds like a crush.”

Beomgyu directed his rage towards you, a hint of betrayal in his gaze. He thought you were on his side, and his side did not mention the C-word.

“Whatever,” he said with a demonstrative roll of his eyes. “Call it what you want. I don’t care. How do I—oh, maybe you could do it?”

You raised your eyebrows. “What?”

“Invite her.”

“It’s your party.”

“Right, but—”

“And it’s your crush.”

“Fuck.” He groaned again, slapping his palms against the table. Yeonjun quietly pulled his plate out of range.

Despite claiming he didn’t care, Beomgyu needed a full minute to accept that everyone at this table—and in this canteen, at this point—knew he had a crush. And if the embarrassment of this didn’t kill him, then the party might.

“Well, how do I invite her without, you know…” he waved his hands about, “without coming off like I’ll die if she doesn’t show up?”

You and Yeonjun exchanged another glance. Beomgyu was watching you both with eyes so wide and desperate that an old lady, faced with this look, would have immediately adopted him in place of a kitten.

“What would you do?” Beomgyu asked, fidgeting, when neither of you replied. “If you wanted someone at your party?”

Yeonjun made the mistake of glancing back at him and making eye contact. He sighed.

“I’d ask her,” he said. “I’d say, ‘are you going to be at the party?’ You know, using words. As normal people do.”

Beomgyu glowered at the condescension and considered making a mocking comment about Yeonjun’s methods clearly not working if he and Amy were no longer together.

He decided not to waste time and turned to you for reassurance instead.

“So I just text her that we’re having a party?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied, deciding that taking him seriously would resolve his big problem the fastest. “You can say, ‘Kai and I are—’”

“No, no, no,” he cut in, shaking his head wildly. “I don’t want to bring Kai into this. That sends the wrong message.”

You looked at Yeonjun. He shrugged, not understanding, either.

“What, uh—what message would it send?” you asked Beomgyu.

“Well, that Kai’s going to be there, too.”

You felt even more lost. “Won’t he be?”

“He will,” Beomgyu said. “But that shouldn’t be the main focus.”

“How would it be the main—okay.” You took a deep breath and turned to Yeonjun again. “I give up. He’s yours.”

You returned to your plate, and Yeonjun set his glass of water back down on the table.

“You’re a weird dude,” he told Beomgyu, “you know that?”

Chewing, you braced yourself for Beomgyu’s frustrated groan, but still flinched when he nearly growled over the canteen.

“I came to you guys for help,” he snapped. “You’re not helping.”

“We’re trying!” Yeonjun replied, unable to contain his laughter any longer. “But you’re acting like you just landed on Earth a few days ago.”

“Like I—” Beomgyu paused, then turned to you. “Did he just indirectly call me a lunatic?”

You did not meet his gaze. “That was quite direct.”

Beomgyu groaned again. People at nearby tables looked at you like they thought you should have performed an exorcism on him, and the sooner, the better.

“So I just text her, then?” he finally asked, desperate. “That’s it?”

You looked at his wide eyes for a moment, and that was enough to stir sympathy in you once more. He must have really had feelings for Nara to lose his head so completely.

“Yes,” you said patiently.

“And if she says no?”

“Then she’s not at the party,” Yeonjun joined in.

Beomgyu made a noise like he’d been stabbed in the heart. “But I will die if she doesn’t come.”

Yeonjun turned to you with a final, defeated expression on his face.

“See, I thought he was joking,” he said. “But he’ll die if she doesn’t come.”

“He will die,” you echoed, gravely, “if she doesn’t come.”

Beomgyu sprang to his feet.

“Alright.” He glared at you, then at Yeonjun. “You know, I’m not sure I like the two of you together that much.”

You didn’t know whether it was your teasing or his own spiralling that finally pushed him over the edge. Instead, you were thinking about how, apparently, you and Yeonjun had become a ‘together’ in this.

“No, you’ve come to the right people,” Yeonjun said, casting you a sidelong glance. “We’ve recently learned that we’re both great at relationship advice.”

He waited for you to meet his gaze and winked, to let you know he hadn’t forgotten—and therefore, wouldn’t let you forget, either—any words that you’d exchanged in his wardrobe. You rolled your eyes and ignored him.

“Mhmm,” Beomgyu muttered, turning away. “Unlearn that.”

You bit your lip as he strode out of the canteen without another word, but with a scowl over his shoulder at your table.

He’d get over this, of course. Probably at the bar later tonight. Maybe he’d even realise that texting his crush didn’t have to be that serious.

And still, you and Yeonjun both watched him go—just in case he returned to deliver his final moan.

“Are you going to be at his party?” Yeonjun asked once the canteen doors swung shut behind Beomgyu.

“Oh, definitely not,” you said, finishing the last few bites on your plate. “Not my crowd.”

“What’s your crowd, then? Aside from librarians.”

You watched the satisfied smirk on his lips while you finished eating.

“If you think that’s offensive to me,” you said, “I have disappointing news. A lot of great people work at the library.”

“Doubt it,” he said. “Since they hired you.”

You flashed him a sneer and chose not to play into his game. Instead, you picked up your bag and rummaged in it for your phone.

“You’re coming to the bar tonight, though, right?” he asked again.

You didn’t look up. “Have I got a choice?”

Professor Myers was hosting her monthly catch-up tonight, and no one in your cohort dared skip it. Unlike Kai and Beomgyu’s party this weekend, tonight’s gathering was semi-official. If you missed one, you likely wouldn’t understand any of the references made in class throughout the upcoming month.

Yeonjun grinned. You did, technically, have a choice. But you’d sooner cut off both arms than disappoint a professor.

“I’m heading to class,” you decided after checking the time. “Let me know if Nara comes to Beomgyu’s party or if he died.”

Your request implied that the two of you wouldn’t see each other until after the party. That was not true, of course. Yeonjun had plenty more plans to see you again until then—all throughout today, for example.

“Oh, come on.” He leaned back on the bench. “You’re really going to miss him moping about for three hours?”

You raised your eyes to his again. “You think it’ll only take him three?”

“He usually passes out after.”

You snorted and felt your phone vibrate against the side of your bag. Reina’s text was informing you that she and Soobin had arrived for your next class, and they’d brought coffee for you.

“Alright, well,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Can’t be around you for three hours straight, though, so I’ll pass. Cheers.”

Yeonjun looked entirely unsurprised by this—although you had, technically, been around him for three hours straight last night.

“Your loss,” he said. “Kai’s house has some very spacious wardrobes, I’m hearing.”

Again, he was testing whether the memory still made you flinch.

Disappointingly, it did not.

You stacked your cutlery on the empty plate without looking up, letting the warmth in your stomach settle.

“That what you do, then?” you asked. “Lurk in people’s wardrobes in your free time? No wonder no one invites you over.”

He snorted. “Plenty of people invite me over. I’m just selective about where I go.”

“Right. Well, you have to be.” You nodded in feigned sympathy. “Imagine showing up to a party and not being the centre of attention. S’just tragic.”

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “And I’d know right away that you’re not at that party, because you wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the room, talking shit about me to anyone who’d listen.”

“Mhmm.” You gave him a dry look as you stood from your seat. “And why would you stay at a party if I wasn’t there for you to annoy?”

“Right,” he said, his grin widening. “Exactly.”

“Right,” you echoed flatly. But your lips curled without your permission. “See you in class.”

He caught your smile as you stepped over the bench, and fought with himself to resist lobbing another quip just to make you argue with him longer.

✦ • ──── FEBRUARY 11, 2025. 1 PM

When you arrived for class, the auditorium had already been rearranged into seminar groups. The Mediation and Conflict Resolution elective was very straightforward: two teams of students “negotiated” over a problem—usually another pair of students acting out specific roles—and extra points were awarded for compelling arguments, which later fed into your final grade.

The elective was infamous for these ‘simulations,’ as Professor Lee called them. Everyone else called them ‘psychological warfare.’

You and Reina had chosen the course because it had no final exam, but you still dreaded it every week. The fight for that extra point was intense and, often, just plain ugly. Beomgyu had once stopped speaking to Soobin for a week after Soobin’s team won, and he got the point.

Before the seminar began, you found Reina and Soobin at the back of the room. They were both eager to hear how your workshop had gone. Reina, in particular, looked like she was waiting for news of a prize fight. It almost made you wonder if she had money riding on you.

And when Soobin asked about your review session last night—he’d come home just as Yeonjun was returning ‘from somewhere’—you decided to keep your response brief and not answer where Yeonjun was returning from.

It was better not to dwell on that anyway.

Not that there was much to dwell on.

Not that you wanted there to be much to dwell on—

God.

As if on cue, Yeonjun entered the auditorium with Nara in tow.

Beomgyu, sitting across the room, visibly stiffened at the sight of them together. Yeonjun gave him a wave and a shake of his head—signalling that he hadn’t told Nara about the party, or about Beomgyu’s very calm and totally dignified attempt to seek advice on how to ask her out.

Then, Yeonjun’s gaze shifted to you. You were already bracing yourself for his usual smirk, but he surprised you with a familiar nod instead.

You tried to nod back, but didn’t entirely dismiss the chance that you merely stared at him in a stunned silence. His broadening smile suggested that that was indeed the case.

“Look,” Reina whispered, distracting you by gesturing her coffee cup towards the side of the room.

You turned to look at Beomgyu accosting Nara with enough enthusiasm to be heard across the building. He looked like he belonged in an energy drink ad.

“He’s so obvious,” you whispered back, chuckling.

Reina was about to say something else, but you were both startled by a chair scraping beside you.

“Hi again,” Yeonjun said. “We’re in the same group today.”

You hadn’t checked the group list that Professor Lee had printed out and glued to the blackboard, but this was clearly splendid news – and you and Reina both exchanged flat smiles to confirm your mutual delight.

The door opened at the front before you could speak, and Professor Lee swept in, wearing his traditional red jacket with a bright blue tie. Right away, he handed out the case briefs for the day.

This time, the defendant (played by Soobin, slouched at the front of the class like a man halfway through a midlife crisis) was the company manager. And the female claimant (played by an exhilarated Beomgyu, who almost never got called to the front) was an employee, alleging she’d been unfairly denied a promotion.

It became clear very quickly that the defence team—led by Nara—would shred you.

Their opening statement landed hard: the defendant had no discriminatory intentions. He had simply followed company policy, which stated that the claimant wasn’t eligible for a promotion.

You cast a hopeful glance at the professor. The validity of the argument was his call.

He nodded.

“Fantastic,” Reina remarked, furiously scribbling a lemon on her notepad—a coping strategy, you’d observed. “He followed policy. She’s not eligible. Case closed, we’ve lost.”

“No—but when Beomgyu cited the brief,” you argued, “he said others had been promoted with less time at the company. That’s against policy, then.”

“Then maybe the claimant’s in a different role,” Reina supplied. “Different criteria for a promotio—”

“One minute,” Professor Lee announced, surveying the class like an omniscient hawk. “I need to hear your counter-argument.”

Agitated by the time limit, you glanced at Yeonjun. He was sprawled in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, eyes on the ceiling. He hadn’t contributed to the group discussion once.

“She’s a woman,” you contemplated out loud, turning back to Reina. “That might be the only real difference.”

“But if the company policy—”

“Could be sexist,” you offered, guessing what her point was. “Not explicitly, but in effect. Like… if the policy rewards uninterrupted years of service in a way that disadvantages those who are eligible for longer leave—such as pregnant women and mothers.”

Reina squinted at you. “And what’s our argument? If that’s the policy, how’s that Soobin’s fault?”

You rested your chin on your palm, tapping your lower lip with your fingers. You weren’t sure how to make this Soobin’s fault in academic language.

Suddenly, like a half-bored prophet emerging from the ashes, Yeonjun raised his hand on behalf of your group without any prior warning.

“Aha!” the professor exclaimed, pointing an excited hand at him. “Your group’s found the argument?”

“Yes,” he said. “Their defence reinforces institutional bias.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Yeonjun met your gaze and gave you a nod, agreeing, clearly, with the point you’d been developing.

“Oh!” Professor Lee lit up—even his tie seemed to brighten—and clapped his hands together right behind you. You jumped at the sound and turned. “Yes! I like that! Very good. And what does that mean for Soobin, our defendant?”

Yeonjun exhaled and leaned back in his chair as though he’d done his job. He turned to you with a wordless nudge. He didn’t clarify whether he didn’t know how to explain it himself, or if he was just letting you do it.

Blinking, you began to speak before your thoughts fully formed.

“It, uh—it means that the defendant—Soobin—doesn’t need to have had malicious intent,” you said. “But, uh, he’s in a position of authority within a biased system that favours men. The system sort of does the harm in his name, but by choosing to follow the policy without questioning it, he ends up consciously perpetuating that inequality. Reinforces it, actually, by being complicit.”

“Yes! Yes!” the professor’s victorious shout—accompanied by a triumphant finger pointing your way—felt blissful. You caught a glimpse of Yeonjun smirking at the corner of your vision. “That’s a brilliant articulation. Defence, what’s your response?”

Nara’s group floundered.

On a high from being acknowledged, you settled back into your chair and tuned out their whispered discussion. You nearly missed Yeonjun leaning over with an outstretched hand.

It took you a moment to understand he was expecting a high-five.

Bemused, you obliged.

“Nice,” he whispered as your palm touched his. It was uncanny, the way this word gave you a rush as big as the professor’s approval.

You turned back to Reina’s newest lemon—this one suspiciously similar to a crooked eye—and did a double-take when you realised Reina was staring at you.

What the fuck was that? her gaze was asking.

You felt the corners of your lips twitch, but you shook your head in answer: don’t know.

Five minutes later, Chaeyoung, one of Nara’s teammates, mustered a tentative, “can we get a hint?”

Professor Lee, not known for his patience, tilted his head in contemplation.

“Alright,” he said. “Think outside the mediation-based framework. Consider what Yeonjun had just kindly explained: ‘the system does the harm’ versus ‘consciously perpetuating the inequality.’”

You froze.

Then—slowly—you saw Yeonjun glance over at you, as though even he was startled to have your words attributed to him.

Reina jabbed your side so hard that you nearly dropped your pen.

“What—” she began to say, but then locked eyes with Yeonjun. She redirected her ire straight at him. “You said—you said one thing. You didn’t explain shit.”

Yeonjun didn’t argue. He pressed his lips together and turned back to the professor.

For a second, you thought he might say something.

He didn’t.

Perhaps, you thought hopefully—because hope, unlike your will to graduate, died last—the professor just mixed up your names. Yeonjun had started out the argument, after all.

But once the seminar ended, Professor Lee awarded the extra point to Yeonjun—for his “brilliant insight.”

It felt, you thought with irony, precisely like the institutional bias you’d taken the time to explain. You’d rescued Yeonjun’s argument from obscurity, and once again, that hadn’t mattered.

It had truly become tradition by now, the way he received praise for breathing—even if all he exhaled was other people’s ideas.

What made it worse today was that, for a while there, Yeonjun felt like an actual part of your team: all supportive nods, quiet smiles, and encouraging high-fives.

Never mind, then.

You shouldn’t have let your guard down. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and all that.

After you finished packing your bag, you saw Yeonjun lingering in the doorway. He looked like he was waiting for you.

He was.

“That was good,” he said when you approached. There seemed to be no teasing in his voice—likely because of Reina’s sinister presence right behind you. “You were quick on your feet.”

You tried to keep the sarcasm at the back of your throat and managed a strained smile.  

“Could’ve explained it yourself,” you forced out.

“Sure. But would’ve taken me a minute.” He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head to return the strands into place. “Thanks for having my back.”

Your jaw clenched. “Did it for the team.”

Behind you, Soobin laughed—a little nervously. He’d overheard the conversation and correctly concluded from the tension in Reina’s back that this could escalate. Immediately, he turned into his usual role of peacemaker.

“I never like playing the defendant,” he said, throwing a hand around Yeonjun’s shoulders. “But nice work today. Guess you got me fired from the company.”

You said nothing, gaze locked on Yeonjun.

Soobin couldn’t decide if he was more perturbed by the vacant darkness in your eyes or the lethal brand of malice in Reina’s. He decided it’d be best to extract Yeonjun out of the room in any case.

“Come on,” he said, steering him out. “I’ll need to borrow your car for groceries before we hit the bar.”

As they left, Reina looped her arm through yours. You finally exhaled the tension in your lungs. Her gestures were the only ones that never felt performative.

“S’got to be his parents,” she said. “The way he gets away with this shit. Zero effort, all credit. Typical.”

“Yeah, well.” You swallowed thickly. “We already knew that about him.”

“Let’s go home,” she said as the two of you made your way out of the room, “get changed. Then get drunk.”

She’d said it, and that was the plan.

✦ • ──── FEBRUARY 11, 2025. 9:30 PM

The bar was warm when you arrived. Reina and Soobin immediately peeled off their scarves and hats, and you offered to hang the coats while they went to find seats among your classmates.

Nara, the self-appointed hostess, directed you to the coat rack, then led you back to the table where debates were already brewing. You were mildly surprised to see Yeonjun already here—he was usually the last to arrive—but you looked away the second your eyes met.

You’d already had enough of him for one day.

Unfortunately, Reina and Soobin had claimed seats on Yeonjun’s side of the table. Reina exchanged a quick hello with Taehyun, who sat to Yeonjun’s right, then beckoned you over.

Tipsy as he was, Yeonjun clocked the empty spot between Taehyun and Reina as you approached. Without a word, he nudged Taehyun further down the bench until his hip bumped into Reina’s. It took them a moment to register what was happening, and by the time Taehyun voiced his protest about his relocation, Yeonjun was already patting the now-vacant spot beside himself and grinning at you.

You considered just standing.

Reina looked fully in favour of that plan, but Soobin gave a subtle shake of his head.

It’d be a scene, he was saying. It wasn’t worth it.

With a huff, you sat beside Yeonjun, tossing your bag across the bench to limit his expansive manspreading.

He waited for your comment, and you tortured him by not giving him one.

Then, just as you took your first sip of wine, Nara leapt to her feet again: Professor Myers had arrived.

The chatter at the rest of the table didn’t falter; most of you had shared enough drinks with the professor to skip the formalities. And soon, Yeonjun launched into a one-sided discussion with a half-drunk Kai, who was probably only catching every fourth word, and a very drunk Taehyun, who caught every word but ceased to care.

“You don’t get it,” Yeonjun declared, wagging a finger at Kai like a disapproving uncle. “You only think this is decent wine because you associate it with sophistication. You walk into a restaurant, and you see it on the tables of people who look refined. Instantly, you assume that this wine must be refined, too. But it’s not. It’s a nouveau riche vulgarity. S’ostentatious. Performative.”

“Right,” Kai agreed, finishing his glass of vulgarity. “S’what this is.”

“A proper connoisseur,” Yeonjun went on, “always chooses biodynamics. Old terroir. Generational craft. Like a Bourgogne, for example.”

“Right!” Kai said again. “A Bur—Burghonee.”

You wondered if Yeonjun realised he sounded like Remy from Ratatouille, and that he was speaking to Kai, who transformed into the human equivalent of Emile after a few drinks.

“This is wine for those who want to appear educated without actually getting the education,” Yeonjun concluded. “But most people lack the cultural capital to grasp that. They don’t see through the performance. It’s Plato’s cave wherever you look.”

Taehyun groaned on your other side, resting his head on the table.

“Oh, please tell us about the cave, Jun,” he mumbled. “How I love hearing you speak about the cave.”

You snorted. Yeonjun mumbled something unkind under his breath but finally shut up.

You’d all endured a fair few of Yeonjun’s drunken sermons over the years. There was a pattern to them: someone made an off-handed remark, something trivial, like “I got my paycheck today,” and Yeonjun would begin a three-hour lecture about the inevitable collapse of a capitalist society—perhaps even quoting from a book he’d been reading or a documentary he’d just seen. He loved Plato, too.

Luckily, he drank as fast as he talked and usually passed out before midnight.

To be fair, Yeonjun’s arguments were often strangely coherent, even as they grew more slurred. It was, rather, his smug tone and the relentless use of technical jargon that irritated you.

Tonight was no exception. The wine on the table wasn’t expensive or especially refined, but it tasted fine. Yeonjun himself, loud as he was about his disdain, had had two glasses.

Sometimes, he was pretentious for the sake of being pretentious.

Suddenly, the bar quieted as Professor Myers tapped her knife against her wine glass.

Taehyun opened one eye but didn’t move. Being a year below, he and Kai were here for the drinks and the company, not the discussion.

The professor’s eyes found yours, then shifted to Yeonjun.

“I wanted to thank you both for your work on the workshop today,” she said. You hadn’t expected that. “My colleagues and I spoke to a few of your undergrads. The feedback was glowing. You’re on a great path.”

“Yeah, my s-sister’s in your workshop,” Henry, another one of your classmates, chimed in a little drunkenly. You remembered Lissie, his sister—front row, bright eyes, long brown hair. “She said she loved it. Said Yeonjun’s grr—great at breaking things down.”

You’d noticed Lissie’s attentiveness earlier and had half-wondered if it wasn’t just a crush on Yeonjun. He hadn’t had that much stuff to break down today—not that he hadn’t tried anyway.

“I mean, makes sense,” Nara agreed across the table from you. “Jun always feels the need to educate everyone he meets.”

Taehyun snorted, the sound covering up Reina’s quiet chuckle beside him. You smiled, too, caught in the ripple.

“Yes, well,” the professor said. “You make writing your thesis seem effortless, Yeonjun. That’s rare. Don’t tell any of your supervisors I said that.”

A few polite snickers sounded around the table.

“It’s because he knows all this stuff,” Kai declared, slurring his words. “You should hear him talk about Burnoghee—this one wine.” He raised his glass. “This is cave wine, by the way.”

Inhaling sharply—as though in a hurry not to lose the moment—Taehyun sat up to give you a look. You met his gaze and nodded, grinning. Drunk Kai was the only Kai who actually listened to what Yeonjun was saying.

“I hope you’re not teaching undergrads about wine,” Professor Myers teased. “They know enough about that as it is.”

“He’s teaching them Plato,” Taehyun said. “Because one philosophy course is clearly not enough.”

“Well,” you said—more to Taehyun than anyone else, “he learned this one thing in undergrad. So he’s got to run with it now.”

Yeonjun shot you a partially indifferent look, while Taehyun snickered.

Professor Myers turned back to you.

“You’ve done solid work, too,” she said, her tone softening. “There’s a clear structure in the workshop. We’re very pleased with it so far. Have you thought about the next steps?”

You had—because she’d already asked you to. You knew you needed to collect the students’ early ideas for their theses and share them with faculty to tailor support and emphasis on the curriculum accordingly.

“I’m thinking about using questionnaires,” you said. “Open-ended questions, mostly.”

Her lips turned down.

“Hm,” she began, “it’s definitely been done before, but I feel like going open-ended always gives us surface-level responses. They’ll write ‘feminism’, or ‘Durkheim’s anomie’, but won’t explain what they mean to do with that.”

You hadn’t expected her to disagree, but you nodded and adjusted in your seat. Your bag slid and landed on Yeonjun’s thigh. He didn’t react.

“Okay, then we can ask them to explain,” you said. “Or we could add some curated prompts, specific subjects. Maybe ask what inspired them, which authors they’ve—”

Professor Myers began to shake her head before you finished.

“They’ll just parrot back the curriculum,” she said. You’d never heard her quite so cynical before. “We want to move your workshop forward—even ahead.”

You were practically bouncing on the bench, eager to suggest something she might accept, too aware that your friends were half-listening to you get shot down on repeat.

“What if we asked what they disagreed with?” you offered. “Maybe something frustrated them, even if it was technically right. Could show us their analytical thinking, too.”

The professor’s eyes brightened for a second.

“That could work—” she started, then stopped abruptly. “But we risk confusion. They’ll disagree with things they didn’t fully understand. All we’ll learn is just where in the curriculum they struggle.”

Her reasons made sense, really. But you were starting to feel like you were talking to a wall. And none of your ideas were bad; just not good enough.

Yeonjun leaned back from the table beside you, stretching.

“Let’s just do quizzes,” he said. “Multiple choice. A few open-ended. Always asking to explain their answers. Maybe throw in some themes, so they don’t ramble on about their love for basketball or some sh—something. That’s all. Not overcomplicating it.”

You shook your head. Quizzes were your initial idea, and Professor Myers hadn’t liked it.

“We can’t give them leading prompts, though,” you said, quoting what she’d said to you even before you started the workshop. “Even if it’s basketball, it needs to come from them.”

Yeonjun didn’t get to reply.

“Honestly,” Professor Myers said, “that sounded sensible enough. Let’s go with Yeonjun’s idea.”

You blinked. Then leaned back slowly.

Quizzes, then. Open-ended questions. Multiple choice. Specific themes.

Everything you’d just said.

Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.

Unless Yeonjun said it.

You dusted off your optimism and tried to look at the bright side: surely, unlike Professor Lee earlier, Professor Myers realised that this wasn’t, actually, Yeonjun’s idea. It was so obvious—

It was not. The professor returned to her wine without another word.

You turned to the rest of your classmates—Reina was unabashedly napping, her head on Soobin’s lap—and caught Nara watching you from across the table. Once she met your gaze, she turned back to the professor.

“Why’d you need two people for the workshop anyway?” she asked, rekindling your love for Drunk Nara. “You’ve nabbed our best students. Now we can’t even do group projects with them.”

“Because they complete each other,” Henry slurred before the professor could answer, gesturing sloppily at you and Yeonjun. He finished half a bottle while you were talking. “They—they’re like—well, like that. He does the teaching. She does the—the other stuff.”

Yeonjun did not appear to mind this. In fact, he looked vaguely pleased.

You, on the other hand, considered informing Henry just how much teaching you’d been doing in class.

Then you considered just socking him on the nose.

“I think you’re on the brink of a very good point, Henry,” Professor Myers said with a small, amused smile. “Someone’s got to lead. Someone’s got to organise. I also think they’ve found a great balance.”

You felt your hands begin to tremble as another ironic smile pulled at your mouth. Hyper-focused on her words, you didn’t even realise that she hadn’t, technically, answered Nara’s question.

The “great balance” you’d found with Yeonjun was, clearly, you doing all the work, and him taking all the credit.

You’d known this would happen the moment Professor Myers announced he’d be your co-host, but it still pissed you off.

“And it’s all about working smarter, not harder, anyway,” Nara added, shooting you a sympathetic look. “Right?”

She must have been trying to defend you from Henry’s point, but it ended up sounding like agreement. Like you didn’t work hard. Like you didn’t speak in class.

Apparently, you didn’t even need to. Why would you, when Yeonjun could do it for you, and do it better?

For most intents and purposes of the workshop, you were expendable.

Yeonjun, still basking in the attention, glanced your way. His expression didn’t shift, but his gaze lingered as the conversation around the table carried on.

The waitress arrived with the next round. As drinks were passed around, you imagined calling the professor out. Imagined asserting yourself.

But, in your imagination, these scenes always ended the same: in embarrassment, discomfort, and regret.

She wouldn’t care. Or she’d try to care, but automatically side with Yeonjun anyway, and all you’d do is just ruin your own reputation.

Yeonjun could have been the one to speak up, then, you supposed. He’d had that chance at the Mediation seminar earlier. But you’d never heard him object, never seen him even consider that the idea he’d been praised for wasn’t actually his.

It was a little hard to keep holding your smile.

Quietly, you slipped off the bench and walked past Taehyun to tap Reina’s shoulder.

She lifted her head from Soobin’s lap, blinking. Your classmates grew louder around you, and you needed to lean in closer so she’d hear you.

“I’m going to step out for a second,” you said.

“Yeah?” She blinked again. “You okay?”

“Too hot here.” You gave her a weak smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

As you turned, Soobin called out to grab your coat.

You ignored him in your rush and pushed the door open.

✦ • ──── FEBRUARY 11, 2025. 10:30 PM

The smoking area outside the bar was a welcome shift. The muffled noises from inside turned almost cosy once you shut the door and inhaled—for the first time in what felt like hours.

The only downside was the cold. You shivered, leaning against the side wall of the bar, but refused to go back inside.

You’d barely managed to close your eyes and focus on the chilly breeze when you heard the bell chime at the door and footsteps shuffle on the pavement.

Someone was coming.

“Hey,” a voice called. Yeonjun rounded the corner, immediately pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down. “You alright?”

You swallowed your discontent. You’d been tethered to him the whole day, and now he was here again.

“Fine,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Why are you here?” he asked, settling against the wall of the opposite building, directly in front of you.

You shot him a look.

He knew why you were here. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have followed.

“Doesn’t seem like the best idea to hang out here,” he said when you didn’t reply. “S’cold. Come back in?”

“Or,” you said, “you can do whatever you want, and I can do whatever I want.”

Yeonjun considered the hostility in your tone, and bit the corner of his lip.

“Okay,” he decided. “How about you get off your high horse so we can talk eye-to-eye?”

You gave him a passing glance and turned to the dumpster at the back wall. “Fuck off.”

He scoffed, facing the other way.

“I came out with good intentions,” he said. “Didn’t like what happened inside, either. But they’re drunk. They don’t hear themselves. And, anyway, maybe it’s time for you to stop getting upset when someone contributes, instead of leaving all the work to you.”

“Oh!” Your gaze snapped back to him. “You’re contributing, then, yeah? My bad. I forgot about your brilliant contributions of repeating what I said at a more convenient time with more volume and force. Stellar stuff.” You clapped your hands. “Bravo.”

His brows furrowed as he pushed himself off the wall. “You think I’m not adding anything? Just stealing your credit?”

“Not at all,” you replied. “You assume the credit is yours. And everyone thinks it is.”

He paused. He realised this wasn’t just about the workshop, but he didn’t think you were being entirely fair to him. He hadn’t asked for the professors’ approval.

“Right,” he said, defensive. “Forgot you’re the only person in the world capable of original thoughts.”

“It would seem so,” you said, “given how often you just fucking repeat them.”

His teeth ground together. “So we’re back to acting like I can’t do anything, yeah? Like I don’t work for anything, ever?”

“Do you?” you snapped back. “Because you sure pretend to work. But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve already made a whole career out of stealing credit and sounding clever. Actually, no—no, the last part’s good. I adore how you assert your superiority with intentionally pretentious language. It’s so subtle that your audience doesn’t even catch how much better than them you think you are.”

Slowly, he flexed his hands.

He’d come out here with a very clear purpose. But now the only thing that was clear to him was that he was rubbish at support, apparently, because now he was in the middle of another argument with you.

“That’s bold,” he said, “coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re turning into a sycophant.” He watched you flinch at the word, but continued anyway. “Bending over backwards to be everyone’s favourite, but silently mocking anyone who disagrees with you.” He studied your scowl for another moment. “A sycophant is someone who kisses asses for personal gain, by the way. In case that word is too pretentious for you, too.”

You swallowed, your gaze sharpening. He’s already said this to you before, though not in these words.

“Back on the psychoanalysis, then,” you said, “are you?”

“You started it.”

“You still don’t know shit about me.”

An ironic smile spread on his face.

He didn’t really know you; that was true enough. But the seven minutes in his wardrobe had provided him with the first pieces of a bigger picture, and he’s gathered even more of those pieces since.

“I know you better than you think,” he said. “You clearly think I sit on my ass and don’t bother with anything. You hate that I get praise—because I’m not even trying, right? And you really hate that I don’t just let you take over. That I get under your skin. That I challenge you.”

You watched him, jaw set.

“That’s all?” you asked. “You think you’re some kind of a threat to me, then?”

“I think I’m the only threat to you.”

“And you’re proud of that?” You scoffed. “I’ve had shit classmates my whole life. Dealt with threats far worse than you when I was nine.”

“Sure,” he said. “But none that got to you like I do.”

Something snagged in your chest—but not deeply enough for you to focus on it. “How do you get to me?”

He didn’t realise he’d stepped closer until he could hear your uneven breathing.

“You’re scared,” he said. “You don’t know what to do with me, and it’s driving you insane.”

“I’m not scared.”

He leaned in just a touch closer. You could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek, could feel your own breathing cease.

“No?” he said. “Prove me wrong, then.”

You wondered if the late-night chill was really the reason why your legs felt numb.

“How exactly,” you said, voice low, “do you imagine I’d do that?”

Yeonjun had a few ideas. But he blinked, gaze drifting from your parted lips to the bricks behind you, and released a slow breath.

“Walk back in there,” he said, nodding to the door, “and tell everyone you’re fed up with the way they diminish you and your work. How they constantly overlook you. Tell them you’re better than me. Go on. Tell them the truth.”

You didn’t speak, your eyes still fixed firmly on his.

He knew what was coming.

“No,” you said.

His grin broke through. “Knew it. You want them to like you too much.”

You looked away toward the empty street.

He wasn’t wrong; you did want them to like you. But that wasn’t the whole of it.

You wanted to be reliable and easy to be around. You wanted credibility. Wanted to be taken seriously. Wanted your ideas to have weight without Yeonjun echoing them.

And you knew that if you ever let yourself show your frustration, all that warmth and reliability could vanish. You’d be entitled. Difficult. Jealous. Why would anyone take you seriously then?

And then you wondered if, perhaps, you already were all these things.

“You said you didn’t like what happened inside, either,” you said. Yeonjun lifted his gaze. “Why didn’t you say anything, then?”

He looked away.

He thought back on the way you’d bristled when he’d interrupted Eric hitting on you. He’d claimed he wasn’t protecting you from the guy’s flirting, but he supposed he had been. And you’d made it exceedingly clear that you didn’t want his protection.

Your status quo was, clearly, mutual contempt.

Where would that leave the both of you, if he’d defended you in front of everyone?

“Did you want me to?” he asked, meeting your gaze.

You questioned that, too. Was it even possible for him to use his voice without further diminishing yours?

“Would it matter?” you said. “You do what you want anyway.”

He didn’t, actually. There was a long list of things he wanted to do. So far, he’d only crossed one off last Thursday.

“It would matter,” he said. “Did you want me to say something?”

“Do I have to want it,” you replied, “for you to do it? Have you got no sense of fairness?”

Yeonjun exhaled. You’d been answering each other’s questions with more questions, and now he’s run out of them.

“I’ve got it,” he said. And he meant it—but not in the same way you did.

“You’re fine, then,” you said, “with having your ass kissed for minimal effort.”

His gaze drifted back to the dark red brick wall. Faint graffiti crawled across the surface, barely legible in the dark.

“I’m not fine,” he said. “I told you, I want my achievements to be mine. But what am I supposed to do? Tell our professors I don’t deserve their praise, and ask to be treated like shit instead?”

“That—no,” you said, frowning. “Of course not. When you deserve praise, you deserve praise. But that’s not usually the case. Usually, you get applauded without moving a finger, yet you refuse to acknowledge that.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He knew the system seemed to be rigged in his favour. It’s been that way his whole life.

“I don’t think it’d make a difference if I acknowledged it,” he said. “If I started correcting everyone. If I showed up with the, ‘um, actually, she said it first.’ No, they’d think I’m just putting on a show. Pretending to be humble. And what would be the difference, in the end? Everyone would still think I’m narcissistic. I’d still get those fucking points. Nothing would change.”

Your lips remained pressed tightly together, but your gaze softened.

He’d thought about this, then. He’d considered bringing it up.

And it was true that he couldn’t do much to change the blatant preferential treatment he received. He couldn’t stop being his parents’ son.

But, at the same time, he was saying that he, technically, could have called out the injustices benefiting him. He wouldn’t have lost his place at the table for that. He’d just chosen not to do it, because he thought speaking up would only reinforce his arrogant image.

Perhaps it would. But you weren’t asking for that. You were asking for accountability.

“Not everything is about systemic change,” you said. “You may still get the points, yeah. But calling things by their names would at least show that you see the problem. And that is already a huge change. Not what follows after it. Just the acknowledgement itself.”

Yeonjun watched you for a long moment.

“You want me to admit that you’re right,” he concluded. “That sometimes, I get rewarded for your ideas.”

You met his gaze head-on. “Do you think you do?”

He didn’t say anything for a long minute, and the silence stretched until it began to sound like an answer in itself. Then:

“Yes.”

You drew in a sharp, cold breath.

It had taken you a very long time to get here, past all the defences, all the pride and the ego.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “You said it would matter if I wanted you to speak up. So if I’d actually said that, yes, I want you to say something about this—would you really do it?”

Yeonjun felt his heart thud dangerously inside his chest, dull and dizzy as though it was falling down a well.

He knew what you were asking him; he’d just told you that he didn’t speak up, because he didn’t think there was a difference.

Were you the difference?

“Yes,” he said. You held your breath, not sure if you believed him. Not sure if he believed him. “But would you want me to?”

Blinking, you dropped your gaze to the glittering ice patch on the pavement.

He already knew the answer to that. And he was right.

You didn’t want him to swoop in as your saviour, proving once again that his voice rang louder than yours. You didn’t want him to grant you credibility like a favour. Like goodwill.

No – you didn’t want him to speak up for you.

You wanted him to stop speaking over you.

You wanted him to stop using your thoughts as his ladder. To stop playing along when he was propped up at your expense.

And, you supposed, his confession tonight was the closest you’d get to it.

“Could help your case,” you said, not replying to his question. “You wouldn’t seem so antagonistic if you recognised your privileges out loud.”

He gave a cynical shake of his head.

“No. I still would,” he said. “I hear what people say about me. You think I don’t? I know I’m the arrogant, rich dickhead. In love with myself. Never serious about anything. People I’ve never met in my life whisper that when I pass by. They don’t even have to know me.”

You squinted. “Do they do that?”

“They do,” he said. “They whisper shit, and then, when it’s convenient, they act like they’ve always been my friends.” He gave you an ironic smile. “You’re probably the only one who’s been consistent about your hate for me, love. And the only one who’s said it to my face.”

You shifted your gaze back to the pavement and did not reply.

“There’s nothing I can do to change what people think about me, or how they treat me,” he finished. “But so what? It’s not my life’s mission to plead my case to anyone who’s already decided I’m not worth the effort. Fuck it. Those who care to find out what I’m really like, will. And those who don’t, won’t. S’all.”

It occurred to you then that you might have been envying him a little for his ease. For his proud indifference.

Now you thought it might not have been indifference at all. It sounded like surrender.

You tugged your turtleneck up, fingers nearly frozen in the biting wind.

“Hard to find out,” you muttered, “when you’re naturally unapproachable.”

He met your eyes. A brief glint of relief passed through him when he saw the tension ease on your brow.

“Then they’re not worth approaching,” he said. “Got to risk getting bitten to learn I don’t even bite.”

You looked at him for a second. Then for a few more.

Finally, your lips twitched like a hiccup in your composure.

“That’s a really warped attitude,” you said.

He allowed himself a tentative smile. “Yeah, well. You had to know that already.”

You turned away, your breath rising in a smoke of air.

You did know that. Just like you knew that he was aware of how much he received, and how little he needed to work for it. And you knew that he did work for it—although, admittedly, you preferred to ignore his genuine effort (as intermittent as it was).

His pride would likely never allow him to apologise for accepting undue credit. It wouldn’t allow him to speak about this openly—not just to avoid playing your hero, but because he was still convinced it wouldn’t matter, or it’d only make it worse.

But tonight, at least, his pride allowed him to acknowledge you.

That was something.

As silence fell over you, Yeonjun lowered his gaze to your shadow on the pavement. Your arms were tucked tight, as though you were trying to hold in more than just body heat.

“Come on,” he said. “We don’t have to say anything to anyone inside. But it’s fucking freezing. Let’s go back.”

Your fingers curled deeper into the fabric of your turtleneck.

“Go,” you said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You’ll freeze in a minute.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t move and continued to stare at you.

Finally, you met his gaze. The harsh lines on his dry lips showed he was cold, too. You almost wondered if he’d left his coat inside out of solidarity.

“What?” you asked, no real fight in your tone. “Going to stay here, too, then?”

“Yes,” he said, matching your stubbornness word for word. “Not going without you.”

You sighed—half in despair, half in helpless amusement—and threw your head back against the wall.

“Do you have to try,” you said, “or does this annoying behaviour come naturally to you?”

”S’my talent,” he replied dryly. “You can go ahead and get mad at me for not wanting you to freeze, but do it inside.”

You gave him an even look. “Why not, then?”

“Why not what?”

“Why don’t you want me to freeze?”

He paused, unsure how to respond.

The question, at its core, seemed too big for an answer.

“Why would I?” he ended up saying. “You think just because I challenge you, I’d want you to actually suffer?”

You smiled for the first time in a while—and he realised what he’d just offered you, but couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

“Well, if you don’t want me to suffer,” you said, “why do you keep making me suffer?”

He sighed. Something flickered in his eyes—raw and unfiltered—but your teeth had begun to chatter. You looked away before you could name it.

“I’m not making you suffer,” he decided.

You scoffed half-heartedly. “Can’t tell if you’re gaslighting me or yourself.”

He ignored that and nodded at the door.

“Go back in, love,” he said. “Come on.”

You hesitated for another moment, then finally pushed yourself off the wall and walked past him without another word.

“Oh, that’s it, then?” he called, following after you with mock astonishment. “No final comment about how much you loathe me and how unbearable I am?”

You shot him a glance over your shoulder. “You haven’t got it yet?”

“Not quite,” he said. “One more time might do it.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He grinned.

“There it is,” he said. “Spot on. Thank you, love.”

You shook your head as you walked ahead of him, shoulders hunched as if the night physically weighed on you, hands still stiff from the cold.

But as you reached the bar door, he caught a glimpse of your reflection in the window. There was a faint, uncertain smile on your lips.

And Yeonjun, proud as he was, found it rather interesting how he didn’t feel all that cold anymore.

prev ○ next (coming soon)

[bluebudgie]

technology was just kinda overlapping you know, you didn't really stop using one kind only because there was a newer one. i used both my walkman and discman for years depending on what i wanted to listen to. some stuff was on cassette and some stuff was on cd.

that said the invention of mp3 players was a blessing. no more tangled tape. no more audio hickups on bumpy roads. the only enemy was the 256mb storage limit

[mortalityplays]

talking about impenetrable accents/dialect just reminded me. when I was in Milan a couple of years back I was staying in this little rathole hotel and I had the biggest fucking migraine, so I was like non c'è problema I'll just go buy painkillers. of course every pharmacy on the map in a three block radius was closed, so my stupid ass just starts wandering around trying to figure out on the fly if you can get OTC from supermarkets in italy.

I walk into this little everything store (to my foreign eyes the kind of place that back home could sell you a bunch of carrots, a 6-pack of beer, pantyhose, bleach and a screwdriver set) and I see some household basics in the back but not what I need. with the confidence of a person who is only in the city for 3 days because he got bored and packed a bag and booked the cheapest flight available the week before (<= MENTAL ILLNESS), I was like no worries I know some italian, I can just ask.

I grab a bottle of water, walk up to the counter, and I'm like Ciao, hai il paracetamolo? And the guy is like che, and I'm like paracetamolo. Per la mia testa. And he's like che?

This is where I would have said 'aspirina' except I can't take aspirin for medical reasons, or 'antidolorifico' except I don't know that word and I've got no phone data for google translate and also I'm stupid. So in my fucked up leith-glasgow-italian accent I'm like paaa-ra-cetta-mollll-ooo. He's like ohhh bene, bene, and he calls another guy out of the back and asks him to go get something. Other guy then walks out of the store into the street, and before I can be like hey, che la fuck, he comes back and hands me a huge bundle of herbs.

At this point I'm like okay this entire interaction has been a bust, but these guys have been very nice and patient and they're both smiling happily at me because they've been of service, so I'm like ahh perfetto, grazie, pay them a couple of euros and leave.

EVENTUALLY I find a pharmacy that's open, and my head is fucking killing me, and my phone still isn't connecting, and now I have this small shrubbery poking out of my coat pocket, so I don't even bother looking around the shelves. I just walk straight to the counter and I'm like uhh ciao, scusi. And hearing my nightmare of an accent the guy answers in english and I'm like thank christ, do you please have paracetamol. Not aspirin, I can't take aspirin. And he's like yeah yeah hold on, goes into the back, comes out with what I need.

Only when he comes out he gives me this look, and then he starts laughing. And then he pretends he's not laughing and rings me up and I pay, and as I'm leaving I can see him losing it. But I don't care, my head is going to explode, I'm going back to the rathole to close the blinds and fall comatose for four hours.

When I get back to my hotel room I take off my coat and remember the huge bouquet of herbs in my pocket. They smell amazing, and I'm like I'm pretty sure this is parsley in which case I can just get some tomatoes and mozzarella later and make it work. but since I have no idea what that interaction was, I want to make sure. I bring out my phone to get a visual reference of what parsley leaves look like, and because I was using it for google translate earlier I put 'parsley' in the wrong box like a dope and translate it to italian.

prezzemolo

I wish I could have been the pharmacist in the moment he looked at my tired pissed off anglophone ass, heard me say 'paracetamol' in my fucked up accent, and turned around saw what was in my pocket. I'd have lost my shit too.

[sinkuna]

୨୧ — As you're reaching for Nanami's favorite coffee mug -the one you bought him as a joke that says "worlds hottest daddy"- you find yourself struggling with your new center of gravity…

At six months pregnant, your balance had shifted quite dramatically, your rounded belly making even the simple tasks challenging.

Standing on your tippy toes, you stretch as far as you can, Nanami's oversized shirt riding up perfectly to tease the swell of your stomach.

Your fingers wiggle around just barely grazing the handle... "Almost... got it." you mutter to yourself, straining just a little further.

That's when Nanami walks in.

He pauses in the doorway, his tired eyes instantly softening at the sight before him. Your hair tousled from sleep, legs bare, his shirt riding up exposing the curve of your belly where his daughter was growing. His lips curl up into a smile at the way your ass is sticking out and how hard you're trying to reach the cup, ignoring the doctors and his orders, but still…

"Don't move," he says, his voice soft and gentle, yet still authoritative. Your freeze, turning your head to find him pulling out his phone, a look of absolute adoration on his face, "just... stay exactly like that,"

"What are you doing?" You giggle, but you remain as he requested, watching as he snaps a photo, then another, and another.

"Preserving this moment," he says simply, crossing the kitchen toward you. Turning his phone, he shows you the screen, and... damn... you had no idea he was this good at taking photos. The picture shows your entire profile, your pregnant belly, the smile on your lips as you look over your shoulder at him, and how the morning sun gives the top of your head a makeshift halo. You look, good... radiant, even.

"You're beautiful, and this is how I see you every single day," Nanami whispers, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as he tucks his phone back in his pocket. 

Before you can respond, he steps behind you, one strong arm wrapping carefully around your waist, just beneath your pregnant belly. With surprising gentleness for such a powerful man, he lifts you slightly and places you at his side away from the counter.

"Kento!!" You squeal, giggling as he holds you to him, positioning himself in front of the shelf.

"Let me," he says with a smile, easily reaching up to grab the mug.

"I could've gotten it," you protest weakly, though you and him both knew you loved his attentiveness.

"I know you could," he agrees, giving you a squeeze so soft you almost missed it, "but why should you when I'm here? Taking care of you both is my favorite job."

You practically melt into him, "I ask myself everyday how I got so lucky... maybe we should send the bar we met at flowers and a thank you card."

He chuckles, "Perhaps we should... But I think I should get some lower shelves installed first. I don't want you struggling while I'm not here."

"I'm pregnant, Kento. Not an old granny."

"No, you're definitely not," how could he disagree when you were in fact much younger than he was... "Humor me though, please" He murmurs, pressing the sweetest kiss to your cheek.

"Fiiiine," you sigh dramatically, though you're fighting back a smile, "I suppose I can let my big strong husband take care of me..."

"That's my good girl," Nanami murmurs, his voice ever so gentle against your ear as he sets the mug down on the counter.

Without warning, his large hand slide down to rest on your thighs, and before you can even process what's happening, one strong arm slides beneath you, supporting you under your bottom and thighs.

"Hold onto me," he instructs softly, and you barely have time to wrap your arms around his neck before he's lifting you effortlessly off your feet in one smooth motion.

"Keeennnto!" you whine playfully, your face flushing at how easily he carries you despite the pregnancy.

"I've got you, my love." he says simply, a sweet kiss to your temple as he carries you the few steps to the kitchen table, "I've always got you."

He sets you down gently on the edge of the table, his hands lingering on your waist as he positions himself between your legs. This close, you can see the way his eyes have gone soft with pure adoration, the way they keep drifting down to your rounded belly.

"You're going to spoil me rotten," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the wonderful beat of his heart beneath your palms, a feeling you’ll never grow tire of.

"Good," he replies without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup your cheek while the other spreads across your belly, "That's exactly what I intend to do. For the rest of our lives. Now-" he leans down to press a kiss to your lips, "let me make you breakfast while you sit there and look beautiful."

Prt 1 │˚₊‧꒰ა. 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[aeyumicore]

one year older - caleb 夏以昼

you’ve been completely occupied during the week of caleb’s birthday—leaving caleb needy and jealous. he intends to make up for every lost moment. a birthday special for our dearest caleb. inspired by but NOT based on ‘no-return night.’ it will not follow the same plot or dialogue.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with very little plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 6.9k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, flirtatious use of ‘gege,’ drunk!caleb, jealous!caleb, possessive!caleb, mentions of alcohol consumption, oral sex m! and f!receiving, sex on the floor, unprotected sex, swallowing, tiddy sucking, possessive behavior, cum marking kinda, gideon is mentioned a lot, caleb is pouty and sulky, squirting, multiple orgasms, lots of petnames, no use of y/n

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | original inspo | shot, shot, shot, shot! fic

━ ✧.˖ A/N: this is kinda caleb’s version of shot, shot, shot, shot! in which he is drunk and jealous and inspired by that one clip of that drunk asian guy drinking water. i may end up writing his own dedicated version—unsure as of now since this one basically is that + birthday twist.

again, inspired by but NOT based on ‘no-return night.’ it will not follow the same plot or dialogue.

happy birthday to our dearest xia yizhou. you are so unbelievably loved. i hope everyone’s been having fun celebrating caleb’s birthday! i will be pulling for no-return night tomorrow, wish me luck <3

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

[17:31] Brat: i can’t come over tonight :-( gideon needed help picking ur gift. i’m sorry, ill see you tmw birthday boy! <3

Caleb sighs, typing a quick response—thumbs flying across the screen. Amidst the privacy of his Fleet office, he doesn’t bother to hide the disappointment or simmering jealousy from his breathy exhale. 

[17:33] Caleb: Again? I’ve barely seen you this week :(

You’d come to Skyhaven, taking a whole week off, to spend his birthday with him. His first birthday since everything had become so complicated. 

And Caleb was used to sharing his birthday. Growing up, he’d always found himself throwing joint birthday parties or forgoing his birthday altogether for summer sports events. 

But it was different now. Spending nearly an entire year playing dead—living without you, altered his view on life. He wanted every milestone, every birthday, every little thing someone could have to look forward to. 

And he wanted it with you. 

Caleb’s jaw ticks dangerously when you don’t respond, pocketing his phone and turning back to the mission reports on his desk. 

But he finds concentration elusive, too distracted by the irrational possessiveness bubbling inside of him. Swearing, he pulls his phone back out. 

Nothing. 

His chest aches with an emptiness that can only be attributed to your absence. The same dull throb he feels when he can’t touch you—when you’re not in his field of vision. Which, lately, seemed more often than not.

Even for his birthday week in Skyhaven it seemed like Gideon got your attention more than he did. He knew the two of you were friends. Beyond the silly nostalgic times the three of you had shared during his time at Skyhaven University and Aerospace Academy, Gideon had been there for you during the hardest time of your life. 

Fucking Gideon.

Caleb sulks childishly to himself. The logical part of him knew that the two of you were probably meeting up to scheme something for his birthday. He trusted Gideon with his life, which wasn’t something he could say about many people these days. 

He shouldn’t be jealous. Rationally, he knew that.

But, when it came to you, he tended to be anything but rational.

“Colonel? Sir?”

An unexpected voice cuts him out of his thoughts. He pockets his phone, quickly masking his expression. The pout he didn’t even realize he wore slides off, replaced by the calculated and authoritative Colonel’s mask. He snaps without even realizing it—much harsher and sharper than he normally was with his subordinates.

“What?!”

The lieutenant standing on the other side of the desk gulps nervously, bowing his head respectfully. In less than a fraction of a second, Caleb collects himself.

“Apologies. What do you need, Lieutenant?”

God, he could use a drink. 

–

You adjust the string of twinkling lights you’d strung up on the couch in Caleb’s living room. Biting your lip, you fluff up the adorable apple shaped plushie that sat on the furniture. 

Spinning around, you take one last quick once over of the space.

The countless wrapped presents you’d gotten for him were tastefully scattered about, the projector set up against the wall just how you wanted it, every balloon meticulously placed. His living room, albeit much homier now that you’d basically taken over his life like a tornado, was normally still a bit bare. But now, it looked like something out of a dream.

Perfect.

It was the first birthday you’d be celebrating with Caleb ever since the explosion. Now that things were finally somewhat settling down into a comfortable routine, you wanted to show Caleb just how much you’d missed him—cherished him. Starting with his birthday. 

The first of a lifetime of birthdays you would share together. You’d make sure of that. 

Your phone buzzes with a text, the screen lighting up with Gideon’s contact.

[8:15 PM] Gid: Let me know how Xia reacts! Good luck.

[8:15 PM] Me: i will! thank u for helping me set up again gideon!!

Your heart clenches as you catch the unread text message from the birthday boy himself. You’d been so excited to get the house ready that you’d completely forgotten to text him back. 

Just as you’re typing out a response, you hear the familiar sound of the front door clicking unlocked. Eyes widening, you set your phone down, carefully picking up the birthday cake you’d made and positioning yourself in the entry way that connects to the foyer.

Seconds tick by, the faint sound of fumbling making you set the cake down on the console table in a mix of confusion and worry. As you’re about to reach for the handle, the door pushes open—revealing Caleb.

In the dim entryway you don’t see how slightly disheveled he is, a flush creeping up his neck. You probably wouldn’t have seen it even if the light had been flipped on, far too excited to see him. To celebrate him. 

“Happy birthday, Caleb!” you squeal, all but forgetting the uncharacteristic fumbling, bounding up to him and wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and launching yourself into his arms.

Caleb grunts in surprise, completely taken aback but catching you by your waist all the same. His lengthy fingers spread to grip you tightly, securing you against his solid body. You’re so caught up in your excitement that you miss the odd way Caleb stumbles a step backward as he catches you.

“Well, early birthday,” you giggle, glancing at the clock. 

8:37 PM. You hadn’t even noticed how late it’d gotten. You crinkle your brows slightly, wondering how Caleb hadn’t caught you in your little scheme. You were well behind schedule, considering Caleb always got home at 7:30 on the dot with his military-disciplined punctuality. 

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you,” Caleb murmurs into the top of your head, taking a deep inhale of your scent. 

You laugh into his chest, the smooth leather of his uniform digging into your cheek. You sigh happily as his hands wander up, wrapping his arms around you entirely. The entire elaborate birthday surprise is briefly forgotten as you sink into his hold, missing him terribly after not seeing him much this week as you ran around scheming.

“Smell so damn good,” Caleb’s voice is so muffled, his breath warm against your scalp. With his words obscured against your hair, you can’t hear his slight slur.

Taking a small step backward, you peer up at him. Your knuckles brush gently across his cheek, grinning as he adorably leans into your touch.

”How was work? You feeling okay?”

Caleb bends down to brush his lips against your temple, “I am now.” 

Your chest constricts, knowing you’d barely had time with him this week. Remembering why you’d had to avoid him all week, you eagerly tug him along to the living room that casts twinkling lights down the hallway like an absolute dream world. Caleb stumbles behind you, letting you pull him along.  

Just as you’re almost in sight of the surprise you’d set up, you stop in your tracks.

”Wait, wait!” You run behind him, tiptoeing up to cover his eyes with your hands, his skin hot and flushed against your palms. Distracted by your excitement, you push him along with your hands covering his eyes like a blindfold. 

Tripping against his heels due to the height difference, you whine and retract your hands, “Okay this isn't working. Close your eyes!”

Caleb chuckles breathily and complies, his violet eyes shutting, “Of course, pip-squeak.”

Once you’re sure his eyes are closed, waving your hands in front of him for good measure, you guide him the rest of the way into the once depressing living room, now a cozy paradise for just the two of you.

“Okay, open!”

Caleb’s eyes flutter open, hazy with a distinct sluggish fog that you’ve yet to fully notice. The mist clears in an instant as he takes in the scene before him.

His throat tightens at the transformation the Skyhaven house undergone. The only memories he used to have in this room were the gray storm clouds that floated just outside the floor to ceiling windows when he’d jolt awake from nightmares, covered in a cold sheen of sweat. 

Until you came back into his life.

Now, only the most pleasant memories remain. Takeout on the coffee table as you fed him dumplings cross legged on the carpet, him drying your hair as you sat in front of the glass panes watching jets fly by, you curled against his chest on the couch as movies played into the night.

The same couch that was now covered in balloons, fairy lights, and perfectly wrapped presents.  

Without a word, Caleb pulls you flush against his body, your back pressed firmly into his chest and his bicep wrapped securely around your shoulders. You burst into a fit of laughter as he buries his face into shoulder, nuzzling his nose into the side of your face. You hold onto his arm that’s around your chest, enjoying the way he leans into you. 

“So this is what you were up to, hm?” His breath is warm as it tickles you, his skin hot even under the thick layers of his uniform. 

“Yes,” you grin mischievously before turning to him with a question of your own, “What about you? You’re home late today.” 

Now facing him, the warm glow from dozens of twinkling fairy lights illuminating his handsome face, you notice how red Caleb is. 

His bright eyes finally flicker down, distracted by the picturesque scene behind you. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a familiar hungry glint in his violet eyes. Before wasting another second, he crashes his lips to yours and devours you like a man starved.

You moan as he gently demands entry—wanting more. His fingers hold you possessively, one gripping your hair and the other holding your chin as his tongue makes up for every minute he didn’t get to hold you this week.

But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the faint taste of alcohol snaps you back to the present. The flushed and clammy skin, the stumbling, the slight slur.

Pulling away, you take his face into your hands and look into his starry eyes,

“Caleb Xia, are you drunk?!”

Caleb blinks at you slowly, the tips of his ears pinkening at being caught red-handed. 

“No, are you?”

You burst out laughing as his eyes try their best to focus on you, “You are!”

Caleb grins crookedly at you, “No. I’m—hicc—Caleb.”

You roll your eyes at his ill-timed hiccup, dragging him to the couch and gently pushing him down onto it. He flops onto it unceremoniously, his arm resting atop one of the apple cushions and his thighs spread wide to let you stand between them. With his other hand, he loosens his tie, his Adam’s apple bobbing thickly under his uniform. 

You can’t help but dig your teeth into your lip at how unfairly attractive he’s always been, especially in a tie. The way he loosened it—the way he looked up at you with molten desire and longing flooding his features, nearly made your knees buckle under your own weight. 

“Wait here, dummy,” you brush his hair out of his eyes before turning away from him, intending to grab some water from the kitchen. 

Caleb’s fingers close clumsily around your wrist, yanking you back to face him. 

”Stay.”

He looks up at you with expectant eyes, his voice coming out soft and breathless. The plea is vulnerable as it is demanding.

”Spend my birthday with me.”

You smile reassuringly at him, stepping back toward him to press a tender kiss to his parted lips, the alcohol still lingering on his tongue.

”I’m just going to get you some water, okay? I’m not going anywhere. It’s your birthday—you get anything you want.” 

Caleb groans, almost a guttural growl, “Fuck. Don’t say things like that. N-Not when I’m like this.” 

The heat in his voice is undeniable, making your skin crawl with burning anticipation. 

“Water first,” you croak, “Then, whatever the birthday boy wants.” 

The drunken colonel pouts with distaste but lets you slip your wrist out of his grasp. Before you change your mind, you quickly make your way to the kitchen and grab a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with cool filtered water.

When you get back to the couch, Caleb looks considerably more inebriated as he plays with the silver tag of his necklace, dangling it in front of his face. When he sees you, his eyes light up and a lopsided grin appears on his face. ”Finally,” he slurs, reaching out for you, “Missed you,”

You roll your eyes, letting him hook his arm around your waist, yanking you to him, “I was gone for like two minutes.”

Caleb’s eyes scrunch as he pulls you back into the space between his legs, both arms looping around you.

”Two minutes too—hicc—long.”

Biting your chuckle back, you take his jaw into your fingers and tilt his face up at you, bringing the water to his lips, “Open up,”

Caleb’s eyes shine with mischief, “Kiss first.”

This time your laugh escapes, amused and utterly infatuated with his adorable demands. You argue, “Water first so I can sober you up. Then you can have as many kisses as you’d like.”

Caleb grumbles unhappily but obeys, his lips parting slightly and looking up at you expectantly. His breath is warm against your skin as you raise the glass back to his mouth, gently guiding his chin with your fingers.

As he drinks, you gently stroke his burning skin with your thumb. Despite protesting, he gulps the water down hungrily. 

But his sight is entirely trained onto you and not the cup, eyes flickering down the curves of your bare shoulder. In his heated appreciation, rivulets of cold liquid dribble down his chin, dripping tantalizingly down the bulge of his neck.

His thick eyelashes flutter back up, violet eyes meeting yours with unspoken heat and longing—compounded by the amount of times someone else had taken you from him this week.

With his face tilted up, drinking greedily from your hands, eyes wide and locked onto you with both appreciation and desperation, he looks unbelievably vulnerable. His thick arms still lock around your waist, refusing to let you go.

You swear you could stand there for an eternity just counting each of his long thick eyelashes as he looked up at you like his entire world revolved around you. 

When he finishes, you twist around to set the glass on the coffee table behind you. 

“So—”

You don’t get another word out before Caleb is pulling you down onto his lap and recapturing your lips in a passionate kiss. His touch is territorial and demanding, large palm cupping the small of your back, maneuvering you until you’re straddling him. His skin, damp from the spilt water, clings to yours as he picks up where he’d left off. His other hand squeezes the nape of your neck, leaving no room for escape.

The faint remnants of alcohol still linger on his tongue, but he tastes so distinctly Caleb that you can’t help but whimper and reciprocate with everything you have. His unrelenting hold makes you squirm, readjusting yourself more comfortably on his lap. 

Caleb curses, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, trying to keep you still while he begs into your lips, “Jesus princess, please stop moving like that.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re drunk?” you counter, murmuring into his lips when he’s forced to let you go so he can hiccup. 

Caleb kisses down your jaw until his breath is at your ear, “Went to get drinks with Liam.” 

Your eyes widen in pleasant surprise, “Liam? But you guys don’t usually—”

“I thought that I wouldn’t see you ‘til tomorrow. Needed a distraction. So Liam offered,” he grumbles, sulking, “Gideon’s been taking all your time.”

Your heart throbs at his words. 

He didn’t want to be alone. 

“Gideon’s just been helping me plan and set up. Since he’s more familiar with Skyhaven than I am.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow at you, an adorable pout playing on his lips, words still slurred, ”Don’t tell me Gideon is going to pop out from behind the couch.” 

Grinning, you shake your head, “Nope. It’s just us tonight.”

His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a familiar hungry glint in his violet eyes. 

“Good.”

With his lips still at the hollow of your neck, his lips latch gently onto your skin, sucking a blossoming red mark right where he was sure people would see. 

“He told me to—ngh—tell you hah-happy birthday though.” 

Caleb only grunts in response, face buried in your neck and fingers crawling up your thighs, playing with the lace seam of your panties.

“Also, Gideon is coming over tomorrow to—“ 

Caleb’s chest rumbles with a growl, his teeth nipping the forming hickey in warning, which elicits a yelp from you, “Say his name one more time, see what happens.” 

You giggle at his ridiculousness, “Colonel Xia, you’re so demanding when you’re drunk.”

Caleb grips your chin roughly, forcing you to level with him, “You want to see demanding, pip-squeak?”

His voice is gravelly and completely serious, making your knees buckle, even as you straddled him. You’d almost think you were the one who was drunk.

“Demanding is what I should’ve been when someone else was stealing you away from me all week.”

His fingers tauntingly trace your jaw, eyes dilated as they drink in every morsel of your increasingly heavy breath.

“Demanding is when I remind you that I’m not a man who shares, not what’s mine.”

The heat that radiates off his body is palpable, the aura of drunken jealousy-fueled dominance and possession dripping off of him. It makes your core ache.

“Demanding is this,” Caleb takes your wrist into his hand, bringing it to the space between your bodies. He closes your finger over something warm, hard, and throbbing under his slacks. 

Your breath catches in your throat as Caleb looks at you, his eyes darkened to a near indigo. His own breaths accelerate considerably with his bulge in your delicate hands, forcing himself not to thrust into your fingers.  

“So?” he rasps, “Are you going to take responsibility for this?”

You gulp, tearing your eyes away from the way he strains against the confines of his pants, absolutely tented and bricked up. 

“Anything you want. It’s your birthday.” 

Caleb swears quietly, chest heaving as he watches your eyes flutter at him—seeing how utterly serious you are about serving him. 

“On the floor then,” he croaks, fingers softening their hold on you so you can climb off his lap and onto the floor before him, right between his open thighs.

“Get on your knees for gege.”

The carpet is rough against your skin as you kneel before him, carefully undoing his belt and freeing his throbbing erection. As it springs free, nearly hitting you in the face, you press his burning wet skin into your palm. 

Caleb groans as soon as you touch him, hips bucking off the couch involuntarily. He pants for air, unbearably sensitive from not only the alcohol, but from the simmering ache of jealousy that still lurks beneath his skin. 

You give him a few firm pumps, mesmerized as your fingers catch pearly drops of his copious arousal. He was so pent up—leaking so much need—that you’d think he’d already cum.

“Fuck—take me in your mouth,” Caleb commands, guiding you just how he liked it. You giggle at his demands, darting your tongue out to catch the beads of precum making its way down his thick shaft. 

Caleb groans, his fingers digging into the soft apple cushion, “God—that fucking tongue…”

When you finally sink him into the warm wet recesses of your mouth, Caleb threads his fingers into your hair, gripping tightly. 

“More,” he croaks—your name spilling from his lips like a prayer, stroking your scalp, “Need more.”

You hum, slowly taking him deeper into your mouth and eventually your throat. Caleb unconsciously thrusts into you, unable to control himself when you take him this well, this obediently.

“Jesus, baby,” he grunts, his restraint hanging on by a thread, “The things you do to me…”

His chest heaves as you take him fully, your lips pressed against his pelvis. You can feel your panties becoming increasingly wet as he praises you. Wanting to hear more, more of his addicting noises, more of his filthy praises, you progressively go faster. Exactly how he liked it.

“F-Fuck—fuck!” Caleb throws his head back with his slurred cries of ecstasy, “Need to flood that perfect fucking throat.”

Whining, your enthusiasm soars, the prospect of his finish fueling your own excitement. Your tongue teases the throbbing vein that crawls up the underside of his girth, knowing how insane it always drives him. 

Caleb’s pushing your head down now, his pleasure bursting the dam of restraint.

”Hah—close, princess,” he looks down at you with pleading hooded eyes, his cheeks red with both the flush of alcohol and the pleasure of your wicked tongue. 

“Look at me.”

If it was one thing Caleb loved, it was making you look into his eyes as he filled you. 

He lifts your chin just slightly, throbbing as you peer up at him through your wet eyelashes. 

“God—you’re so damn beautiful. All fucking mine.” 

At the sight of your teary eyes fluttering up at him, cheeks hollow as you devoured him, lips puffy and kiss bitten, Caleb explodes without a further warning. He coats every inch of your mouth, your throat, with himself. 

You do your best to take every single drop, but it inevitably dribbles down your lips as you choke lightly. 

“Swallow,” Caleb rasps, animalistic hunger dripping from his words. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, collecting rivulets that had escaped and popping his finger into your mouth, “All of it.” 

Even without his demand, you would’ve done just that. With your eyes never leaving his, you dramatically gulp, letting your tongue caress his digit as you pull yourself off.

As soon as your lips leave him, he’s hoisting you up by your waist, throwing you under his body and onto the plush couch. He hovers above you, using his knee to part your thighs, nearly coming in contact with your soaking panties.

“So fucking good for me. My good girl.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, his lips coming down to claim yours. You gasp as his tongue invades your mouth, giving him easy access to you. You’re still salty with the taste of his own finish, yet so unbearably sweet with your own unique taste, only making him more eager. Feverish. Frenzied. 

His hands are everywhere, under your skirt, in your hair, gripping your chin. Every moan, every whimper—he consumes with desperation bordering on insanity. 

Too lost in the passion of his lips, you hardly notice when the two of you roll off the couch. You can vaguely hear the clatter of something falling, feeling Caleb’s hand move against the back of your head and tailbone—shielding you from the impact. 

“Oops,” Caleb grins, lips puffy, still hovering above you, “Got carried away.”

Laughing, your fingers reach up to take his face into your hands. He leans into your touch, turning his face so he can brush a wet kiss into your palm. The floor is hard against your back, the carpet giving you rugburn, but with Caleb above you, it feels perfect. 

“How are you feeling now?” 

Caleb’s eyes hungrily trail down your body, perfectly pinned under his. His eyes darken, hooded with desire that’d hardly been quelled. 

His voice is a gravelly slur, “Feel like…unwrapping some presents.”

Your heart races as his fingers snake up your arm, finding the black straps of your dress. 

“Caleb…”

With one gentle tug, he unravels the neatly tied ribbons on your shoulders. His throat bobs hungrily as he takes you in, fingers tracing heated paths down your skin while he pulls the bodice of your dress down slightly to expose more of you to his ravenous eyes.

“You wrapped yourself up so beautifully for me,” he swears under his breath when he unveils your intricate lingerie, your nipple visible just beneath the lace.

“Fuck.”

He can’t stop himself from dipping down, capturing your breast even through the sheer fabric of your bra. 

“Caleb–w-wait!” you cry, not convincing even yourself. Your eyes roll heavenward, arching into his hot demanding tongue even through the uncomfortably feeling of wet fabric.

He nips playfully at your sensitive peaks, looking up at you through his eyelashes, eyebrows hooded with hunger. 

His breath is so hot it makes you writhe with need as he speaks into your skin, “Wait for what, princess? I’ve been waiting all week.”

You chuckle breathily before peeling into a pleasured squeal when he bites down, gently but firmly, “F-Fine. Only because it’s your—mmngh—birthday!”

Caleb chuckles darkly, releasing your other nipple with a wet pop, “Are you sure about that, sweets?”

He makes a show of raising the skirt of your dress, the rug fibers tickling your thighs. Drinking in each and every one of your delicious mewls, he smirks, “If I recall correctly, you’re always good at taking orders from your Colonel.”

You’re about to retort, fiery sass on the tip of your tongue, when Caleb flicks your swollen clit—precise and intentional. Your cry is sharp as it is pleasured, your fingernails digging painfully into the carpet, thighs closing against Caleb's solid body. 

“Caleb!”

He grins, “Yeah, baby?”

“You know what—ngh fuck!” You’re cut off again when he lowers his head to lick a hot wet stripe down your slit, all the way to your throbbing clit, right through the fabric of the lace panties.

“Fuuuck, did you get this wet just from sucking gege’s cock?” he groans, breath hot against your trembling sensitive lips, “You spoil me.” 

As soon as the pleasure comes, it disappears, Caleb withdrawing with a crazed look of mischief in his galaxy eyes. 

“Say it.”

You whine, your hips bucking up—instinctively chasing Caleb’s touch. He pushes you back down, his palm flat against your stomach and lips latched into the soft skin of your inner thigh. So close to where you need him most.

“Say it.”

Caleb is drunk off something entirely different now, making little to no sense as his tongue darts out to sample you again. 

“F-Fuck—say what?! What do you want me to—mmngh—say?”

He lifts your ruined panties to the side, eyes dilated with pure hunger. Unable to stop himself, even when he wants to tease you, he leans back in. His tongue parts your lips, teasing your entrance. 

Words vibrating into your soul, he grunts, “Say you only take orders from me.” 

Deciding to give in, lest he take away the pleasure just as it began, you sit up on your elbows, “Only you Caleb. Only ever t-take orders from my gege.” 

Caleb’s fingers tighten around your thighs, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the weight of his desperate breaths. His eyes, delirious with hunger, lock onto yours as he leans back on—fully ready to devour you now. 

“And you look so damn perfect doing it.” 

You fall backward as Caleb tugs you forward, lifting you until your pussy was level with him as he sat up. You’re surprised when your head hits a soft apple plush, gut fluttering as you realize Caleb had used his Evol to position the pillow when he’d yanked you towards him.

He was always thinking of you—protecting you.

Just as your skull thumps gently into the cushion, he buries himself in you, so eagerly that his teeth nearly knock into your fevered skin. He’d spent so many hours which his tongue nestled inside you that he could practically draft blueprints on exactly how you liked it. 

Slow. Attentive. Devoted.

And Caleb was always an over-achiever.

With you stretched out on his tongue, his nose brushing insistently into your hardened clit, he shows you the utmost reverence, worshiping you like the absolute perfection you were.

“O-Oh god Caaleb—! Just like that. Please don’t stop.”

He grunts in approval, letting his deep voice vibrate against your quivering skin. Diligently coaxing your orgasm from you, Caleb inserts one of his skilled fingers. Then two. 

“Never going to stop,” he moans into your core, “That’s what I want for my birthday. To be inside of you forever.”

You whine at his words, his fingers easily finding your soft g-pot, “W-Want that too. Hah—please, gege.”

Caleb nearly snarls at your breathy words, fingers digging into your skin.

“That’s my fucking girl,” he growls into you, coaxing you deliberately, “You know exactly who you belong to, hm?”

You whimper, nodding eagerly as he purposely drags his nose against you. Caleb nearly goes feral at your intoxicating scent, needing your orgasm more than he needs his next breath.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice deep and velvety, “It’s my birthday, right? Show me how much you need me.” 

His lips gently close over your aching nub, sucking hard. Your eyes widen when the pads of his fingertips, deep inside you, stroke demandingly against your most sensitive parts, all but ensuring your heavenly downfall.  

Back arching deeply, the end of your spine digging painfully into the hard floor, your body gives him the thing he’d wanted above anything else, any other gift. 

“Nnngh—feels so fucking good. I-I can’t—no more!…Cumming!” 

Caleb’s chest rumbles as his tongue skillfully catches every drop of your climax, holding your thighs firmly as they quake uncontrollably against him. 

You’re a whimpering mess, never quite able to get used to just how devotedly he tends to you. Your chest heaves as Caleb sets you back down, wiping his shiny lips with the back of his hand. 

“Thank you, princess.”

Vision blurry, you sit up on shaky arms to watch him. He fists his cock slowly, already hard and wanting again.

“You did not just thank me for sex,” you laugh breathlessly, making a face at him. 

Caleb grins, gently pinning you back to the floor. One hand restrains both of yours while the other tilts your chin up at him. 

“Think of it as…thanking you for the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Caleb carefully chooses his words, fully intending for you to pick up on the double meaning behind them. You were the greatest thing in his life. 

“More?” Caleb asks breathlessly, his wide violet eyes desperately pleading with yours, but fully prepared to stop if you needed a break. 

“More. Don’t tell me the birthday boy is an old man already,” you grin at him playfully. 

Caleb smirks, devastatingly handsome, leaning down to brush his lips tauntingly against yours. 

“Brat.”

He firmly cups the back of your head and claims your lips—deliciously bruising and punishing. 

With both his hands, he pins your wrists on either side of your head, rendering you completely pliant at his mercy. 

“I might be one year older,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck, selectively leaving hickeys on your most sensitive parts.

“But I am still perfectly capable of satisfying my girl.”

Caleb presses his lips to yours, consuming you entirely and irrevocably. The taste of alcohol had completely faded away, leaving only the taste of the man you’d loved all your life. The taste of excitement, desperation, longing, and possession.

You feel him use one hand to line himself up with your entrance, entering your with one measured thrust. He swallows your pleasured gasp, pinning your hands back down gently, fingers carefully intertwining with yours.

“Christ,” Caleb groans, his lips still brushing against yours as he gently rolls his hips into you, “Tight little cunt, s’all mine, right?”

“Caaleb,” you moan brokenly, a mix of your release and his saliva making it much easier to accommodate his thick girth, “Nngh—more. Please.”

Caleb growls, his pelvis hitting your thighs with a powerful pitched clap. It’s enough to fuck your breath out of you, your body sliding up against the rough rug painfully. The feeling of his leaking cockhead claiming every sensitive spot inside of you makes the pain of the friction fade away, your eyes rolling back deeply. 

Your needy words go straight to Caleb’s cock, quelling the irrational jealousy that’d been brewing inside him and fueling the possessiveness he felt over you. 

Caleb grabs a throw pillow off the couch, lifting you effortlessly to place it under your hips. The elevation gives him the perfect angle to repeatedly hit your g-spot as it brushed bruisingly into your cervix. 

“So greedy,” he whispers, groaning at the way you wring his cock, “Pussy’s so damn needy. You should see how you’re sucking me in, baby.”

Caleb straightens up, one of your legs wrapped around his waist and the other resting straight against his shoulder as he grips it to his body. He presses tender kisses into your ankle, a sharp contrast to the way he bullies himself into your tight heat.

“Hah—hear that?” he murmurs, fingers finding your clit, making the sounds of wet sinful pleasure even more pronounced, “That’s how much you need me.”

For how self-assured Caleb was in his everyday life, he sounded very much like he was convincing himself and not you.

“Course I need you,” you moan, reassuring the side of him that you know has been hurting this week, “Mmmngh—I’ll a-always need you. Always want you.

He kisses down your calf, so absolutely devoted to worshipping you—to showing you how much he needs you. When he reaches your knee, he wraps your leg back around him, lowering himself to your flushed face. His rhythm is intentional and powerful, each stroke meant to pleasure you and not him.

With your chin softly in his fingers’ grip, he croaks with finality, “You’re mine.” 

But this time it’s not demanding or possessive, but a desperate promise. 

“Show me, Caleb,” you encourage, his urgency fueling your own orgasm. Caleb’s jaw tightens, the bulge in his neck bobbing thickly. 

“Everyday,” he whispers into your mouth, nipping at your puffy lips, “I’ll show you, every fucking day.”

Closing the rest of the distance, Caleb captures you in a kiss that speaks volumes to how wholly you consumed him—how desperately he needs to be consumed by you.

You can tell he’s close, moaning unabashedly into your mouth, hips stuttering against your own trembling body. You can practically feel his cock throbbing as it tries to bury into your damn cervix, coating your walls in beads of precum. He’s pinned you by your wrists again, fingers stroking yours, needing the illusion of complete control over you.

Pulling away, saliva still connecting the two of you, Caleb groans as his balls tighten with that unmistakable tension, “Shit, you feel so good. I-I can’t stop.”

Your toes curl, digging into his back, “No–don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

“Gonna—sh-shit—cum in you princess,” Caleb warns, “Need to fill you up. Haah—Need you to feel me for days.”

You cry out at his filthy promises, body tightening in excitement, his fingers releasing you in favor of finding both your hardened peaks, one hand at your clit and the other at your breast. 

“Jesus—don't squeeze me like that,” he pleads darkly, forcefully being pushed to his precipice, “You like that idea baby?”

Caleb’s fingers press down, eliciting the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“Y-Yes!” you cry, so close to release you’d say anything if it meant you got to cum with his cock inside you.

His eyes darken, jaw ticking, your name a dangerous purr on his lips.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Caleb’s hips snap painfully into your ass, once. He collapses on top of you, catching himself by his palms on the floor framing both sides of your face.

“Fuck—you’re so fucking perfect. Feels like heaven inside of you.”

Twice.

“Gonna let gege cum inside you, right princess?”

A third time.

“Sh-shit—gonna be able to smell me on you. In you.”

A fourth, final, time.

“You can take it, right baby? My good fucking girl.”

You cum with a strangled cry of his name, back arching against the cushion, fingers digging roughly into Caleb’s hair. There’s an uncomfortable wet splash that accompanies your climax, your entire body shaking violently against his faltering thrusts.

“Christ—!” Caleb groans, “Did you just squirt for me?”

Your explosion of ecstasy thrusts Caleb into his own violent release, the thick cords of muscles in his abdomen twitching as his body unleashes into yours, powerful and mind numbing. 

A bead of sweat falls from his skin to yours, his entire body strained with the force of his orgasm. Thick hot jets of his seed coat your aching walls, still pulsing insistently against his throbbing cock.

“F-Fuck I can’t…” Caleb’s groan is strangled, falling onto his elbows, careful not to crush you.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice weak, groaning as he twitches inside you.

“Ngh—can’t stop cumming,” Caleb grunts, his entire body shaking as he holds himself above you.

You look down at where your bodies are still connected, his hips still thrusting shallowly into you.

“Bear with me, princess,” he rasps apologetically. Your trembling hands reach up to gently hold his face, bringing it to yours.

You press a tender kiss to his parted lips, your tongue gently teasing his, encouraging him to ride out the waves of his orgasm. 

Caleb’s cheeks are flushed adorably red as you let him go, his hips finally stilling. Carefully, he gathers you into his arms, flipping the two of you around so that you lay on top of him, his body shielding you from the floor now.

He brushes his lips to your temple, whispering softly, “Best fucking birthday.”

At the mention of his birthday, you’re reminded of the birthday cake that was left forgotten on the entryway console table. Sitting up suddenly, you gently extricate yourself from Caleb’s hold, much to his pouty dismay. 

“Stay here, I’ll be right back!”

Caleb groans as he slips out of you against his will. If it was up to him, he’d spend his entire birthday buried inside of you.

But as you walk away on trembling legs, his cum drips down your thighs, giving Caleb the perfect view as he lays on the floor looking up at your retreating form. 

He feels himself hardening at the thought of his claim running down your legs tomorrow, when Gideon—

“Happy birthday!”

Caleb sits up on the carpeted floor to watch you return with a lit birthday cake in your hands, singing happy birthday. The cake has lost its form, having melted when it was forgotten out in the warmth of the house, much of the toppers pitifully drooping against their own weight. 

And yet, as you present it to him, beaming ear to ear, hair disheveled, dress hanging off your chest, thighs pressed together in an attempt to stop the sticky mess between your legs from dripping, serenading him…

He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly when you finish the song, “It kinda got ruined, but—”

Caleb cuts you off with a tender thumb to your lips.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

You blush, grinning up at him. 

“Make a wish!”

Caleb smiles ever-so-slightly, just the corners of his lips turning up, his fingers moving to cup your chin and tilt your face up at him. 

“What if I already have everything I’ve ever wanted?”

His violet eyes shine with a torrent of emotions that threatens to consume you whole, your own eyes stinging with feelings that threaten to escape. 

You bite your lip as he strokes your jaw, “Doesn’t matter. You have to make a wish.” 

You lift the cake so that it separates your bodies, the melting candle burning between your faces. Caleb chuckles before stepping back and closing his eyes. 

When they finally open, he leans down to blow the candle out. His eyes flutter to yours as he extinguishes the flame, conveying the magnitude of his words—his wishes. 

Every single one of them began and ended with you. 

As he pulls away, you ask him the same question you asked him every birthday. 

“What did you wish for?” 

Caleb laughs, taking the cake from your hands to set down on the coffee table, “My lips are sealed, pip-squeak. If I say, it won’t come true. And I really need this one to pull through.” 

Your eyes light up with unbridled curiosity, “Now you have to tell me!” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Nope.”

“Pleaaaaaase!”

“Quit it.” 

“Please, please, please!” 

Caleb turns to you as he pulls you down onto the couch with him, his amethyst irises bright with amusement and adoration. He couldn’t tell you what he really wished for—that in the next lifetime, he’d be able to find you and you’d let him take your hand again. If not that, then a seagull that could fly freely with you by his side, through the salty summer skies.

He chuckles, tucking your head under his chin, resting against your infinite warmth, “Fine” 

You look up at him in surprise, listening attentively, practically boiling over with curiosity. 

Caleb takes a deep breath, looking at you with seriousness that makes your heart hammer, “I wished that Gideon would stub his big toe on—“ 

Interrupting him by flicking his forehead, you tut playfully, “One year older and still a child.” 

Caleb grins, capturing your wrist before you can pull away and bringing your fingers to his lips reverently. 

“Good thing we have an entire lifetime of birthdays for me to grow up.”

© aeyumicore 2025.

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[mephisto-reporting]

Husband?

About: How does he react when you accidentally call him your 'husband'? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :)

RAFAYEL

The evening was going smoother than expected, considering Rafayel had dragged you along to one of his many gallery showings. He had made a big deal about how you should be the one showing off his work to the public, claiming he didn’t want to deal with the “art-snobs." Yet, the second you both arrived, he quickly preoccupied himself on his phone, leaving you to handle most of the small talk.

One of the visitors, a curious older woman, was admiring a painting of his, a chaotic burst of color with soft hints of golden light. You were discussing Rafayel’s "creative process" (whatever that was—he hadn't told you much before retreating to his phone), when she asked how long you’d been working with him.

“Oh, it’s been a while now. It’s honestly amazing seeing him grow like this—my husb—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing the slip just as it left your mouth.

"Husband?"

The word hung in the air for barely a second before you felt Rafayel’s presence shift. His head shot up like a bolt of lightning, his playful, cunning eyes locking onto yours. You could practically feel his grin before you even dared to glance over. You didn’t even need to turn around to feel his gaze burning into you, practically shouting, Oh? Husband, you say?

“Husband, huh?” Rafayel drawled, pocketing his phone and sauntering toward you with that signature smirk of his. “I didn’t realize we were making things official tonight. If I’d known, I’d have worn something even more dazzling.”

You flushed, attempting to stammer out a correction, but he was far too pleased to let you off the hook that easily. He leaned casually against the gallery wall, one arm crossing his chest as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

He gently took your hand in his, his dramatic flair dialed up to maximum as he pressed an exaggerated kiss to your knuckles, clearly relishing the moment. "I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone as charming as me?"

The visitor chuckled awkwardly, clearly not sure whether to stay or go, but Rafayel was already having way too much fun. “Of course, as your loving husband,” he continued, drawing out the word in a singsong voice, “it’s only fitting that I’m showered with even more attention now, isn’t it? I expect lots of praise, darling. I mean, just look at me." He struck a faux thought-provoking pose, tilting his head and flipping a lock of his perfectly tousled hair.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but at the same time, his antics made you laugh. “I didn’t mean to—"

"Oh no, no,” he interrupted, wagging his finger playfully. “You can’t take it back now. The word’s out, Miss Bodyguard. You’ve called me your husband. That means you’re stuck with me. Forever.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Does this mean I get to cheat at board games forever too?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “As if you needed a reason to cheat more!”

Rafayel laughed, that familiar bratty grin plastered across his face. “Well, if I’m your husband now, I think it’s only fair I get first dibs on everything. Cards, claw machines—oh, and don’t forget, I demand the comfiest seat when we binge-watch our shows.”

Despite his teasing, the warmth in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. You could see the genuine delight he took in your slip-up, how pleased he was at the thought, even if he’d never admit it outright.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, playing along. “But don’t expect me to let you win at everything, ‘husband.’”

Rafayel beamed, and for a moment, that bratty, carefree mask of his slipped, just a little. He tugged you closer, his voice softening as he murmured, “Deal.” Then, just as quickly, he switched back to his usual, cheeky self. “Now, let’s go, wife. You’re required to be by my side while I survive this boring night. ”

Shaking your head, you laughed, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re impossible.”

The woman, watching the scene unfold with a warm smile, laughed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Oh, we do, don’t we?” Rafayel quipped before lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve really outdone yourself, calling me that in front of witnesses. Now they’ll all expect a wedding invitation.”

Your face burned as you tried to shush him, but he was loving every second of it. He tilted his head, his hair catching the light as his smile softened into something more genuine, the bratty exterior fading just a bit. “Still… I can’t say I hate the sound of it,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under your chin before pulling back with a playful wink. “I might just get used to hearing it.”

You could only manage a huff of exasperation, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter at the way his teasing had just a hint of sincerity behind it.

Rafayel, always dramatic, and yet somehow, just when you least expected it, a little bit sweet.

ZAYNE

You and Zayne were in the middle of your usual weekly grocery run, efficiently dividing and conquering your list to save time. He’d taken off towards the produce section while you headed for the rice aisle. As you browsed the different varieties, a middle-aged man beside you struggled with lifting a heavy bag of rice.

"Need a hand?" you asked, stepping in to help. The man smiled gratefully as you hoisted the bag into his cart with ease.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, rubbing his wrist. "My arthritis is flaring up today. Getting old’s no fun."

You offered him a sympathetic smile. “No problem at all. My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m sure he’d tell you to take it easy on that wrist."

The man nodded in agreement, offering you one last thanks before heading off. You turned back to your cart, completely unaware of the word you had just let slip—husband—or the fact that Zayne had returned in time to hear it.

You felt him step up behind you, his presence calm yet undeniably magnetic. When you finally glanced over, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Husband, hmm?" he said softly, his tone more curious than teasing. "That's... new."

You froze for a second, eyes widening as you realized what you’d said.  You opened your mouth, the words tripping over each other in a rush. “I didn’t— I mean, it just—slipped out. We’re not actually—I mean, obviously, we’re not—” You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of backpedaling was helping.

Zayne didn’t seem in a rush to let you off the hook. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with an ease that made your heart stutter. “You know,” he said, voice as calm as ever, “if this is your way of bringing it up, there are smoother ways to do it.” His teasing was subtle, barely perceptible if you didn’t know him well, but it was there in the gentle tug of his smile.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Zayne, I didn’t mean to—”

But Zayne, ever level-headed, merely took your hand in his, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not like I mind the idea.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked up at him in surprise. There was a softness in his usually stoic gaze, the kind that made your stomach flip. He continued, his voice measured but affectionate, “Seems like the next logical step, doesn’t it? My parents have been asking me when I’m going to take that step with you for a while now.”

His calm tone made the statement feel both casual and monumental at the same time. “Wait, your parents…?” you started, blinking as your brain processed this new information.

“Mhm,” Zayne replied, still holding your hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve been pretty vocal about it, actually. But I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

The right moment. Those words hung in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he was saying. He was serious—calm and casual, as always, but serious. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and Zayne in that grocery aisle, hands linked, talking about a future you hadn’t even realized you both wanted.

“Only if you wanted to, of course,” he added, his thumb still tracing soft circles on your hand. “I wouldn’t do anything unless we both agreed.”

You stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across your face despite the initial shock. “You’re really suggesting this now? In the middle of a grocery store?”

Zayne smirked, his usual pragmatic self. “Well, we’re already talking about it. Might as well make use of the time.” He glanced down at your joined hands, his tone softening again. “Besides, I think it’s worth discussing what our future looks like, don’t you?”

Your heart swelled at his words, and the warmth of his hand in yours was enough to make you feel grounded, no matter how your emotions were spinning. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as you squeezed his hand gently. “I think it’s definitely worth talking about.”

Zayne leaned in closer, his lips brushing your temple in a rare public display of affection. “Good,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet kind of affection that made your chest tighten. “We’ll talk more later.”

He pulled away just as smoothly, picking up the cart with a practiced ease, as though he hadn’t just suggested the two of you start planning your future together. His eyes twinkled, a subtle tease hiding behind that usual calm exterior of his.

“And for the record,” he added, as the two of you moved on to the next aisle, “I wouldn’t mind hearing you call me ‘husband’ again.”

Your cheeks heated again, but this time, you didn’t bother trying to hide your smile. “Guess you’ll have to earn it first, doctor.”

Zayne chuckled softly, that familiar, grounded confidence in his voice. “I’ll be sure to work on that.”

SYLUS

The desert sun was relentless, and you could feel its heat pressing down on you as you stood beside Sylus, waiting to be seated inside the restaurant. He had dragged you out of Linkon on one of his mysterious ventures—no explanation, no warning, just the two of you thrust into the desert with little more than his cryptic directions. And while Sylus might have thrived in the N109 Zone's shadowy world, he was decidedly out of place here in the glaring sunlight,already starting to show hints of discomfort.

You glanced over at him, squinting slightly under the bright light. His expression was carefully controlled as always, but you noticed how his hand twitched subtly as if annoyed by the heat. The two of you had been waiting to be seated inside for a while now, and you decided it was time to speed things up.

Catching the attention of a passing waitress, you waved her over, putting on your best expression of concern. “Excuse me, my husband and I were hoping to be seated inside. I’m feeling a little faint under the harsh sun,” you said smoothly, the lie of you feeling faint rolling off your tongue with ease.

The word husband had slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even realize your mistake until the waitress nodded sympathetically and promised to get you a table indoors right away. As she walked off, you felt a cold gaze slide over you, and you turned to see Sylus staring down at you, one brow raised, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.

“Husband?” His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it. “Did I miss a wedding, wife?”

Your breath caught in your throat. "Wait—no, I didn't mean—" You started to stammer, heat rising to your cheeks, but before you could backtrack any further, Sylus’ arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to his side. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the smug amusement radiating off of him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough for you to catch the scent of the desert air still clinging to his clothes. His lips ghosted near your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe this is a sign I should make it official.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing as you tried to keep your composure. “Official?” you echoed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “What—what are you talking about?”

Sylus’ smirk widened, his amber eyes gleaming in the sun. “Oh? Cat got your tongue, Sweetie?” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement as he let his fingers trace a light circle on your hip. “You seemed so sure a moment ago, wife. But now? Speechless.”

You blinked, trying to gather your wits, but the sheer cockiness in his tone was making it hard to think straight. “I…I was just…helping us get a table,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away from his grip, but his hold only tightened.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” he drawled, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “But now that you’ve set the bar so high, don’t tell me you’re going to back out on me. After all, you made quite the declaration back there.”

“I wasn’t—” You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as you regained a sliver of your usual confidence. “You know it was a slip-up, Sylus. Don’t start getting ideas.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ideas? Sweetie, I live for ideas.” His grip loosened just enough to let you step back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of this one easily. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t hate it. Calling me your husband.”

Your face flushed again, but this time, you managed to meet his gaze without faltering. “I didn’t hate it,” you admitted, folding your arms, “but don’t go thinking you’ve won. I’m not about to sign any papers just because you liked hearing it.”

Sylus tilted his head, the playful smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll see about that, kitten” he said, the threat—or promise—hanging in the air between you as the waitress returned to guide you inside.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Please, Sylus. You couldn’t handle being married to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in with that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I think I could handle you just fine, sweetheart. You’re the one who might need to keep up.”

You shot back, “Keep up? I’d be carrying you the whole way.”

“Careful, Sweetie. That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.” He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours again. “Now that’s a tempting thought.”

“Tempting? Try exhausting,” you quipped.

As you walked beside him, you felt his arm brush against yours, and the sensation lingered far longer than it should have. Sylus, of course, said nothing, though the smug expression never quite left his face.

This was clearly far from over. And judging by the glint in his eye, Sylus was going to make sure you never forgot your little slip-up.

XAVIER

The café was quiet, filled with the soft murmur of patrons and the comforting smell of fresh pastries. You and Xavier had settled in for a peaceful afternoon, your table already adorned with a delightful array of treats. He had requested a simple drink—no whipped cream. The barista returned, placing his drink in front of him with an impressive mountain of whipped cream on top. Xavier, as calm and indifferent as ever, simply blinked at it, showing no signs of complaint. He wasn’t going to say a word about it, but that didn’t mean you were going to let it slide.

Excusing yourself, you raised a hand and called over a passing staff member. “Excuse me,” you began, with a polite smile. “My husband asked for no whipped cream on his drink, but it looks like there’s some here by mistake. Would it be alright for us to get it changed?”

The words tumbled out so smoothly that you didn’t even realize your slip-up until the staff member nodded apologetically and hurried back to fix the order. It was only when you turned back around that you saw Xavier sitting there, looking unusually... stunned.

He was blinking slowly at you, his expression softened by a hint of confusion and—was that amusement? “Husband?” he repeated, his soft voice barely more than a murmur.

Your face flushed as you fumbled for an explanation. “Oh, no, wait—! I didn’t mean—” You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “That just slipped out! I meant to say…uh my boyfriend? Partner? Date? Not—well, not husband, obviously…”

Xavier continued to blink, his face now showing just a little more expression than usual. The faintest curl of a smile played on his lips, and he tilted his head, considering your words. “I must’ve missed that chapter in the 'Guide to a Healthy Relationship,'” he said in that calm, unruffled way of his. “I didn’t know we’d moved on to the husband-and-wife stage.”

You groaned inwardly, burying your face in your hands. “I swear, it was an accident. Just ignore what I said.”

But Xavier was clearly in no mood to let it go. “So, dear wife,” he continued, completely unfazed by your protests, “do you think we’ll have matching mugs in our future? Maybe get a nice house, with a small garden and a picket fence?”

You shot him a playful glare, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to stay annoyed. “Very funny,” you muttered, though your lips were twitching at the corners, betraying your amusement.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Xavier said, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying this far more than you expected. “I wonder how long it would take for people in the association to start sending us wedding gifts. Or perhaps they'd just send weapons... you know, as a gesture of goodwill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think wedding gifts are really their style, Xavier.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you did call me your husband in public. Shouldn’t we at least play the part now?”

Your cheeks were burning, but you couldn’t resist playing along with his ridiculousness. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “But just so you know, dear husband, you’ll be the one doing the dishes.”

Xavier chuckled softly, the sound rare and surprisingly warm. “As long as you take care of meals. A fair trade.”

You were about to retort when the waitress returned with Xavier’s newly corrected drink—this time, free of whipped cream. She set it down with a smile, glancing between the two of you as if she’d picked up on the playful atmosphere. “Here you go,” she said. “No whipped cream this time, sir.”

Xavier’s eyes glinted as he thanked her with a nod, and after she left, he looked back at you with a satisfied expression. “See? Husband perks,” he teased, taking a sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice gentler now. He took your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But... thank you,” he added after a beat, his voice softer and more sincere. “For speaking up for me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by the gratitude in his tone. “Of course,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “That’s what wives do, right?”

Xavier let out a soft laugh. “I suppose so,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the gentle teasing in the air, it was easy to forget the world outside the café. Just the two of you, playing pretend—but maybe, just maybe, something more.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[inkandapex]

through the lens — drive to survive moments

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary : The cameras may be there for Formula 1, but somehow, they keep capturing them. From playful bickering in the paddock to wholesome moments in McLaren’s garage, from Y/N’s growing fan club to Lando’s exaggerated jealousy, Drive to Survive unknowingly turns their love story into a viral sensation—one chaotic moment at a time.

Words : 3.6k

Warnings : swearing

Friends turned Rivals Lovers

The camera focuses on Lando, settled in the driver’s seat, before shifting to the seat behind him. Just beside the cameraman, Max F is seen scrolling through his phone.

“Max is pouty because he usually sits in the passenger seat,” Lando quips, drawing the camera’s attention back to him. A glimpse of his cheeky grin is visible from his side profile.

Reaching over the passenger seat, Lando rests a hand on her thigh. Max chuckles softly. “Bit more legroom up front.”

The scene cuts to Lando, now sat in a studio. From behind the camera, a voice cuts in. “You’ve been a hot topic this off-season. Any updates you want to share?”

Lando leans back in his chair, fixing his hair as he readies himself for the interview segment of Drive to Survive.

"What makes you say that?" A shy smile creeps onto his face just before the screen transitions to a montage of headlines and social media posts.

"Lando Norris seen kissing mystery girl in his Ferrari" "Lando Norris and mystery girl spotted driving around Monaco" "Mystery girl identified—longtime friend Y/N L/N" "Friends to Lovers? The true identity of McLaren driver Lando Norris'new girlfriend"

Lando nods with a smile. “Y/N and I have been friends for a long time. Finally found the guts to ask her to be mine.”

“Are you the romantic type?”

He chuckles, shrugging. “You’d have to ask her.”

The scene transitions to the paddock, where Lando walks hand-in-hand with Y/N, her bag slung over his arm. Max trails beside them, hands in his pockets. The trio makes their way into McLaren’s hospitality, settling at a free table tucked away in the corner, away from the crowd.

Y/N takes a sip of her smoothie before glancing at Lando. “Excited for today? First practice of the season.”

Lando looks up from his phone, nodding. “Yeah, feeling pretty good. Car felt good during testing—hope it translates well throughout the season.”

“Think he’s more nervous about the fact that you’ll be here watching,” Max teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

Y/N laughs softly. “I’ve been to races before, you know.”

“Yeah, but not as his girlfriend. Now he’s got to win for the team and to show off for you.”

“You dick,” Lando chuckles, grabbing a straw wrapper and tossing it at Max, who dodges it with a grin.

Lando glances at his watch, letting out a soft sigh before pushing his chair back. “Alright, I gotta go get ready.”

Max leans back in his chair, nodding. “We’ll be in the garage before you head out.”

Lando grabs Y/N’s bag from the table, slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s go, baby.”

Y/N blinks up at him, confused. “Am I not staying with Max?”

Lando shrugs, a small smirk on his lips. “You could… but I want you with me while I get ready. Your choice.”

Y/N smiles and stands up, slipping her hand into Lando’s. Max groans dramatically. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been benched. I’ve lost my WAG status.”

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

Air Max

Lando holds up his phone, the camera capturing the view outside Max Verstappen’s private plane. His team had arranged with Drive to Survive to give Netflix a small peek into his life outside the paddock. Now, he’s tasked with filming parts of his day—something he’s getting used to but still isn’t entirely comfortable with.

The camera shifts, panning around the cabin before zooming in on Max and his girlfriend, who sit across from each other, faces buried in their phones.

“Look at these two… they’ve been like this since we took off,” Lando murmurs, walking closer while keeping the camera focused on them. He tilts the screen toward their hands, revealing the game they’re both locked into—a racing simulator. Neither of them spares him a glance.

“We asked you to join, mate,” Max chuckles without looking up.

Lando plops down beside Y/N, setting the camera down at an angle that captures all three of them. He starts poking her cheek, then her side, trying to get her attention.

“Lan. I swear, if I lose—”

“—Of course you will. You’re racing against Max.”

“She’s actually pretty good, you know,” Max chimes in, eyes still glued to his phone.

Before Lando can tease again, Y/N suddenly shrieks, making him flinch. She drops her phone onto the table, leaning back in her seat with a dramatic groan of defeat.

“What did I say, baby?” Lando laughs, nudging her shoulder.

But Y/N is already sitting back up, snatching her phone with urgency. “One more, Max. Come on, let’s go. This is the one—I can feel it.”

Lando groans, throwing his head back. “Y/N, baby, please. Let’s watch a movie, take a nap, something.”

“In a bit, Lan, I need to beat Max.”

Max smirks, finally looking up at Lando with a teasing glint in his eye. “Sorry, mate. I win.”

"We're flying commercial next time"

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

I'm just here for the coffee

The Drive to Survive camera crew catches up with Lando as he wraps up media duties alongside Oscar in McLaren hospitality. He’s distracted—eyes constantly scanning the room, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen as he checks it every few seconds. His expression shifts between mild frustration and confusion.

Just as he exhales sharply, about to shove his phone into his pocket, a familiar voice calls out.

"Lando!"

Max F calls out, relief on his face as he finally spots his friend sitting by the doors. Lando strides towards him, but before he can even greet them, Max speaks again.

"Oh, I thought Y/N would be with you. I've been trying to reach her for hours now."

Lando’s brows furrow, holding up his phone.

"I’ve been trying to call her too. I thought she was with you."

The realization hits him like a switch flipping. His expression drops into something between disbelief and sheer irritation. He exhales, shakes his head, and lets out a knowing scoff.

"I might know where she is."

Cue the most dramatic yet comedic smash cut imaginable.

Ferrari Hospitality – Where Y/N Has Been the Entire Time.

The camera immediately cuts to Y/N, relaxed and unbothered, seated at a table inside Ferrari hospitality. The atmosphere is lively, filled with laughter as they sip espresso, surrounded by Carlos, Charles, and their girlfriends. The Ferrari logo gleams proudly in the background, almost mocking.

Y/N leans forward, grinning at something Carlos just said, stirring their coffee absentmindedly. Charles adds a comment that earns another round of laughter. It’s the picture of comfort—warm, inviting, and clearly where Y/N has been all along.

Then, in the background, the doors swing open.

The camera follows Lando as he steps inside, expression unreadable—until the dramatic zoom-in captures the very moment.

"Unbelievable."

Lando’s voice cuts through the laughter, making the entire table turn their heads toward him. The easygoing chatter dies down as he strides over, hands on his hips, phone still clutched in one hand. His brows are furrowed—confused, mildly exasperated, and very much not amused.

"Baby, Max and I have been calling you."

Y/N blinks before reaching into their bag, finally checking their phone. The screen lights up with multiple missed calls. A sheepish smile tugs at their lips as they glance back up at Lando.

"Oops? Sorry, Lan. I had my ringer off."

Charles smirks, leaning back in his chair. "She’s been having a great time with us, mate."

Lando squints at him before turning back to Y/N. "How long have you been here?"

Before Y/N can even open their mouth, Carlos chimes in.

"Actually, quite late today. She came an hour later than usual."

Lando blinks. Processes. "Later than usual?" His gaze snaps back to Y/N, his confusion shifting into shock. "How often are you here?!"

Y/N, fully caught now, shrugs, setting their coffee down.

"I mean… almost every media day? You’re busy filming, and their coffee is really good here so I just—"

Lando groans, rubbing his face. "Oh baby…"

Before he can spiral further, Rebecca—clearly enjoying the moment—leans in with a grin. "Show Lando what Carlos and Charles gave you!"

Y/N shoots her a betrayed side-eye, but it’s too late. Lando’s eyes widen slightly as he looks between them. He nods at Y/N, expectantly.

Y/N sighs, reaching back into their bag. With hesitant hands, they pull out a very red Ferrari cap and place it on the table.

Silence.

Lando stares.

Alex, grinning, decides to throw more fuel into the fire. "You could’ve at least signed it for her."

"Oh shit—yeah." Charles grabs the cap, immediately patting down his pockets for a pen. He looks around helplessly before turning to Lando.

"Do you have a Sharpie?"

Lando blinks. His eye twitches.

"Do I—" He stops himself, inhales deeply, then exhales, running a hand down his face.

"Okay. We’re leaving. Come on."

Y/N barely has time to protest before Lando takes their hand and starts walking. "But— baby no my coffee..."

"I'll get you your own coffee machine"

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

A victory in full bloom

It’s the moment Lando’s been dreaming of his entire career: his first-ever Formula 1 race win. The podium ceremony is over, and he’s just wrapped up celebrating with his team, taking photos and soaking in the victory. The Netflix crew trails him closely, hoping to catch a quick statement from the new race winner. But Lando’s not focused on the cameras or interviews—his mind is set on finding someone. He’s been eager to celebrate with Y/N.

As he walks towards the trailers, his eyes scan the area until they land on her. There she is, standing by his trailer with a small bouquet of flowers in hand. Lando stops dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his chest for a moment. A wide smile spreads across his face as he takes in the sight of her, the bouquet a simple yet perfect gesture for this milestone moment.

Y/N looks up and meets his gaze, a soft smile tugging at her lips. It’s clear she’s been waiting for him. "Hey champ"

Lando’s eyes light up when he sees them, his smile growing even wider. He’s still buzzing from the excitement of the win, but this moment feels different—more personal.

Lando is grinning from ear to ear "What’s this? For me?"

Y/N shyly holds the bouquet out towards him, a soft smile on her face. "Yeah... It's not the best, but it's the only one I could get my hands on at such short notice."

Lando doesn’t hesitate for a second. He sets his trophy down on the ground, his attention entirely on the flowers in her hands. He takes the bouquet from her gently, inspecting it with a look of pure joy on his face. The smile never leaves as he admires the thoughtful gesture.

Y/N flinches slightly when she hears the clink of the trophy being set down. “Oh, Lan, don’t just leave it on the floor—”

Before she can even move to pick it up, Lando pulls her into a tight, elated hug, careful not to crush the flowers between them.

“These are beautiful, my love. Thank you,” he whispers against her ear, his voice full of affection. “God, I love you. You’re the best, you know that, right?”

Y/N, caught in the warmth of the moment, smiles softly, her heart racing. Lando’s arms around her feel like the perfect celebration of everything they’ve worked for together.

"I'm so proud of you, Lan, my race winner," Y/N says softly, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Lando lets out a quiet laugh, glancing over her shoulder and catching sight of one of the camera crew members standing off to the side, clearly eager to capture the intimate moment. His smile widens, but then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he pulls away from her and takes her hand firmly in his.

"Alright, you vultures," he calls out playfully to the crew, his tone teasing as he begins to walk away with Y/N in tow. "Go film someone else now."

Lando walks off, his stride confident and relaxed, one hand holding the bouquet Y/N gave him, the other wrapped around her hand. His focus is entirely on her as they move down the paddock together, the world around them momentarily fading away.

"Lando the trophy!"

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

Fan Favourite

The cameras follow Lando and Y/N as they stroll hand in hand through the paddock, stopping every few meters to greet excited fans. It’s a typical moment for them, with Lando taking his time to chat and take photos with the crowd, but today, there’s a certain energy in the air that the fans—especially the ones around them—seem to feed off of.

Y/N stands to the side, watching with a smile as Lando interacts with a group of young fans. One fan, in particular, catches his attention. She’s holding a small, handmade friendship bracelet, her hands slightly trembling with excitement.

Lando’s smile widens as he notices the bracelet. He looks at the fan and gestures toward it with a raised eyebrow, "That’s really pretty. Is that for me?"

The fan's eyes go wide, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to form words. Finally, she manages a shy reply, "Oh, uh... actually, it’s for Y/N. If you could give it to her, please?"

Lando lets out a lighthearted laugh, realizing his mistake, a blush creeping up his neck. He turns over his shoulder, calling out to Y/N with a playful tone, "Love, c’mere. They wanna say hi."

Y/N steps forward, smiling warmly as she walks towards them. But before she even gets close, a few of the girls in the group let out high-pitched squeals, and Lando, hearing the reaction, pauses mid-step. He turns around to face the group, his jaw dropping in mock surprise. “Right, calm down,” he teases, raising an eyebrow. "It's almost like you're more excited to meet her than me!"

The fans giggle, some blushing, while Y/N smiles with a soft laugh, taking the bracelet from the fan’s outstretched hand. Lando, now with a playful smirk, shakes his head, clearly enjoying the teasing moment.

Y/N immediately slips the bracelet onto her wrist, admiring it with a bright smile. “This is so pretty! Thank you so much, you guys are the sweetest.”

Before she can say anything else, another fan eagerly steps forward, holding out a small crocheted cat dressed in what looks suspiciously like Lando’s helmet.

“I got you this as well!” the fan beams.

Y/N gasps, carefully taking the little plushie into her hands. “Oh my gosh! Is this supposed to be Lando?” She turns it over, inspecting the tiny details, from the pattern of the helmet to the little number on its side. “This is adorable—you guys…” Her voice softens, and she clutches the cat close to her chest, looking at the group with a touched expression, lips forming a small pout.

Lando, standing off to the side, watches with a fond smile, his heart swelling as he sees how naturally she interacts with his fans. He doesn’t even realize how long he’s been staring until Y/N turns to him, stretching out her arm with her phone in hand.

“Lan, baby, take a photo of us, please?”

Lando blinks, snapping out of his daze. He lets out a chuckle before taking the phone from her hand. “Yeah, yeah—sorry, got a bit distracted there.”

After snapping a few more photos and sharing a couple more laughs, Y/N and Lando exchanged their final goodbyes with the fans before continuing their stroll toward the McLaren garage.

Y/N glanced down at the bracelet on her wrist, still admiring the thoughtful gift, while Lando walked beside her, hands in his pockets, a playful pout forming on his lips.

"Can't believe I gotta share my girlfriend with my fans now," he muttered dramatically, shaking his head.

Y/N let out a soft laugh, bumping her shoulder against his. "Oh, come on, don’t act like you don’t love it," she teased.

Lando sighed, pretending to be exasperated. "I mean, I was the main attraction. Now they’re out here squealing over you and giving you gifts." He shot her a look, but the corners of his lips twitched, betraying his amusement.

Y/N smirked, holding up the tiny crocheted cat. "Jealous?"

Lando scoffed, but his eyes flickered down to the plushie, and he hummed in fake thought. “Depends... do I get one in return?”

Y/N grinned. "Maybe if you win the race this weekend."

Lando groaned, tilting his head back. “So now I have to earn your love? This is outrageous.”

Y/N just giggled, slipping her hand into his, swinging it slightly as they walked. “You love the challenge, Norris.”

He sighed, squeezing her hand. “Yeah... yeah, I do.”

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

P's new favourite

Lando’s relationship with Max Verstappen’s stepdaughter, Penelope, had always been a good one. Between race weekends and off-season meetups in Monaco, he saw her often, and they had their own little bond.

But ever since he started dating Y/N, it seemed like P had a new favorite.

Just before heading to the garage, Lando stood outside McLaren hospitality, casually chatting with his mom, a few friends, Kelly, and P—who, instead of paying attention to the conversation, was entirely focused on showing Lando her collection of stickers.

Lando’s smile softens as he looks down at the little girl, carefully pressing the sticker onto his fireproofs. “For me?” he asks, feigning surprise. “Thank you, P.”

“Bye, Lando!” P grins, bouncing on her heels before giving him a high five, which quickly turns into a hug.

Lando barely has time to wrap his arms around her before she suddenly gasps dramatically, pulling away as fast as she had latched onto him. Without a second thought, she bolts in the opposite direction.

“Y/N!”

The camera follows her path, cutting to Y/N just as she arrives. A wide smile spreads across her face as she kneels down, arms open and ready for impact.

P barrels straight into her, nearly knocking her over as she wraps her tiny arms around Y/N in a tight hug.

Y/N lets out a small laugh, steadying herself. “Hi, P! I love your hair—you look so pretty!”

P quickly pulls back, twirling proudly to show off her outfit. “Lando said he liked my hair too!” she exclaims.

Y/N gasps, playing along. “Well, if Lando said it, then it must be true.”

P giggles before Y/N takes her small hands in hers. “Alright, come on then, let’s go say goodbye to Lando.”

As they make their way back toward the group, Kelly watches them with a knowing smile. “She literally pulled away from Lando’s hug just to run to you,” she muses, shaking her head with amusement.

Lando lets out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms. “Yeah, my family does the same thing when I bring her home with me.”

Cisca, who had been standing off to the side, bursts into laughter, nodding in agreement. “It’s true.”

“Hi, baby. I’m about to head off. I’ll see you after,” Lando murmurs, stepping in close to press a soft kiss to Y/N’s lips before pulling her into a tight hug.

Before Y/N can even melt into the embrace, a small but determined voice interrupts.

“Okay, bye now, Lando.”

P, eyes set with purpose, marches forward and starts pushing Lando away with her tiny hands.

Lando lets out a laugh, barely stumbling back before crossing his arms over his chest. “Excuse me? Am I not even allowed to kiss my girlfriend goodbye now?”

“She’s mine!” P announces proudly, wrapping her arms around Y/N in a possessive hug.

Y/N laughs, running a gentle hand over the little girl’s head. “Alright, missy, I think Lando gets the message loud and clear.” She glances at Lando with a teasing smile before blowing him a kiss. “I’ll see you later, my love. Good luck and be safe.”

Lando sneaks in a quick peck to her cheek before jogging off, grinning. “I’ll be back to take my girlfriend back, P! Watch over her for me!”

[pucksandpower]

Car Trouble

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which it starts with Max insisting that you borrow one of his many cars while yours is in the shop and somehow turns into you being dragged away in handcuffs because (according to your jealous housemates) the only way you could ever afford a car like that is by having stolen it … suffice to say, your protective boyfriend is less than amused

Warnings: law enforcement abuse of power

The thing is, you know it’s a gamble the moment you put the key in the ignition. Your little car, a 2004 Fiat Panda with a chipped paint job and a suspiciously rattling exhaust, has been teetering on the edge for months. But it’s all you have, and it’s gotten you this far.

Except now, as you sit in Max’s driveway, the dashboard flickers ominously, a banner of orange warning lights. You groan, lean your head against the steering wheel, and curse under your breath. Maybe it’s the alternator. Or the battery. Or the car’s just finally decided it’s had enough.

Max is at his kitchen window, a mug of coffee in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. He steps out, still in his Red Bull Racing hoodie, hair a mess, and jogs over. You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth before he’s leaning down, peering through your open window.

“Car trouble?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Take a wild guess,” you mutter, throwing your hands up.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Let me have a look.”

He gestures for you to pop the hood, and you do, reluctantly. Max circles around, lifting it with a practiced ease, his brow furrowing as he inspects the engine. You know he’s not a mechanic, but he knows enough to recognize that it’s bad news.

“I think it’s, um, all of it,” he says, voice laced with amusement. He looks up at you. “You really drove all the way here like this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say defensively. “It was fine when I left. Mostly.”

Max gives you a pointed look but lets it slide. He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the house. “Come on. I’ll call someone to get it towed.”

You hesitate. “Max, I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking with yours. “But why should you?”

He has this way of cutting through your defenses with a single look, and it’s infuriating. You sigh, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut. Max winces, raising an eyebrow.

“Easy. I think she’s suffered enough,” he teases.

You glare at him, but he’s already dialing a number, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He’s so calm, so unbothered, like this is just another Friday, and your car isn’t smoking in his driveway. It makes you feel small, somehow, and a little embarrassed.

“Hey, mate. Got a Fiat here that needs towing. Yeah, looks pretty bad. Can you get someone here today?” Max pauses, glancing at you, then back to the ground. “Nah, it’s not mine. It’s my girlfriend’s.”

The word hangs in the air, filling the space between you. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but every time he does, it sends a little thrill through you. You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking at the gravel with the toe of your shoe as he finishes up the call.

“Right,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “They’ll be here in an hour or so. Want to come inside?”

You nod, following him up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. Max leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. He pours you a cup without asking, handing it to you as you sink into a chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan?”

You shrug. “Get it fixed, I guess. If it’s even worth fixing.”

“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “That thing’s a death trap.”

You know he’s right, but hearing it out loud stings. “I can’t just buy a new car, Max.”

“I’m not saying you should,” he replies, voice softening. “But you can’t keep driving that. It’s not safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes you feel like you should say something, but you don’t know what. Max watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. He always does that — wants to fix everything, make it all better. And it’s sweet, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

“Look, I have an idea,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. “You can use one of my cars until yours is sorted.”

You blink up at him. “Max, I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists, a determined edge to his voice. “And you will. You need a car, and I have plenty. It makes sense.”

“It’s too much,” you protest, shaking your head. “I can’t just borrow one of your cars like it’s no big deal.”

“It is no big deal,” he counters, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s a car. I have, like, a dozen of them. And I want you to be safe.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels wrong. You open your mouth to argue, but Max holds up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re here for the weekend, right? We’ll get your car towed to a shop, see what they say. In the meantime, you use one of mine. If they can’t fix it, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Max-”

“No arguments,” he interrupts again, smiling faintly. “Please. For me.”

You huff, staring down at your coffee like it might provide some kind of answer. When you look up, Max is still watching you, his expression soft and earnest. He’s not going to let this go, you realize. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Which one?” You ask, finally relenting.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “The DBS.”

Your eyes widen. “The Aston Martin?”

He nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yep.”

“You’re insane,” you say flatly. “I can’t drive that.”

“Sure, you can. I’ll teach you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He steps closer, dropping to a crouch in front of you so you’re eye to eye. “That you don’t want to accept help from your boyfriend? Because, if that’s it, we’re going to have a problem.”

His words catch you off guard, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want you to have it. Just until you’re sorted.”

You let out a long breath, your shoulders sagging as the fight leaves you. “Fine. But I’m not keeping it.”

“Deal,” he says instantly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

There’s a beat of quiet as he stands, pulling out his phone again. He’s about to dial when you speak up.

“Wait.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

You chew on your bottom lip, considering your next words carefully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scratch it or-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, voice gentle. “It’s a car not a piece of priceless china. It’ll be fine.”

His nonchalance is almost infuriating, but you can’t help the way your heart swells at his unwavering confidence in you. He believes in you, even when you don’t.

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. Max’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, squeezing your hand.

“Good. Now, let’s go get the keys.”

***

It’s raining, and the house smells like damp clothes and stale toast. Chloe stands by the living room window, holding her cup of tea, her gaze idly drifting over the dreary street. The drizzling rain matches her mood, which is sour on a good day and worse now that she’s been stuck inside with a mountain of uni work she has no interest in.

A sigh escapes her lips, louder than she means it to, but no one’s around to hear. Her housemates — well, most of them — are scattered across campus, probably doing something useful with their lives. And then there’s you. Always flitting in and out with your head held high, like you’re too good for this dump of a house.

Chloe rolls her eyes at the thought of you. She’s been harboring this quiet disdain ever since you moved in. It’s irrational, she knows that. You haven’t done anything to her, not really. But there’s something about the way you carry yourself, always so composed, so put together, that grates on her nerves. And lately, you’ve been acting … different. Happier, even. Chloe’s seen you, the way you disappear for the weekends, only to return with that smug smile. It’s not hard to guess why.

Chloe knows you have a boyfriend, though you’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped about it. She’s overheard snippets of conversation, seen the texts you try to hide when someone else walks into the room. But still, she can’t figure out why you’re with someone who clearly has money. A lot of money. The kind of money girls like you — girls like them — don’t get near unless there’s some major luck involved.

As she stares out the window, she suddenly sees something that makes her pause. Her tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug as her hand freezes. There, pulling into the lot, is an Aston Martin. Glossy, sleek, and roaring like a mechanical beast as it glides through the rain. The headlights cut through the fog, and the car comes to a slow, calculated stop directly in front of their house.

Chloe’s brow furrows, her pulse quickening. What in the world …

She watches, transfixed, as the driver’s door opens, and you step out, closing the door behind you like it’s no big deal. You glance around the street, pulling the collar of your jacket higher against the rain, completely oblivious to the fact that Chloe is practically burning a hole through the window with her gaze.

“What the hell?” Chloe breathes, her voice sharp in the stillness of the room.

Her eyes narrow as you cross the street, keys jingling in your hand, moving with an air of confidence that has no right to belong to someone pulling up in a car like that. Chloe watches every step, every casual flick of your wrist as you lock the car and walk toward the front door.

She should turn away, pretend she didn’t see anything, but her brain is spinning, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-pound car. You can barely afford rent, let alone something like that. Her mind races with the only plausible explanation — there’s no way in hell that car belongs to you.

Chloe slams her cup down on the coffee table, not caring that it splashes tea everywhere, and darts toward the stairs. She takes them two at a time, bursting into her flatmate Amelia’s room without knocking.

“Amelia! You won’t believe this.”

Amelia looks up from her laptop, startled. “Chloe, what the-”

“Come here. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on her heel and rushing back down the stairs, Amelia reluctantly trailing after her. Chloe pulls her toward the window, jabbing a finger in the direction of the car still parked outside.

“Look,” she says breathlessly, her words tumbling out too fast. “Look at that.”

Amelia leans closer to the window, blinking at the car through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that an Aston Martin?”

“Exactly.” Chloe’s voice is a mix of disbelief and something darker. “And guess who just stepped out of it?”

Amelia frowns, her brow creasing. “No way. You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. She just parked it like she owns the place. What the hell is going on?”

Amelia lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, that’s … that’s not normal.”

Chloe folds her arms, pacing the length of the room now. “She’s probably stolen it. I mean, there’s no way she could afford something like that. Do you know how much that car’s worth?”

Amelia shakes her head slowly, eyes still glued to the car outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s?”

“That’s what I thought,” Chloe snaps, “but come on, who does she know that has that kind of money? I don’t care who her boyfriend is, something’s off.”

They both fall silent for a moment, the only sound the rain tapping against the window. Chloe’s mind races, jumping to conclusions faster than she can keep up. Everything about this feels wrong. She’s always suspected there was something up with you, but this? This is something else entirely.

Amelia breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “Maybe she’s just lucky? I mean, maybe he’s, like, rich-rich. You know?”

Chloe scoffs. “No one gets that lucky. And she’s been acting so secretive lately. What if she’s involved in something shady? I mean, who just pulls up in a car like that?”

Amelia shrugs, clearly unsure how to respond. But Chloe’s not done. There’s a fire in her now, a burning need to know what’s going on. You’ve always been too quiet, too private, and now it’s all starting to make sense. There’s no way you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.

She whirls back around to Amelia, eyes blazing. “You know what? I’m going to call the police.”

“What?” Amelia’s eyes widen in shock. “Chloe, are you serious? You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can,” Chloe cuts her off, already reaching for her phone. “She’s clearly up to something, and I’m not going to sit here and let her get away with it.”

Amelia tries to protest, but Chloe’s mind is already made up. Her fingers fly across her phone screen, dialing the non-emergency number. Her heart pounds in her chest as the call connects, and she presses the phone to her ear, pacing as she waits for someone to pick up.

“Chloe, this is crazy,” Amelia says again, her voice laced with anxiety. “You don’t even know-”

“Shh!” Chloe hisses, waving a hand to silence her.

Finally, the line clicks, and a calm voice greets her. “Thames Valley Police, how can I help you?”

Chloe takes a deep breath, her voice steady as she launches into her story. “Hi, I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m pretty sure it’s been stolen.”

The operator asks for details, and Chloe rattles off the make and model of the car, her eyes never leaving the Aston Martin still parked outside. She glances at Amelia, who’s biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Chloe’s too far gone to care.

“I just … I know the girl who’s driving it, and there’s no way she could afford a car like that,” Chloe explains, her tone sharp. “I think she might have stolen it.”

The operator asks a few more questions, and Chloe answers each one with growing confidence. She can feel it in her bones — something’s off, and she’s not about to let it slide.

When the call ends, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her hands shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.

“Chloe, you didn’t have to do that,” Amelia says quietly, her voice full of worry. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” Chloe insists, her jaw clenched. “You’ll see. The police will sort it out.”

She turns back to the window, her eyes narrowing as she watches the car, half-expecting something to happen. But nothing does. The car sits there, pristine and out of place, mocking her with its sheer audacity.

And you? You have no idea what��s coming.

***

It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon — one of those rare breaks between classes when you can actually catch your breath. The rain’s let up, and a misty sun filters through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the pavement outside. You’re halfway up the stairs to your room, your backpack slung over one shoulder, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The sound is sharp, authoritative, and it echoes through the house, stopping you in your tracks. You glance down, frowning slightly. It’s not like you’re expecting anyone, and the others aren’t home yet. Maybe it’s just a delivery.

But then the knocking comes again — louder, more insistent. Your unease deepens as you drop your bag and head back down the stairs. By the time you reach the door, a faint prickle of anxiety is buzzing under your skin.

You pull the door open, and there they are — two uniformed officers standing on the doorstep. They look serious, their expressions neutral but firm, and you feel your heart sink. This isn’t a casual visit.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is steady, though confusion laces each word.

One of the officers, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense gaze, steps forward. “Are you the owner of the Aston Martin parked outside?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Um, no,” you say, blinking at them. “It’s not mine, but-”

“We’re going to have to ask you to step outside, please,” the other officer, a man with a stern jawline and dark eyes, interrupts. He glances over your shoulder, as if assessing whether you’re alone.

“What’s this about?” You can hear the uncertainty in your voice now, a sharp edge creeping in. “The car belongs to my boyfriend. I’m just borrowing it-”

“Step outside, miss,” the woman repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, you do as you’re told, stepping out onto the front stoop. The chill of the autumn air hits you, and you wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. This isn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand,” you say again, a little louder this time. “What’s going on?”

The officers exchange a look, and then the man speaks. “We received a report that the vehicle may have been stolen. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Stolen?” The word feels foreign on your tongue. “No, it’s not stolen! I told you, it belongs to my boyfriend-”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” the woman asks sharply, cutting you off. “Registration documents, anything like that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, frustration building. “The registration is in the glove compartment. If you just let me get it-”

“Stay where you are,” the man says firmly, holding up a hand to stop you. “We’ll check it ourselves.”

“Can’t you just let me show you?” You take a step forward, but both officers tense, their hands hovering near their belts. Your heart stutters in your chest, a cold trickle of fear sliding down your spine. “I’m telling the truth! I can unlock the car and show you. Please, just let me-”

“Miss, please calm down,” the woman says, her tone laced with a warning. “We’re following protocol here. If you cooperate, this will go much smoother.”

“But I am cooperating!” The words burst out, your voice rising despite yourself. “I’m not lying. It’s my boyfriend’s car, he let me borrow it while mine is in the shop-”

“Miss, we need you to step away from the vehicle,” the man says again, more forcefully this time. He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. “Max,” you say finally, your voice faltering slightly. “Max Verstappen.”

There’s a pause — one that stretches uncomfortably long. The officers exchange another look, something almost skeptical passing between them.

“Right,” the woman says slowly, like she’s testing the words in her mouth. “And you expect us to believe that Max Verstappen, the Formula 1 driver, lent you his Aston Martin?”

“Yes!” Your hands are shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing with fear in a volatile cocktail. “Why would I lie about that? Just let me-”

“Miss,” the man interrupts, his tone hardening. “We need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words hit you like a slap, knocking the breath from your lungs. “What? No, you can’t-”

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he repeats, each word clipped and precise.

You look from him to the woman, desperation clawing at your throat. “Please, just let me open the car. I can prove it’s not stolen. Please-”

But they’re not listening. Before you can say another word, the woman steps forward, reaching for your arm. You flinch back instinctively, panic flaring in your chest.

“Don’t-”

“Miss, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the woman says sharply, grabbing your wrist with practiced ease. She spins you around, her grip firm but not painful, and then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal as she snaps a pair of handcuffs around your wrists.

“No, wait-” You twist, struggling against her hold, but it’s useless. The cuffs dig into your skin, and you can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Please, I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!”

The man steps closer, his face impassive. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …”

His voice blurs, the words running together in a nauseating hum. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “No, no, please, I didn’t steal anything! Just call Max, he’ll explain-”

“Miss, we’re taking you down to the station,” the woman says, steering you away from the house and toward their patrol car parked at the curb. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“Wait!” You stumble, the cuffs biting into your wrists as they push you forward. “You’re not listening! The car isn’t stolen! If you just let me get the registration-”

But they ignore you, their grips unyielding. The street seems to tilt and blur as they guide you toward the back of the car, your shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. Everything feels surreal, like you’ve been dropped into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The woman opens the back door, and the man gives you a gentle but firm shove. You fall into the seat, the leather cold against your legs. They close the door with a solid thunk, the sound reverberating through your bones.

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “You’re making a mistake. I’m telling the truth …”

But they’re already walking away, their voices low as they talk to each other. You catch fragments of their conversation — words like “protocol” and “standard procedure” — but it all feels distant, unreal.

You slump back in the seat, staring blankly out the window as the patrol car starts up, the engine a low, steady hum. The world outside blurs into a swirl of gray and green as they pull away from the curb, and your mind races, panic and disbelief tangling together in a messy knot.

How did this happen? One minute you were heading to your room, and now you’re being carted off to a police station like some sort of criminal. It doesn’t make any sense.

You try to replay the last few minutes in your head, searching for something — anything — you could have said or done differently. But there’s nothing. They weren’t listening to you. They didn’t care about your explanation. They just saw a girl with an expensive car and decided you must be guilty of something.

Tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously. You can’t fall apart now. You have to think, to figure out what to do next.

Max. You need to call Max. He’ll sort this out. He’ll tell them the truth, and they’ll have to let you go. But how are you supposed to do that when they’ve got you locked up in the back of a patrol car?

The drive to the station feels like it takes forever, each second dragging out in painful clarity. You try to keep calm, to breathe through the panic tightening in your chest, but it’s hard when every bump in the road makes the cuffs dig deeper into your skin.

Finally, they pull up in front of the station, and the officers get out, coming around to your side. The door opens, and the woman leans down, her expression unreadable.

“Come on, miss. Let’s get this sorted out.”

You nod numbly, letting them help you out of the car. Your legs feel shaky, your whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. They lead you up the steps, through the front doors, and into a small, sterile room that smells faintly of disinfectant.

“Please,” you say one last time, your voice breaking. “Please, just call him. He’ll explain everything.”

But they only exchange another glance, and the woman shakes her head slightly. “Let’s get your statement first, miss.”

And then they’re sitting you down, the lights glaring down from above, the cuffs still biting into your wrists. And all you can do is sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, as the nightmare continues to unfold around you.

***

The fluorescent lights above hum softly, the cold, sterile environment of the police station pressing down on you from every angle. It feels like you’ve been here for hours, your wrists still red from the handcuffs, a dull ache in your joints from sitting on the hard chair. Every second stretches, torturing you with the weight of waiting.

You're trying to stay calm, but your thoughts keep spiraling — back to the car, back to the police showing up at your doorstep, back to the way they refused to listen. Your voice shakes every time you try to explain, but it’s like they can’t hear you. It’s suffocating.

Across the room, the officer — her name’s Thompson, you think — sits at her desk, flipping through some paperwork. The sound of pages turning feels louder than it should. Every time you shift in your seat, she gives you this look, like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Like she’s waiting for you to break.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I want to make a phone call,” you say, your voice cutting through the stillness. You sit up straighter, your hands balled into fists on your lap.

Thompson doesn’t even look up. “You’ll get your chance,” she says dismissively, still flipping through the file.

“No,” you say, firmer this time. “I want to make it now. I have the right to make a phone call.”

This time, she looks up, her expression flat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you snap, surprising yourself with the force in your voice. Your patience is gone, the fear of being trapped in this nightmare pushing you into desperation. “I know my rights. I’m allowed one phone call, and I want to make it.”

Thompson raises an eyebrow, like she’s weighing whether or not you’re serious. After a beat, she sighs, pushing the stack of papers aside and standing. “Fine,” she says curtly. “One phone call.”

She leads you to a small side room — bare, with only a table, a chair, and a landline phone sitting in the middle. You sit down, and Thompson places the phone in front of you like it’s some kind of offering.

“One call,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “Make it count.”

You don’t hesitate. You dial Max’s number, your fingers trembling slightly as you press the buttons. The ring tone fills the room, each ring stretching out the time between your breaths. You press the phone closer to your ear, your heart pounding.

It rings once. Twice. And then-

“Hello?”

Max’s voice comes through the line, smooth and steady, as if he’s just woken up from a nap and isn’t even remotely phased by the sudden call. But you know him better than that — there’s a sharp edge beneath the surface, a protective tension that’s always there when it comes to you.

You swallow hard, fighting back the lump in your throat. “Max …”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts — serious, focused. “What’s wrong?”

“They arrested me,” you say, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “The police — they think I stole your car.”

There’s silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous. “What?”

You feel the weight of his anger through the phone, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel a flicker of relief. He’s going to fix this. He’s not going to let them treat you like this.

“They showed up at the house,” you explain, your voice trembling slightly. “They wouldn’t let me get the registration. They didn’t believe me when I said the car was yours. They just-”

“Where are you?” His voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and commanding. “Which station?”

You glance around the room. “Bedfordshire Police Station. They won’t let me-”

“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Don’t talk to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, the dial tone ringing in your ears. You stare at the phone for a moment, your heart racing. You know Max is angry — no, furious — but that anger isn’t directed at you. It’s for them, the people who put you in this position.

Thompson steps back into the room, her expression unreadable. “Finished?”

You nod, handing the phone back. She doesn’t say anything as she leads you back to the main room, but you can feel her eyes on you, judging, assessing.

You sit down again, your legs shaky, but now there’s a quiet fire burning in your chest. Max is coming. He’s going to make this right.

The minutes tick by, painfully slow. Thompson goes back to her paperwork, the other officers moving around the station like it’s just another day. But for you, every second is excruciating, the tension building in your chest like a storm.

Then, finally, the door to the station swings open with a heavy thud, and you hear the low murmur of voices — followed by a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Max.

You can’t see him from where you’re sitting, but you can feel the shift in the room. There’s a sudden stillness, the officers glancing up from their desks, their postures stiffening. Even Thompson’s face changes, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she composes herself.

You strain to hear the conversation at the front desk, but it’s muffled. Still, you catch bits and pieces — his name, the car, your name. And then there’s the sharp, unmistakable edge of authority in Max’s voice as he says something that makes the desk officer sit up a little straighter.

Moments later, the door to the holding area swings open, and there he is. Max strides in, every movement purposeful, his eyes locking onto you immediately. There’s a fire in his gaze — controlled, but fierce — and the tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know.

He’s not just angry. He’s livid.

“Max …” Your voice is small, a mixture of relief and shame. You hadn’t wanted to drag him into this mess, but you also know that no one else could’ve handled it the way he can.

He crosses the room in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for yours. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the tightness underneath it.

You nod, but tears prick at your eyes. “I-I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen to me …”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got it from here.” His tone is resolute, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, without another word to you, Max turns to face the officers. His entire demeanor shifts, his posture straightening, his presence filling the room with an air of control that demands respect.

“Who’s in charge here?” He asks, his voice calm but unmistakably authoritative.

Thompson steps forward, though there’s a flicker of hesitation in her movements. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Officer Thompson.”

Max doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You arrested my girlfriend under suspicion of theft. I’d like to see the evidence you have for that.”

Thompson falters, her eyes flicking over to the other officers. “We … we received a report of a stolen vehicle, and-”

“And instead of verifying the ownership, you decided to arrest her?” Max’s voice is cold, each word measured. “Did you even check the registration in the glove compartment?”

Thompson’s jaw tightens. “We were following standard procedure. She became agitated and-”

“She was agitated because you were treating her like a criminal,” Max cuts in, his tone sharp. “You had no reason to arrest her. If you had checked the registration, you would’ve seen my name on it.”

He takes a step closer, his presence towering over Thompson, making her shift uneasily on her feet. “Do you know who I am?”

There’s a beat of silence. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Thompson nods slowly. “Yes. Mr. Verstappen, we-”

“Then you know how much trouble you’re in,” Max says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. “You’re going to release her. Now. And then you’re going to issue a formal apology.”

Thompson blinks, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. “Mr. Verstappen, I understand your frustration, but we were simply-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Max interrupts, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “You’ve already made a mess of this situation. Don’t make it worse by pretending this was some kind of mistake. You arrested her because you assumed she didn’t belong in that car. Because you didn’t bother to listen.”

Thompson opens her mouth to argue, but Max doesn’t give her the chance. “I’ll be contacting my legal team,” he says, his tone firm. “And if you don’t release her immediately, I’ll make sure this becomes a very public issue.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thompson hesitates for a moment longer, and then — finally — she nods.

“Release her,” she says quietly, signaling to one of the other officers.

The relief that washes over you is immediate, your heart pounding in your chest as the handcuffs are removed. Max’s hand is on your shoulder in an instant, grounding you, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he looks down at you. “We’re getting out of here.”

You nod, letting him guide you out of the station. But before you step through the door, you glance back at Thompson, who’s still standing there, her expression strained.

Max pauses, following your gaze. He meets Thompson’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Don’t ever treat her like that again,” he says quietly, the words carrying more weight than any threat could.

And with that, he leads you out into the cool night air, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you step outside.

***

Max’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, as he guides you toward his car in the station’s dimly lit parking lot. It’s quieter out here, the cool air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and something sharper — the lingering smell of petrol. The night is still, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of chaos you’ve just been dragged through.

But Max’s silence is unnerving. He’s holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

He stops in front of a sleek, black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, the kind of car that turns heads and raises eyebrows. It’s an aggressive machine, all sharp edges and raw power — just like Max right now.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low and controlled, as if he’s holding back a storm. He opens the passenger side door for you, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

You hesitate for a second, looking up at him, trying to gauge his mood. “Max-”

“Get. In,” he repeats, enunciating each word with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You slip into the passenger seat without another word, the leather cool against your skin. The car’s interior is immaculate, everything in its place, the faint smell of new leather lingering in the air. Max rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, his movements tight and controlled. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the engine, the car roaring to life with a low, throaty growl.

He peels out of the parking lot with a precision that feels almost surgical, his eyes locked on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence between you is heavy, charged with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Max-”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and accusing. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Tell you what?”

“That they arrested you,” he says, each word bitten off like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “That they-” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I-I didn’t want to worry you. You were probably busy, and-”

“Busy?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his eyes flashing as he glances at you. “You think I care about being busy when something like this happens? When you’re involved?”

“Max, I didn’t want you to-”

“To what? Be pissed off? Too late for that,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. He takes a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. “What happened, exactly?”

You tell him, your voice halting at first but gaining strength as you recount every detail — the officers showing up, the handcuffs, the questions, the disbelief when you tried to explain the car belonged to him. Max’s expression darkens with each word, his jaw set in a hard line.

“They just … wouldn’t listen,” you finish softly, staring down at your hands. “I told them it was yours. I even tried to show them the registration, but they didn’t care.”

“They didn’t care because they had already made up their minds,” Max growls, his voice a dangerous rumble. “They saw you and assumed you didn’t belong in that car.”

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to keep his temper in check.

“Why would they think the car was stolen in the first place?” He mutters, more to himself than to you. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, his mind clearly racing.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Someone must have reported it,” you say slowly, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “Someone must have seen me with it and assumed …”

Max’s gaze snaps to you, sharp and focused. “Who would do that?”

“I-I don’t know.” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “It could’ve been anyone. The car … it stands out. Maybe someone thought it looked out of place at the house.”

Max’s frown deepens. “No,” he says firmly, his eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone who knows you. Someone who knew that wasn’t your car.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and damning. Someone who knew you. Someone who saw you with the Aston Martin. Someone who-

“One of your housemates,” Max says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

You open your mouth to protest, but then you stop, the pieces falling into place in your mind. One of your housemates. One of the people who knows you can’t afford a car like that, who might have thought — wrongly, jealously — that you had gotten your hands on it through some shady means.

Max’s eyes are hard, unyielding. “It has to be,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone saw you with the car and called the police. There’s no other explanation.”

You take a deep breath, the realization settling in your chest like a lead weight. “But … why would they do that? Why would they assume I stole it?”

“Because people are idiots,” Max mutters, his gaze flicking back to the road. “Because people are jealous. And because they didn’t like seeing you with something they thought you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it makes your heart ache. Max has dealt with his share of jealousy, of people looking at him like he doesn’t deserve what he’s earned. He knows what it’s like to be judged, to have assumptions made about him based on nothing but surface impressions.

But this is different. This is personal.

“Whoever did this,” Max says, his voice low and controlled, “is going to regret it.”

Your eyes widen, a pang of fear and something else — something almost like excitement — flaring in your chest. “Max, wait-”

“We’re going to your house,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re going to find out who made that call, and I’m going to make sure they understand exactly what kind of trouble they’ve caused.”

“Max, no,” you protest, your voice rising. “You don’t have to do that. I-I can handle it. I’ll talk to them, I’ll-”

“No, you won’t.” He glances at you, his eyes blazing. “You’ve been through enough tonight. I’m handling this.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops you cold. There’s a steely determination in his eyes, an unshakeable resolve that tells you there’s no point in fighting him on this.

He’s already made up his mind.

“Max, please-”

“Enough,” he says softly, but there’s no gentleness in his tone. “I’m not letting them get away with this.”

You fall silent, your heart racing as the car speeds down the quiet, empty streets. The tension in the car is suffocating, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. Relief that he’s here, that he’s taking control, that he’s going to make this right.

You know you should feel bad, should feel guilty for dragging him into this mess. But right now, all you feel is a fierce, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Max’s hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m going to take care of it.”

You nod, swallowing back the words you want to say — the apologies, the pleas for him not to do anything reckless. Because you know it won’t make a difference. Max is stubborn, determined, protective to a fault. And when it comes to you, he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

The drive to your house feels both too long and too short, every second charged with anticipation. When Max finally pulls up outside your shared house, he cuts the engine and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car,” he says firmly.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“Stay. In. The. Car.” He enunciates each word with that same controlled intensity, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m going inside.”

“Max, you can’t-”

“I can and I will,” he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting you go in there and face them after everything that’s happened tonight.”

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing gesture. “Just stay here, okay? Let me handle it.”

You want to argue, to tell him it’s not necessary, but the look in his eyes stops you. There’s a fierce protectiveness there, a determination that makes your chest tighten.

“Max …”

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “Just this once. Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay.”

He leans forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “Good.”

And with that, he steps out of the car, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. You watch as he strides toward the front door of your house, his shoulders squared, his posture radiating confidence and control.

But the second he disappears from view, you find yourself reaching for the door handle. You know he told you to stay in the car. You know he wants to protect you.

But you can’t just sit here and let him fight your battles for you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open and step out into the cool night air, following him up the path toward the house.

***

The door swings open with a resounding bang, ricocheting with enough force to make the picture frames on the adjacent wall rattle. Every head in the common room snaps up, eyes wide and startled as they turn toward the unexpected intrusion.

Max stands in the doorway, the very picture of barely restrained fury, his presence so commanding it seems to suck the air out of the room. His gaze sweeps over the small group of people lounging on the mismatched sofas, taking in their shocked expressions and slack-jawed stares with a level of disdain that’s almost palpable.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl that reverberates through the room.

No one answers immediately. They’re all too stunned, too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger radiating aggression. It’s Chloe who finally finds her voice, pushing herself up from her seat on the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.

“Um, excuse me, but who are you?” Her voice wavers slightly, but she lifts her chin defiantly, trying to project an air of authority. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

Max’s eyes lock onto her, and something in his gaze makes her flinch back, the confidence in her stance faltering. He doesn’t bother answering her question. Instead, he turns his head slightly, calling out over his shoulder.

“Come in here,” he says, his tone softer but no less commanding.

You step into the doorway behind him, hesitant and unsure, your gaze flicking nervously between Max and your housemates. You don’t miss the way their expressions shift when they see you — surprise, confusion, and something darker, more judgmental, flickering across their faces.

“Y/N?” It’s Amelia who speaks this time, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

Max’s jaw tightens, his gaze still fixed on Chloe. “I’m Max,” he says curtly, as if the name alone should explain everything.

It clearly doesn’t. The blank stares from around the room make that abundantly clear.

“Max Verstappen,” he adds, impatience lacing his tone. Still no recognition. “Formula 1 driver? Y/N’s boyfriend?” He tries again, a hint of disbelief in his voice now.

A flicker of something like realization crosses a few faces, but Chloe just scoffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And I’m Lewis Hamilton.”

Max’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Trust me, I would never want to be him.”

The comment flies over Chloe’s head, but it’s enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. Max’s smile fades as quickly as it came, his expression hardening once more.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says again flatly, jerking his head in your direction. “And I’m here to find out which one of you decided it was a good idea to call the police and have her arrested.”

The laughter dies instantly. The air in the room thickens with tension, eyes darting from Max to you and back again.

“Arrested?” Amelia repeats, her voice rising in pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Max snaps, his gaze still boring into Chloe, like he can see straight through her. “One of you called the cops and reported her for driving a stolen car. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A murmur of confusion ripples through the group, genuine bewilderment on most faces. But Chloe’s eyes dart away, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression before she schools it back into one of indifference.

“What — no, that’s ridiculous!” She says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. “Why would any of us do that?”

Max’s gaze narrows, his eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Chloe shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the others as if searching for support. But no one says anything. No one moves.

“Look,” Chloe finally says, trying for a breezy tone that falls flat. “If she got arrested, that’s … that’s not our fault, okay? Maybe there was a misunderstanding or something.”

Max’s eyes flash, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“A misunderstanding?” He repeats, his voice deceptively calm. “Yeah, I’d say there was a huge misunderstanding. Like the fact that you assumed she couldn’t possibly be driving that car legitimately. Like the fact that you assumed she’d have to steal it to have something that nice.”

He takes a step closer to Chloe, and she instinctively steps back, her expression faltering. “Whoever made that call didn’t just cause a ‘misunderstanding.’ They caused a whole lot of trouble for no reason other than pettiness and jealousy.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” One of the other housemates tries to interject, but Max doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you know what it’s like to get a phone call telling you the person you love is sitting in a cell?” He asks, his gaze never leaving Chloe’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that they were treated like a criminal just because someone here,” — he practically spits the word — “decided to be a self-righteous, vindictive bitch?”

The room goes deathly silent. Chloe’s face has gone pale, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words forthcoming.

“Max, maybe we should-” you start, reaching out to touch his arm.

He cuts you off with a quick shake of his head, his eyes still locked on Chloe. “No. She needs to hear this.”

You shrink back slightly, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and something else — something like relief. Because as harsh as Max is being, there’s a part of you that’s grateful. Grateful that he’s standing up for you, that he’s putting words to all the anger and frustration you’ve been bottling up since this whole nightmare began.

“You don’t get to treat people like that,” Max continues, his voice low and cold. “You don’t get to make snap judgments about someone based on what you think they deserve. And you sure as hell don’t get to sic the cops on them just because you’re too insecure to handle seeing someone else with something you want.”

Chloe’s lips tremble, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I … I didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?” Max demands, his voice rising. “Didn’t think it would matter? Didn’t think about the consequences? Or didn’t think you’d get caught?”

The accusation hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one breathes.

“I didn’t think-” Chloe starts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just — I thought …”

Max lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, you thought. That’s the problem.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, steadier, but no less cutting.

“You know what? I don’t even care what your excuse is,” he says quietly. “Because there is no excuse. Nothing you say is going to change what you did. Nothing is going to make up for the fact that you had her dragged off in handcuffs for no reason other than your own messed-up assumptions.”

Chloe flinches at the words, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for her — almost. But then you remember the cold metal of the handcuffs around your wrists, the humiliating feeling of being treated like a criminal, and the sympathy evaporates.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Max says, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to apologize. Right now. To her.”

He steps back slightly, giving Chloe a clear line of sight to you. She hesitates, her gaze flicking up to yours, and for a moment, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I … I’m sorry,” she finally mutters, the words barely audible.

Max’s gaze hardens. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe repeats, her voice trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I just … I thought the car was … that it wasn’t …”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish. But she trails off, her face crumpling with guilt and shame. It’s not much of an apology, but it’s more than you expected.

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now, if I ever hear about you pulling something like this again,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Chloe nods frantically, her face ashen. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

“Great.” Max turns away from her, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Porsche purrs along the quiet stretch of motorway, the engine’s deep growl a steady undercurrent to the conversation hanging in the air. It’s late — well past midnight — but neither of you seem in any hurry to get home. There’s a lingering tension, a heaviness that neither of you know quite how to disperse.

Max’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stark against the leather. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the faint glow of the dashboard casting shadows across his face. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that betrays the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He hasn’t said much since leaving your house. Just a few clipped sentences, terse reassurances that he’s not mad at you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. But the words feel hollow, inadequate against the weight of what happened tonight.

After a few more minutes of silence, Max finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. “I talked to the mechanics earlier today.”

You blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. “The mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “About your car.”

Oh. You feel a pang of anxiety, your stomach twisting unpleasantly. You’d almost forgotten about your poor, beat-up little car, abandoned at some garage in Milton Keynes. “What did they say?”

Max hesitates, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “It’s … not good.”

You swallow hard, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“They think it’s beyond saving.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying to break the news gently. “There’s too much damage. The engine’s shot, the transmission’s on its last legs … basically, it’d cost more to repair it than it’s worth.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending. “But … but I just had it serviced a few months ago,” you protest weakly. “It shouldn’t be that bad-”

“It’s not your fault,” Max interrupts gently. “That car’s been through hell. It’s a miracle it’s lasted as long as it has.”

“But I can’t just … give up on it,” you say, a note of desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s my car, Max. I need it.”

“You need a car,” Max corrects softly. “Not that car. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I can’t afford a new one right now. I still have to pay for-”

“Hey, hey.” Max’s hand leaves the steering wheel to rest on your knee, squeezing gently. “I’m not saying you have to buy a new car.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying,” Max begins, his tone careful, measured, “that I’ll get you a new one.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s suggesting.

“No,” you say finally, shaking your head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

Max’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to yours. “Why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” You sputter. “I’m not letting you buy me a car. That’s way too much.”

“It’s not too much if you need it,” he argues calmly.

“Yes, it is!” You insist, your voice rising. “It’s too much, and it’s not your responsibility. I’ll figure something out-”

“Like what?” Max challenges, his voice sharpening. “What are you going to do, keep borrowing cars you’re hesitant to actually use? Take public transport everywhere? What happens when you need to get somewhere and you don’t have a ride?”

“I’ll manage,” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I always have.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to anymore,” Max snaps, his frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“Because it’s not your problem to solve!” You shout back, the words bursting out before you can stop them.

Max goes silent, his gaze turning stony. For a few long moments, the only sound in the car is the steady thrum of the engine and your own harsh breathing.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist. “You’re my girlfriend. That means if you have a problem, it is my problem to solve.”

The certainty in his tone makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the determination blazing in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Max …” you begin softly, but he cuts you off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, listen to me.” He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening on your knee. “I know you’re independent. I know you’re used to handling things on your own. But this isn’t about money, or pride, or any of that. It’s about making sure you’re safe, that you have what you need to get around. And right now, that means getting you a new car.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he presses on, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Let me do this for you,” he says quietly, almost pleadingly. “Please.”

His sincerity takes the wind out of your sails, your protests dying on your lips. You stare at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders.

“But … it’s just … too much,” you say weakly, your resolve crumbling.

Max’s expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. And even if it is, I don’t care. You’re worth it.”

The simple, earnest declaration sends a rush of warmth flooding through you, your heart swelling in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“Why do you have to be so damn convincing?” You mutter, half exasperated, half amused.

Max’s smile widens slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your knee. “It’s a gift.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says dryly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “So … you’ll let me do this?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. It still feels like too much, like accepting would be crossing some invisible line. But there’s a part of you that knows he’s right — that trying to handle this on your own would be stubborn and impractical and would probably end up causing more problems than it’s worth.

And more than that, you can see how much it means to him. How much he wants to do this for you.

“Fine,” you say finally, letting out a long sigh. “But only because you’re so damn insistent.”

Max’s grin is dazzling, the relief and joy in his eyes almost overwhelming. “Good. I’ll start looking for something first thing tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind the gesture. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening at your soft, exasperated laugh.

“Cheesy,” you accuse, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Maybe,” he concedes with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “I’m still not letting you get me something ridiculously expensive,” you warn, trying to sound stern.

“We’ll see,” Max says noncommittally, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Max-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get something practical, okay? Something that’s safe and reliable and not … ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

Max’s smile softens, and he nods, his gaze holding yours steadily. “Promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a sense of peace settling over you. Maybe it’s not ideal, accepting something so big from him, but … maybe it’s okay to let him take care of you, just this once.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Max’s smile is soft and warm and full of so much affection it makes your chest ache. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. “No, thank you.”