#man I have not made one of these in a WHILE

[barnesonly]

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

[mggslover]

MR. HOTCHNER — aaron hotchner

In which being a nanny for the Hotchners doesn’t only mean taking care of Jack, but also pleasing your boss

genre smut (18+) cw free use arrangement, nanny!reader, age gap (r is in 20s), post haley, mentions of jack, lowkey toxic relationship, soft to hard cock, thigh biting, some brat taming, praise, shower sex: oral (f receiving), p in v, use of showerhead, body painting wc 5k a/n i have been feeling #insecure about writing, but it's the same as when you haven't driven in a while and you're like "fuck i need to go on a ride otherwise i'll be too anxious to ever do it again", so here is me ignoring my inner demons yelling at me and posting anyway. oh and this is also my formal job application to be hotch’s free use nanny!!

You are a feminist, obviously. But beliefs tend to change in certain situations. To be precise, around certain people. The certain people in question being Aaron Hotchner.

You’d been babysitting throughout your entire college career—a job not only you, but all of your friends did. It’s no one’s plan to continue their college side job after getting a degree, but sometimes there isn’t much of a choice. You didn’t know what to do with your life after graduating, not sure how to navigate the struggles in your twenties while it seemed like everyone else had their shit together. A stable factor in your life was what you needed, and with capitalism taking over the world, the money was welcome too.

Nannying for the Hotchners was better than the families you babysat for in college. The term says it already; you were a nanny now, a live-in nanny at that. You had a home, a stable income, and took care of a shy but very sweet kid who grew more comfortable around you every day. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture this being your life: the apartment you clean and cook warm meals in being yours, the mothers at Jack’s school seeing you as their equal and not just as “the nanny of”... And if you squint hard enough, you could imagine Aaron being your partner, the one who brought in the money so you could be a stay-at-home wife.

It’s not as delusional as it sounds, promise. Even though you and Aaron weren’t actually dating, at this point you might as well be. Because, honestly, can there really be any love involved with a man who always prioritizes his job? You lived in his house, took care of his kid, and besides that, there was only one more thing needed for the label of having a relationship: sex. And sex there was. Lots of it.

Okay, again, it might not be like the sex you’d see in a traditional relationship, but you lived in the 21st century, for Christ’s sake. It counted as something. At least to you. 

It had been a couple of months since you started working for Mr. Hotchner when you had made the mutual decision to add an extra addition to your contract: a free use policy.

The decision didn’t come out of nowhere. The second you had met up with Aaron over coffee to see if you were suitable for the job, there was a tension that neither of you could deny. An undeniable attraction that lingered in the air when your eyes first met across the café. A spark that coursed through both of your veins when he held out his hand and cupped your smaller one in his. The way your heart did a jump when he pulled out a chair for you and how his body had the same reaction at seeing your dress ride up when you sat down, revealing the slightest sliver of skin. 

This arrangement was destined to work. Aaron was stressed out and on the verge of breaking down if he didn’t get the relief of tension he so desperately needed after a long day of work. You needed to feel useful and worthy. Wanted by someone that in your eyes had it all. 

One and one make two.

It sounded simple enough to you: being each other’s sex buddy, satisfying each other’s needs without overcomplicating it. But it wouldn’t be your life if the execution of this plan went that smoothly. 

During a late night on the couch, several glasses of wine in, you tried making a move on Aaron. Your legs were intertwined, bundled up beneath a warm blanket. His fingers had found the bare skin of your calves, drawing slow circles as he listened to you recalling your day with Jack. His lips would curl ever so slightly when you mentioned Jack getting a compliment from his teacher or when you laughed as you repeated the pun you had learned from his son.

Still, the tiredness in his eyes remained, just like the dark circles beneath them that never seemed to fade.

You just wanted to help, make him feel comforted in a way you knew would work. He didn’t object when you scooted closer, turning your upper body to his to rest your head on his shoulder. He didn’t react when you used the tip of your nose to lightly graze his neck—apathetic to the small shiver of his shoulders and the trail of goosebumps that followed with your movement. He did not even flinch at the first couple of kisses that you pressed to his skin.

It was only when your hot breath fanned over the shell of his ear that he had stopped you. 

“We need to set boundaries. This isn’t professional.”

You swallowed down your sigh, chirping out a high-pitched sure. Deep down you could’ve predicted this. Aaron was the type of man disciplined enough to print out another copy of your contract, all the while ignoring the hard-on that was uncomfortably pressing against the zipper of his pants. 

It was admirable how he took the time to explain this “free use” arrangement to you. Despite you working with kids, you weren’t as patient. You were getting sex. That was all you needed to know. So you politely nodded along to his words as he scribbled down new information on the contract. 

“I need you to sign here,” Aaron murmured, glancing up at your position on the couch.

With an inaudible huff, you stood and walked up to the wooden table he was bent over. Aaron took a step back, giving you the space to prop yourself in between the table and his frame to take a better look at the paper.

Your eyes flit over the rules:

No kissing

Minimal talking during the act (sounds of pleasure and code word allowed)

No talking about the act outside of the act

And most importantly, since he is the boss, he makes the calls on when you’ll be having sex. No arguments.

The second you had scribbled down your signature on the new document, Aaron had pressed his body to yours. Large arms wrapped around your waist, his palms finding a home on your lower stomach. The erection you had spotted earlier wasn’t gone, as it now poked against the soft curve of your ass.

A breathless sound escaped your mouth, quickly turning louder when Aaron’s short, dark hair brushed against your ear, placing open-mouthed, wet kisses on the place where your neck met your jaw.

You remembered how his hand slid into your jeans next, his fingers expertly slipping between the puffy folds of your pussy. His breathing heaved with every curl of his finger, and so did his movements as he rocked his hips into your back. He was visibly enjoying making you feel good. That much you could tell, but still you had thought that this was just a warm-up to get you ready for him. But when you came—with a loud cry he had to muffle with his other palm—he had simply left the room.

It had been like this for the next couple of times: Aaron worshipping your body with his mouth or hands but never asking for anything in return. Maybe it was a boundary he wasn’t ready to cross yet, or maybe watching you come undone was enough to satiate his needs and take away his stress. No matter his initial reasons, eventually he wasn’t able to hold back anymore, your endeavors more often turning into you sucking him off while he’s on a tense phone call or having a quickie in the kitchen before the workday would start. Yes, specifically in the kitchen. Or any location other than the bedroom, for that matter. Because although not on the list, having sex in bed was an unspoken form of intimacy you agreed on not having.

But all sexual acts aside, at the end of the day you were a nanny. One who had a job to do. 

With a long stretch of your arms and a loud groan, you climbed out of bed this morning. The weekend—two days filled with cheering Jack on during his soccer matches and baking chocolate chip cookies—unfortunately has come to an end. 

Your feet moved on autopilot, still in a dazed state from your sleep, until you found yourself in Aaron’s bedroom. It was only to enter the connected master’s bathroom. It was probably against the “rules”, but no one could deny that his bathroom was superior to the guest one: it had a large shower cabin made out of glass, a window where the perfect amount of sunlight beamed through in the mornings, and there were discreet spotlights hidden in the ceiling that illuminated the room in a romantic setting during late night showers.

You never showered here when Aaron was at home. But he had been on a case this entire weekend, giving you the opportunity to fully enjoy the luxuries of his apartment. You did suspect that he was aware of your sneaky endeavors. One day he had come out of the shower smelling exactly like the vanilla scent of your shampoo—the shampoo you had forgotten to take back to your room with you.

Turning on the shower made you realize why waking up early was worth it. Warm drops of water fell down your skin, the fog that came free wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You had exactly one hour until Jack would wake up, one hour to abuse Mr. Hotchner’s water bill and carry out your sacred full-body routine.

You were in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of your hair when the creaking of the bathroom door sounded. 

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, blindly reaching for a towel to dry your eyes from the prickling foam that’s running down your face. 

“Jack, what did I tell you about knocking when—“

Standing in front of you, barricaded only by the fogged shower doors, stood a man that—considering someone couldn’t grow twenty inches overnight—was not Jack. 

The dark, short-cut hair and the black blazer that was thrown over the figure’s form gave him away. It was none other than your boss standing in front of you.

“Jack’s still asleep,” Aaron said matter of factly as he tugged the blazer off his arm before dropping it into the laundry basket.

A tinge of worry filled your chest, your mind running in a million different directions as it tried to come up with the most natural and fast explanation for you being here. “I didn’t want to wake him. Your room is at the other side of the apartment, and you weren’t home, so—“

He waves you off with a motion of his hand. “Good call, he needs his sleep.”

The fogged glass hides the deep breath of relief you're letting out at hearing his approval. 

With the anxiety slipping away, you carefully reach out to wash the rest of your hair. You should turn around, face your back to him, and get the job done as fast as possible, but your boss had this essence that was too captivating to look away from. Squinting your eyes, you could make out the exhausted expression that lingered on Aaron’s face as he was busy untying his tie. 

“Rough weekend?”

He gave a short snort. “As always.”

You nodded in understanding, although he couldn’t see. Another silence followed, causing you to finally look away. It didn’t take long for your curiosity to be piqued again, when the sound of a belt buckle unclasping and the soft thud of a shirt falling to the ground interrupted the steady stream of spilling water. 

Turning your head, you could make out a vague tanned beige color where you previously saw the white of his dress shirt. The skin… the belt… Fuck, was this man getting naked?

“What are you doing?” You gulp when a strong hand reaches out for the shower’s doors. 

“Joining you.”

Such a deadpan tone, like your boss joining you in your morning shower is the most normal thing to happen on earth. But this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To feel like it was a mundane thing. For it to feel like you had an actual, healthy relationship with Aaron, that you weren’t essentially getting paid for your services.

“Okay,” you respond back with a newfound confidence.

You weren’t sure whether Aaron had waited on your confirmation, but the second the approval left your mouth, the doors were being opened. 

There was no need to hide your body; it wasn’t anything he hadn't seen before. The way he looked, however, was different. You’d only seen Aaron in a state where he was turned on, where he’d either been fantasizing about you all day at work—walking around with a painful boner all day—or where you’d been teasing him before you had greedily pulled his pants down. Now, however, he was still soft.

It wasn’t a sight you’ve often seen in your life, most men that you’d encountered feeling ashamed of the flaccid state; being a grower, or not thinking it looks sexy. So the fact that Aaron didn’t think twice of walking in showed a sense of trust and intimacy that made your stomach flutter. Besides, he had no reason to worry about his looks, because he looked good in this state. His balls were tight and roundly shaped, his length looked a bit shorter when soft but hung thick and heavy over said balls, and what drove you even wilder was the way his full tip twitched when his eyes had landed on you.

“Can I help you with that?” He asked, nodding down to the pink loofah in your hand.

You answered by taking a step back, giving him the space to fully enter the shower and close the doors behind him. He reached out his hand, and you had to blink a couple of times to make sure that this was really happening before handing him over the sponge.

Aaron accepts it. His other arm extends, almost brushing against yours. You inhale a deep breath, only to find out he was reaching for the shower gel behind you. With the use of his thumb, he clicks open the cap and squeezes a generous amount of liquid onto the loofah. 

Aaron’s eyes flick over your body, as if deciding where to start first. It was difficult for him to imagine that he had you right where he wanted. That you were standing right in the spot where he had fisted himself for months to the thought of you. The way you looked, with your curves bare on display as drops of water fell down the side of your body, was beyond any visualization his own mind could’ve ever come up with. 

Your nipples harden under the weight of his long, dark gaze, and it seems like the decision is made for him. Gently, he places the sponge on your collarbone, then moves it down in a slow stroke, following the curve of your breast. Your eyes close shut when the rough material catches onto your nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

With curious eyes he takes in your reaction, then repeats the movement, moving the sponge back up. Your breast sways along, causing Aaron to swallow back a groan. In circular motions he moves on to your other breast. You hum in pleasure as he repeatedly caresses the pebbled bud while covering you in little bubbles of soap. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” he teases. “Is it that relaxing?”

The corners of your lips lift up, it’s not often that he breaks his own rules by talking to you. When you open your eyes, you notice a mischievous glimmer behind the stoic facade. It’s not just that that you notice: the proximity is undeniable. In the few seconds your eyes were shut, Aaron had moved closer. So close that his forehead was nearly touching yours. So close that you could almost count the curly hairs on his chest that have deepened in color because of the streaming water. 

It was a mistake to look down.

Just an inch away from your stomach, heaved Aaron’s rock hard cock—that’s how fast the transformation can go. The large vein that you could dream at this point had made its appearance, and his bulbous head was shining in pre-cum. A thick drop hypnotizingly coating the slit.

“That’s what you do to me,” Aaron breathes out, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.

Your heart was beating a million miles an hour. He could kiss you right now, his lips impossibly close to yours as he wet them with his tongue. Instead, his mouth moved: “Up.”

Before you were able to squint your eyebrows in confusion, Aaron had his arms wrapped around your thighs, giving you a firm tug up, allowing you to jump like he’d asked you. 

In a smooth—way too smooth—motion, you were thrown against the cold tiled wall, legs wrapped around his waist. Then he said it again. Up. 

Like a toddler being lifted by their parents, Aaron had managed to climb you up so that your thighs were seated against each side of his face, legs dangling over his shoulders and the back of your calves planted firmly against his lower back.

“How the fuck…” you gasp out in belated shock.

“Don’t waste your words asking questions,” he murmured, his hot breath fanning over your spread pussy. Not like you’d be able to in the state he’s got you in. “Just enjoy yourself.”

With his hands pinning you against the wall, he used the sole power of his neck to dive in. No time was wasted as his wet tongue split open the folds of your pussy, immediately latching onto your swollen pearl—completely magnetized by it.

Your thighs clenched around his head, a sound in between a moan and a gasp escaping you as you threw your head back.

“Shit,” you hiss, the back of your head making contact with the cold surface. 

Aaron groaned. You knew him well enough to know that it was a sound of disapproval, one of his dad-like “I told you to be careful” huffs. It didn’t have its designated effect, though; his muffled sound vibrates through your body, causing a wave of tingles to ignite your skin, your clit twitching against his tongue. 

When you looked down, he was rolling his eyes at you. “Are you serious?” his face spoke. A giggle left your chest, you couldn’t take the stern attitude seriously. 

Apparently, he did take it seriously. Aaron leaned back just enough to turn his head, and you missed the warmth of his mouth on you already. The light stubble that covered his jaw from being away on a case all weekend grazed along your inner thigh. 

“More,” you whimpered, lifting your hips from the wall and driving your cunt into his face.

His eyes flick to yours for a split second. It was easy to miss the moment, but something behind his eyes shifted, reaching the max of dealing with this daring disobedience of yours. Your breath gets caught before it happens: his teeth sink into your thigh.

You sputter in his grasp, legs locking tighter around his waist. He didn’t bite hard enough to cut skin, but he was definitely leaving a mark. You were sure of that when, after the use of teeth, he wrapped his lips around the aching spot, sucking and not stopping despite your sharp nails digging into his back.

“Are you going to be good for me now?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise!”

Wrong answer. Another bite.

This time you just nod, not speaking any excessive words. 

His teeth are replaced by his lips. He leaves two featherlight kisses on the bruised spot and moves back to your needy hole.

“Haven’t touched you in a minute, and you’re already dripping.”

Apparently the rule of not speaking doesn’t apply to Aaron Hotchner today. Not that you minded.

He licked the sweetness off your pussy, getting back into rhythm. Aaron’s lips sealed around your labia, gently suckling until the only sounds leaving your mouth were passionate moans. 

At this point it was impossible to decipher whether the wet, sloppy noises came from your pussy or from the water that dripped out of the shower's head, warming the sides of your bodies. 

You dug your nails lightly into his shoulders, grounding yourself from the accumulating heat that was starting to form low in your stomach.

With every up and down of his chin, Aaron’s nose would bump against your clit, making it twitch in desperation.

“Mmph,” you whine in response to his actions. I’m close! Aaron, please! Is what you wish you could scream out to him right now. Wishing you could beg for a fast release as the obscene sounds grew louder around you. But you couldn’t, not if you wanted to have any release at all. Forced to endure his sweet torture.

Aaron lifted his head, his mouth inches away from where you needed him most. 

“Are you close?”

You obediently nod up and down, making sure he gets the memo. 

“Will you cum if I touch her?” 

You vehemently nod, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. Please, touch my clit, Aaron. 

His hot breath ghosted over the swollen bud. “Hold on tight.”

You moved your fingers to wrap tightly in his locks, right on time as Aaron wraps your throbbing clit in between his lips. It was a combination of his satisfied moans and the slurping of his tongue that tipped you over the edge.

By the time Aaron had placed you back on the ground, you were wobbling on your legs, and your throat felt sore from the cries that had tumbled from your lips. 

There wasn’t much time to recover, Aaron’s hands finding your waist, warm palms burning your skin as he turned you around. Your chest heaved from your orgasm, and your heart rate only sped up when his fingers made contact with the back of your arms. He guided his hands up until your fingers locked. 

The bathroom tiles weren’t as cold as you expected them to be when you placed your palms against them, still heated by Aaron’s hands that were pressed against the same spot only a minute ago.

“Arch your back for me, sweetheart,” he instructed. 

The nickname had your legs close to giving out. You clawed against the wall as you arched your back, ass raised high in the air, your cunt making contact with his poking cock as it pulsed from the sight of you. 

An arm cups around your frame, holding you steady against him. With the other, he brushes the skin of your curves, mapping out his favorite spots.

Aaron’s thick fingers grip around the cheek of your ass, spreading you open and watching you in a mix of lust and adoration. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmured under his breath, as if he’d just witnessed the opening of an exotic flower.

You felt the weight of his solid chest against your back, dew drops falling from his skin and melting onto yours. Aaron bent slightly through his knees, enough to line himself up with your hole. Then he pushed in.

“That’s it, you can take it,” he encouraged as his throbbing length entered you inch by inch. “Almost there. You’re doing so good, taking all of me.”

“Feels good,” you whisper softly, not able to help the words from spilling out.

“I know, honey. Going to make you feel even better.”

With that, he started pumping himself in and out of you, creating a mark in your cervix that he kissed with every thrust of his hips. It was hot. So fucking hot. The steam that has built up in the shower cabin, the warm press of Aaron’s body, the fullness of him inside of you, the heaving of his breath in your ear… Too hot.

It’s like he heard you, because in the next moment he had you pushed up against the cool expanse of tile. A shiver ran through your body, a pleasant one, as your nipples peaked against it, stimulated by the continuous rubbing against the surface as Aaron moved your body up and down his cock. 

A groan tore from his throat, the sound lightning through your body. “I missed this. Missed having you wrapped around me.”

The words were dirty, definitely, but it was the most affectionate thing he’s ever said to you. You could do this for the rest of your life: have him use you, be the reason he feels good, because there truly was nothing that made you feel more whole than to be praised by him. 

You fluttered your pussy around him, enticing another deep groan from him. 

“I’m getting close,” he hisses, and you nod. Give it to me, please. 

Instead of speeding up the slapping of skin, he halts his movements, pulling a whiny no out of you. 

With your back facing him, you don’t catch on to how he’s taking the shower head from its bar. Not even noticing the change of there being no more water falling down your body. 

What you do take in, is him hungrily cupping your mound. And you are definitely aware when he uses two of his fingers to spread your lips. You swear you can feel his grin against your neck when the shower head magically appears in his hand, turned to a setting where a strong current of water spurts out, which he places directly above your clit.

A high-pitched cry leaves your mouth, making you wiggle in his grasp. If he didn’t have you pinned against his body, you would’ve fallen to the ground, your legs feeling like complete jelly.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

Regret followed later, when you realized that Aaron would pick up his pace again, all the while your clit was being overstimulated by the flow of water.

Your mouth was agape, moans and gasps and cries tumbling out—sometimes loud, sometimes utterly breathless. The last sound that left you was a scream of Aaron’s name as you came around his cock. 

Your hand had left your pussy, reaching back to grip Aaron’s ass—the most accessible, and convenient place to hold—as your orgasm stuttered through you. You held him tightly, forcing a few more deep thrusts out of him before he pulled himself out.

“Knees. Now.”

The next moment passed in a blur. You fell to your knees, your legs squeaking against the cold, wet floor. You didn’t have the time to decide where to settle your eye: on his thick length that he held tightly in his fist, on his soft stomach and chest that heaved in anticipation of his orgasm, or on his face that was barely visible with the way he had his head thrown back, lip caught in between his teeth. 

His hips twitched, and his muscled thighs clenched as a white-hot fountain erupted on you. His release fell down your body, covering you from your breasts to your stomach to your legs. He even made a mess of himself, his hand covered in his essence, spread all over his cock by the jerking of his hand.

“Jesus,” Aaron curses, using his clean hand to push his hair out of his face. 

When his eyes fell back on you, he caught sight of you obediently sitting in front of him, using your thumb to flick a white stain off your breast before swirling your tongue around the digit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his face. “You’ll be the death of me.”

You pick up the shower head that was thrown beside you on the ground, then place your hand around his thigh for leverage, wanting to clean him up.

Aaron sharply inhaled, body tensing when the stream hit his sensitive cock. “Don’t do that!”

“I’m sorry!” You quickly apologize in a stutter, then burst out in small laughter.

He shakes his head, opening his palm. “Hand it over to me.”

For a second you’re afraid he’s planning his revenge, but he turns the handle so that a gentle and even stream flows out of the head, then holds it above your body. Your personal waterfall.

With a hum, you wash yourself clean, almost sad to see the proof of his loving vanish from your body. 

“Come here,” he whispers when you’re done and helps pull you up by your arm.

Surprisingly, he wraps a strong arm around you, the back of his fingers running across your cheek to put the wet strands of your hair back in place. 

“I can bring Jack to school today.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you sure? You haven’t slept all night. I don’t mind—“

“Me neither,” he assures. “I know the work here is tiring too.”

It was. You knew nannying wasn’t an easy job, but nothing had prepared you for the days and nights spent alone while Aaron was catching killers in different states. It wasn’t easy being the main responsibility of a child in his most formative years, no matter how much gratification the work gives you.

“Okay,” you hum. “Thank you.”

“I have some free time when I get back.” His eyes search for yours as he speaks the words, awaiting your reply to the invitation. His eyes soften when they catch your small smile.

“Sounds good.”

He nods. “Good.”

[dcxdpdabbles]

Can we have more Tim falls for Tucker's "spouse" Danny

I'm going to be honest with you: I originally intended this fic idea to be a comedy, but I couldn't figure out how to execute it when I attempted to write it, which is why it ended up in the 'From a fic I never wrote' pile. Now that I have attempted to write it out, it turned more into humor angst? Or, Tim being sad while in Danny's POV, it's him and Tucker committing marriage fraud. Hope the change isn't too bad!

Tim has to bite his tongue when Foley once again agrees to go out for drinks with the team, as everyone is heading out for the day. It was the third weekend in a row, and really, how could he leave his husband home alone on a Friday night so often?

If Tim were married to a man like Daniel Fenton, he would never miss dinner or a night in. He would certainly not waste it trying to kiss up to some higher up the way Foley was so blatantly doing.

Tim had half the mind to grab the mid-level employee by the shoulders and scream at him that a promotion wasn't worth his marriage failing. Make him realize what he had before it was all gone.

For all of Tim's jealousy that Tucker Foley was the one married to a man who literally walked out of Tim's dreams, he didn't dislike Foley at all.

The man was charming, eager to work, and excited to prove himself. He never slacked off; he always kept on top of his deadlines, was friendly with his coworkers, and was always on time. Really, the only trouble that Foley had caused was his rivalry with Tammy Johnson from Accounts.

Apparently, the two hated each other on sight, and there was no real reason for it. Tim had a personal theory that Foley's sarcasm clashed heavily with Johnson's no-nonsense way of work. Johnson was exceptionally good at her job, but she tended not to get along with her coworkers because she took everything too literally and often confused a joke for an insult.

Johnson also became incredibly defensive, building up a wall after a perceived offense was made, and spent the rest of her time working with the offender in a passive-aggressive manner.

She also made comments here and there that hinted at her less-than-accepting point of view of the LGBT+ community. Nothing that Tim could drag her to HR for, but certainly something to keep an eye on.

That's why he jumped in so quickly when he overheard Foley and her arguing over their disagreement about the stick tower design at the last all-staff training retreat. He had heard Johnson rip into Foley, taking apart every one of his suggestions, with complete condescension and a bit of mockery until Foley's tired voice rang out.

"Is it because I'm gay, Tammy?"

Tim thought he finally had a chance to get her in some kind of trouble, but Foley had shut that down quickly. After explaining that the question was more internet humor than anything Johnson could have said, Tim found that he couldn't make the guy stop talking. Foley, it seemed, tended to ramble when panicked or nervous.

Meeting and speaking with the CEO tended to make many employees nervous.

Foley babbled on and on about his husband, how they were childhood friends who turned into sweethearts and then married, living the dream in the big city of Gotham with such devotion and love. Tim couldn't help but extend an invitation to bring the man around the office. He did it mostly to watch Johnson's already tight lips press harder into a straight line.

Then he met Daniel Fenton, and he realized the rambles of Foley weren't told from the rose-colored lens of a man in love but a perfect description of his husband.

Fenton was gorgeous in a soft kind of way, like a first blooming, a lot quieter than his husband, but intelligence danced in his eyes just the same. He was quick with witty responses, sarcastic in a more teasing way than Foley's, and when he spoke of his passions, he all but seemed to glow.

The first time Tim spoke to Fenton, the man was lost in the hallway leading to Foley's old office. At the time, the entire IT department had been relocated three floors up due to a leaking pipe in the ceiling of the previous floor.

Foley had failed to inform his partner that the offices were in a temporary location, so he was more than happy to bring Fention to the correct location.

Fenton had gifted him with a dazzling smile once Tim offered to walk him in the elevator, and had easily chatted with Tim enough so that the young CEO had nearly burst a gut, laughing at the other man's jokes.

He told Foley to invite his husband to more company events, and the other must have taken that as permission to have Fenton around as much as possible. Tim had more encounters with Fenton when the man showed up with pastries for Foley's office, when the team would go out drinking, or even just seeing Danny hanging around the lobby waiting for Foley to finish.

Five months passed before Tim could not deny it any longer. He had fallen for Fenton, the husband of one of his employees.

It was torture how often Fenton was around, but it wasn't like he didn't have the time. Fenton didn't have a formal job.

Apparently, he lived off his inheritance from a distant uncle named Pariah Dark and was more than happy to be a house husband who did random hobbies. One of those hobbies included baking.

Tim thinks he had a crush on Fenton for a while up until then, but he might have actually fallen in love when he tried one of Fenton's homemade donuts. Like an idiot, he kept asking Foley to bring Fenton around, because in those few hours or minutes of networking (for that was what Foley was doing. The man was ambitious) Tim could admire him, could listen to his voice, and could pretend- in the darkest corners of his heart- that his love for Fenton wasn't wrong.

He knew it was. Foley may not be a friend, but Tim tried not to be too close to his employee, as that often caused more problems than not. However, Foley was someone he respected. He felt horrible having such thoughts about the man's husband, but his heart yearned for Fenton more than it had ever yearned for anyone else.

This was getting so bad that Tim was making up random events so that Foley would have a reason to bring Fenton to. He even had the team photo, from the last Wayne Enterprises fundraiser for charity, framed and placed on his desk because Fenton was in it, smiling at the camera.

Tim's pathetic excuse that the rest of the employees' families were also present for the fundraiser wasn't a good enough reason to spend hours upon hours wishing that his arm was thrown around Fenton's shoulders in that photo instead of Foley's.

Tim had to stop.

He chose to tell Steph about his feelings for Fenton on the request that she stop him from doing something stupid. As his friend, she vowed to help him out and slowly but surely held him to his word.

Tim hadn't seen Fenton in almost three months, since Steph had started camping out in his office, doing her online classes and keeping an eye on him so Tim couldn't run down the ten floors to IT just to check if Fenton was about. She reminded him that Foley didn't work directly under him and didn't need to have such a close relationship with him, so he limited his interactions with the man as well.

Steph was also the one who held him through his heartbreak. Tim was no cheater, but he was a fool in love with someone who was taken, and it hurt.

It hurt to know that he could never be the one Fenton smiled at, or the one that Fenton lay next to at night, or the one Fenton joked and laughed with, still friends in a marriage.

It hurt to know that a man like Foley, who was sending another "I'm going out with the team for drinks" text as he followed Rico to his car while Tim stood in the lobby watching them go, was the man that Fenton had chosen.

A few minutes go by of him just standing there, thinking of Fenton, all alone, waiting in some living room for a man who didn't even find the effort to call him.

This is stupid. You're being stupid. What does their marriage matter to you? Just go home, Tim. He thinks angrily to himself, opening his umbrella and walking out into the familiar Gotham rain.

The water splashes against the fabric with the same aggression as marbles falling onto concrete. One of Gotham's super storms. He grimaces, gripping the handle harder as he strides down to the dinner at the end of the street.

Despite Tim being able to drive nearly every form of transportation, he had failed to obtain a driver's license, partly due to his secret identity and partly because he was too lazy. As a result, Tim walked everywhere, took the train, or the bus to get around.

He didn't trust people to not kidnap him (attempt to at least), so he never hailed a taxi or used a ride app. Not after it happened five different times. The life of a Wayne could sometimes be too much.

Not that he was willing to walk to the train station or bus stop in this weather.

He'll have a coffee and some food to wait out the rain, but if the storm doesn't improve, he'll have to call the Manor and see if someone can come pick him up.

The door dings when he pushes it through, and a wave of warmth, chatter, and music passes over him. He stops at the stand holding up a sign that reads Please wait to be seated.

He folds his umbrella, shaking out some water, as a waitress comes rushing towards him.

Her hair is falling out a bit from her bun, and she seems a bit stressed, but he can clearly see why. Many people had the idea to hide from the storm in the dining room - not a single table or booth seemed to be free. Even the bar stools were all claimed.

"Hi there!" The waitress greeted with slightly apologetic eyes. "It's going to be a forty-minute wait."

"I don't mind. Can I wait in here?" He smiles, watching her shoulders relax. She must have had someone yell at her today about the wait time. He gets it.

Once he had to go under cover as a waiter himself, and it took every ounce of his Bat training to not throw a tray at some customers' faces. Especially the impatient ones.

"Yeah, of course." The waitress waves to a little area on the side of the door. There are no chairs, and there is barely enough room to stand, but it's better than nothing. "If you give me your name, I can let you know when a table opens up-"

"He can sit with me." A voice interrupts. A familiar voice. Tim's heart leaps in his chest before he can even turn his head in the direction of the man who had spoken.

Daniel Fenton waves at him from one of the tables, smiling widely, over a half-seated plate of pancakes. He's wearing a soft, white, woven sweater, which makes his eyes pop, and his hair is slightly damp, likely from being caught in the rain.

He looks like a painting come to life.

Tim's mouth goes dry.

"Are you okay with that, Sir?" The waitress asks him, but it's Fenton who answers.

"Yeah, of course. I don't think this storm is going to clear any time soon, so I may as well spend it with someone I know." Fenton laughs, and it kicks Tim's brain into action.

"It's fine," He mutters to the waitress who was frowning. "I would be totally fine with sharing that table."

More than fine. Far too fine in fact. The man is married. A voice that sounds a lot like Steph cautions in his head. He ignores it.

"Well, okay then." The waitress leads him to the table, pulling out his seat before handing him a menu she grabbed from the stand at the front. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Let me guess," Fenton grins, snapping a finger and pointing it at Tim, "A coffee, three creams, two sugars, and a bit of chocolate syrup?"

Surprised, Tim stammers, "Yes, that's right."

Fenton laughs gently before giving the waitress a cheeky little smirk that does horrible things to Tim's already buzzing heart. "He always takes his coffee like that. A creature of habit, you know?"

She flashes a dimple, writing down his drink order. "I'll be back in a few minutes to take the rest of your order."

Tim barely notices her walk away, too captivated by the way Fenton's hair seems to curl slightly when wet. "W-what are you doing here, Mr. Fenton?"

"Tuck and I were supposed to go out for dinner tonight, but he cancelled at the last minute. I got caught in the rain when leaving the lobby, so I figured I may as well have my own dinner." The man reveals casually, as if it were normal for a husband to bail on plans so carelessly.

Tim fights the urge to reach out his hand and place it on Fenton's, wanting to offer comfort in case he was hiding his hurt.

He couldn't stop the words that tumble out of his mouth, though. He winces at the offended tone in his voice. "Your husband cancelled plans on you last minute?"

"Tuck is forgetful. He probably forgot he made plans with me." Fenton shrugs, smile still in place. Tim's stomach flips as the man leans on one hand, attention trained entirely on Tim. "What about you? Why are you here?"

"Hiding from the rain, too. Too heavy to walk home in. "

Fenton frowns. "You don't have a car?"

"I don't have a license." Tim laughs, raising a brow at the disbelief on Fenton's face. "Never bothered to get one. Most people don't in a city, where you can walk or us a bus"

"That's crazy. Back home, everyone had a license. You never get anywhere without one." Fenton reveals.

"You and your husband are from Illinois, right?" Tim hopes Fenton didn't notice how his voice had turned slightly strained on the word' husband'.

"That's right. From the small in the middle of nowhere, Amity Park." Fenton picks up his fork, waving it around slightly. "We have like three restaurants, a small mall, and a park. That's the extent of entertainment, so you've got to drive to do anything. You're not planning on walking in that storm, are you?"

"No, I'll call someone to come pick me up later."

"Nah, that's okay. I'll give you a ride when we finish." Fenton replies easily, stuffing a piece of pancake in his mouth. "I won't take no for an answer. Got nothing better to do anyway."

Tim closes his mouth, having been in the process of denying the offer, and instead raises the menu to hide behind. A flutter goes through his stomach as he realizes that Fenton knows his coffee order because of how often he's seen Tim take it while visiting, and is willing to drive him home.

He doesn't think about Foley. It's a dangerous thing what he does think about, but by the time the waitress comes by to get Tim's order, Fenton has pulled him into a fascinating conversation of old cartoons, and Tim can't find it in himself to care.

Besides, he was only looking. There was nothing wrong with looking.

[timmydraker]

On Tim’s nineteenth birthday he had a party with his friends and had chosen to celebrate it at a karaoke bar.

Kon, Cassie and Bart are there in civilian clothes and identities and so are Tim’s old school friends as well as come of his college’s kids, as well as Tam.

Everyone is having fun and while they have alcohol I drinks available, everyone is being mindful to not send it to hard due to Tim only just agreeing to drink before he’s legal.

Naturally, a few of them get competitive and Ives ends up becoming a judge for who wins in certain face offs.

It’s all fun and games until Kon points out that Tim had been spending most of the time taking photos of other people, though admittedly a fair amount are selfies, and insist on everyone watching Tim perform and filming it.

Tim, who’s used to having lots of eyes on him quickly goes from bashful to scheming and everyone gets the performance of their lives.

Tim wakes up with a mild hangover, (hes a good boy who made sure to drink water and eat a lot), and around a dozen missed calls from various family members. He feels out at first before he sees his latest text is from Stephanie saying ‘Handsome and rich and you can sing? Urg why did we break up again?’ She hadn’t been able to make it due to a break out but promised to make it up to him and she always did.

Attached is a link to a TikTok from an account he knows for a fact is one of his friends.

It’s him, standing on the stage with his big pink feather shall, black dress shirt open with glitter visible on his collar bones and a large jacket that defiantly isn’t his likely hanging over his arms. In the video Tim is swaying around happily, cheekily even, while singing ‘I Am A Good Girl’ by Christina Aguilera from Chicago and sauntering around as if he himself is playing her role.

Tim’s face isn’t all that flushed and part of him wishes that wasn’t the case if only because it shows he was sober enough to be fully aware of what he was doing, which is unfortunately true.

Tim is confident in his public appearance and knows how to handle any backlash, it’s the text from his family that are going to make him crawl into a hole and die.

Dick: Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, why are you at a club?

Dick: there better not have been alcohol

Dick: also, unimportant and totally not the most important thing, WHY DIDNT YOU INVITE ME 😭

Damian: You look like a fool, Drake. Alfred has been muttering about Father being a bad influence and is threatening my to kick him out.

Damian: I cannot be sure, but I belive I heard Alfred say ‘your playboy ways better not be swaying that boy to be a nuance like you, young man’.

Damian: Fix this.

Stephanie: ‘why you in the club with people wildin’

Stephanie: get it

Stephanie: like the Meghan the Stallion song?

Jason: why the fuck are you at a club

Jason: don’t think I didn’t see that vodka raspberry in your hand

Jason: answer me you little shit

Jason: I swear to go if you were in crime ally I will loose it

Duke: dude Bruce has such a big worry frown I think I heard a muscle snap

Duke: you’re a really good singer though

Duke: good song choice for a rich brat lol

Duke: that was meaner than I meant for it be sorry!

Duke: still true tho

Cass: drink lots of water and I’ll bring you bat burger in the afternoon xx

Bruce: I’m not angry, you haven’t done anything wrong, but did you have to sing a song about being a rich girl when people complain about us being out of touch enough as it is?

Bruce: I’m not mad though.

Bruce: have you drunk water?

Bruce: also did I see Conner Kent there?

Bruce; why was he there.

Bruce: does he understand the dangers of drinking as a Kryptonian?

Bruce: again, I’m not mad at you, just concerned.

Bruce: I’m mean in a little mad but not because Alfred is yelling at me.

Bruce: you know the Brucie Wayne persona was a farce, I have no doubt about that, but that doesn’t mean you need one.

Bruce: not that you can’t have a good time!

Bruce: please answer Dick is yelling at me now too

Damian: Grayson is now yelling at Father.

Damian: He has called him a whore but I believe that had nothing to do with your provocative dancing. I think he just wants to call father a whore.

Jason: I found the bar.

Bart: heyheyheyheyheyhey! Barry said to warn you that Bruce is making everyone do a course on teaching your kids to be alcohol safe and that even the ones who aren’t parents have to do it too lollolololololol

Jason: I was going to get do something but the woman owning it kept talking about how nice you all were so I feel bad

Dick: I mean you didn’t have to invite me I know it’d be weird to have a 27 year old there but that’s not that old!

Alfred: I shall be around shortly with adequate food. Be ready.

Tim was in for it that was for sure, especially when he saw ‘Tim Drake’ and ‘Thristtrap’ trending.

[enjakey]

이럼 안돼 don't touch, don't do it

PAIRING: cop!sunghoon x criminal!fem!reader

TW/N I 10k- smut so MNDI | cop au, neighbours au, rich man au l Sunghoon is a bit obsessed with Y/N and a bit manipulative but he’s still a good person | I tried the daddy-fication of sunghoon but I don't think it worked I don't think I have a daddy kink guys 😭 | l wrote smut guys, idk if it's good. When I wrote it, it made sense but the more I read it the weirder it got Imk how yall like it | I've been writing this since they debuted these fits bro HOW ARE THEY SO BIG | Heeseung is mentioned

SMUT TAGS: masturbation (m), oral (fem receiving), fingering, nipple play, p in v (no protection, wrap it before you tap it queens), creampie (ig??)

SUMMARY: A detective falls for his beautiful neighbour, a kind kindergarten teacher- only to discover she’s a drug holder hiding secrets in their swanky apartment building. But when love and loyalty clash, how far will he go to protect her… even if it means betraying the badge?

Park Sunghoon had never wanted an ordinary life.

Even as a kid growing up in Seoul, he’d been the one asking too many questions, staring a little too long at strangers, trying to piece together the puzzle of who they were and what secrets they might be hiding.

While other kids played video games, Sunghoon devoured detective novels, captivated by the thrill of solving what no one else could see. The idea of finding the truth- no matter how dark- set a spark burning in his chest that never went out.

His parents didn’t share the same enthusiasm. They wanted him safe behind a desk, in a respectable office job, not out chasing criminals through alleyways or risking his life in drug busts. They worried about the danger, the long hours, the toll it could take on his body and mind.

But Sunghoon couldn’t picture himself anywhere else.

He put himself through the Police University, graduating near the top of his class. It wasn’t easy. The physical training was brutal, the academic work relentless. But he thrived on the challenge. The more demanding the task, the more determined he became to prove himself.

When he made Detective, his parents finally accepted that this was his path. Especially when they saw how much he loved it.

Because Sunghoon didn’t just like being a detective. He lived for it.

He loved the rush of following a trail no one else noticed, the satisfaction of snapping puzzle pieces into place, the silent pride of bringing dangerous people off the streets. And, perhaps most of all, the power of protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves.

Years of hard work paid off. By his early thirties, he’d climbed the ranks to Detective Sergeant, leading high-profile investigations into narcotics and organized crime. His instincts were sharp, his case-closure record impressive. He’d earned respect in the department- and enough salary to afford the sleek, high-rise apartment where he now lived.

On paper, Detective Sergeant Park Sunghoon was exactly where he’d always dreamed of being- successful, respected, and at the top of his game.

He just never expected the biggest puzzle of his life would be the woman who lived right across the hall.

It started with an elevator ride- Sunghoon was on his way to work. Briefcase in hand, the other stuffed in his pocket, he leaned against the metal wall of the elevator, music flooding his ears. For the past month, nothing interesting had come out of work. The city had been quiet- a bit too quiet. 

Before the doors could shut, she’d come running towards him, waving frantically to hold the lift, please. And Sunghoon barely heard her but he was swift- he slid his hand between the opening and let the doors slide open for her. Shyly, she thanked him, hands clasped in front of her, dressed somewhere in between formal and casual- Sunghoon didn’t know the word for it. 

He’d never seen this girl before. And it came more as a shock to him when he realised she lived a few doors down from him- two doors opposite of his, the last one in the hallway, to be precise. As more time passed, the more their mornings seemed to align. They’d open their doors at the same time to leave for work, Sunghoon drove down the same road Y/N walked down to reach her place of work- she was a kindergarten teacher- and they both went to the same grocery store on the weekends. 

He knew this because once, they’d accidentally bumped their carts into each others’ while exploring the cereal aisle and awkwardly laughed at each other- familiar enough to know that they lived in the same building together, not familiar enough to exchange words.

But after that, Sunghoon tried to make himself more familiar with her.

Y/N was her name- he learnt that after asking the door man, who didn’t even hesitate to give him, a cop, the piece of information. And for the next few days, he’d utter the name under his breath to familiarise himself with it- the way it rolled off his tongue with ease, the way it suited her more than any other name he could fathom.

And in those elevator rides, quiet and still hovering with awkwardness, Sunghoon would observe her, examine her, admire her. It was the way she never looked tired in the mornings, though Sunghoon did most of the time- whether it was because he was on his way to the gym or to work. And it was the way her clothes seemed to fit her so perfectly, the way her hair was always perfectly styled and fell over her shoulder. And every morning in the elevator, she would pass him a curt nod and then look ahead like he didn’t exist. 

Sunghoon came to dread weekend mornings- it meant he wouldn’t be able to see her in the elevators, wouldn’t get that simple nod of acknowledgement from her, couldn’t mark his mornings with the sight of her fresh face and light smile resting on her glossed lips.

Then, he started getting off work early- purposeful and calculated. It took a while to figure out but eventually, he’d just asked the doorman again and he told him that she came back home around 3pm everyday.

So, the next day, at around 3pm, Sunghoon waited near the elevator, praying that Y/N would grace him with her appearance.

And she did, with her arms filled with a stack of papers almost comically thick, trying her best to not let them fly away. She greeted the doorman with a respectful smile and bow and scurried her way to the elevator- to Sunghoon, where he stood, waiting for her, when the elevator doors opened at the perfect timing.

“Do you need help with that?” Sunghoon asked her, cooly, swiftly, as though he hadn’t been rehearsing it.

Him, a cop, a sergeant detective, had to rehearse how to talk to a girl- he wasn’t sure how to feel about himself. But he didn’t care.

Y/N, ever so focused on carrying the papers, which seemingly were filled with children’s drawings, looked up at him with raised brows and parted lips- surprised. And she watched as he pressed the button to their floor and moved his hands towards her, the papers she was holding, and held the bundle with one hand with ease, the other holding his briefcase. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled to him, utterly defeated by his kindness, blinking up at him like she was looking at him for the first time- sharp features, welcoming smile and thick strands of hair that fell over his eyes.

“You’re a kindergarten student?” He asked, hiding the fact that he already knew.

“Yes,” she nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you?”

“Detective sergeant,” he answered proudly and didn’t fail to miss the falter in her expression- the way her smile froze for half a second, eyes darting away before she caught herself.

But Sunghoon didn’t think much of it- most people had that reaction, he realised. It was an instinctive mix of caution and unease, that momentary tightening in the shoulders, the subtle shift in their gaze. The badge on his belt carried weight, even when hidden beneath a suit jacket.

To him, it was normal. To everyone else, it was a quiet reminder that the law was always watching.

“I know I don’t look it,” he offered as a joke, sharp teeth peeking from behind his lips in teasing.

Y/N soft expression came back, eyes wrinkling as she brought her hand up to hide her giggle. “I knew we had a cop living in the building. Just didn’t think it was you.”

“Now you know,” Sunghoon shrugged.

The elevator door spinged open and the pair stepped out. Meekly, she reached towards her pile of papers- the drawings her students made with so much care and enthusiasm, despite their lack of talent and hand-eye coordination.

And he handed it to her, the tips of their fingers brushing- it sent jolts of electricity through Sunghoon and he reveled in it. He didn’t want to deny himself of it.

“Thank you for keeping us safe,” she bowed to him- a sense of respect and caution- before walking away towards her door. 

And Sunghoon stood back and watched, stunned by their interaction. He’d read the interaction from a completely different light than she- Sunghoon thought he’d made his flirting evident.

Over the next few days, Sunghoon made it a point to leave work early. 

It was a sudden change that left his team blinking in surprise and quietly celebrating the unexpected gift of shorter shifts. Detective Sergeant Park was known for staying late, stubbornly glued to his desk long after everyone else had gone home, but now he was practically racing the clock to leave on time. And every afternoon, like clockwork, he managed to catch Y/N just as she stepped into the elevator on her way home.

Their conversations were always the same. He’d greet her with a polite, “how has work been?” And she’d offer a soft, careful smile and reply, “good. What about you?” 

They rarely ventured beyond those simple exchanges. Sunghoon might elaborate a sentence or two about his day, and Y/N would give a quiet hum of acknowledgement, always polite but distant, as though she were determined to keep a safe buffer between them. It should have been harmless- a neighborly routine. But the truth was, Sunghoon found himself craving these moments far more than he ever intended.

At first, he convinced himself it was just curiosity. He was a detective, after all; it was his job to observe, to notice the details other people missed. But curiosity had a way of creeping into obsession, and one night, Sunghoon found himself sitting alone in his apartment, still wearing his dress shirt and tie, staring at the blank wall across the hall where her door stood closed and silent. He tried to shake it off, tried to remind himself that she was just a neighbor and that he was reading too much into things. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how Y/N refused to indulge him in more information about herself.

The next day, long after the precinct had emptied out, Sunghoon stayed behind. His finger hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds, battling with the quiet voice of his conscience. Then he gave in, logged into the department’s secure database, and typed her name.

 The screen flickered as the system pulled up her records, and in an instant, her life unfolded before him in cold, precise lines of text- her full name, national ID, place of birth in a small town hours outside Seoul, her parents’ names and current address, her school history, and a clean criminal record. 

And then he saw her salary.

Sunghoon stared at the figure, frowning. It wasn’t terrible, but it was nowhere near enough to cover rent in a building like theirs- not unless she was spending every last won on housing and living off instant noodles.

 Even that seemed unlikely. 

For a long moment, he sat there in the dim glow of his monitor, replaying every seemingly innocent detail he’d noticed about her over the past weeks.

He thought about how Y/N never wore designer clothes like so many of their neighbors. Her wardrobe was always simple- neat blouses, soft cardigans, plain skirts in gentle colors. He remembered how her grocery bags were always small and light, never crammed with the expensive brands and imported snacks he saw other tenants buying. There were no impulse luxuries in her cart- just bare essentials like rice, eggs, and milk. And he thought about how she didn’t own a car. Until now, he’d assumed it was a personal preference, maybe an eco-friendly choice for someone who worked with children. But suddenly, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that she simply couldn’t afford it.

Worst of all, he kept remembering the way her eyes flickered, just for the briefest second, when he said, “Detective Sergeant.” That tiny pause, the split-second stiffening of her shoulders- it hadn’t meant much to him at first. But now, it clawed at his mind like a warning he couldn’t ignore.

If she couldn’t afford her apartment on her salary, then someone else had to be paying for it. But who? And why?

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming anxiously on his desk, as his detective instincts kicked in, cataloging possibilities. Maybe she had a secret inheritance, but that seemed unlikely given her parents’ modest background. A wealthy boyfriend? He’d never seen any man visiting her apartment. Debt? That wouldn’t explain who was covering her rent. Or- an unsettling possibility twisted in his gut- was she involved in something illegal?

He wanted so desperately to believe she was just a sweet, hardworking teacher who lived a simple life. But Sunghoon had seen too much in his years on the force to ignore the possibility that sometimes the most ordinary faces hid the darkest secrets. And as he sat there, the weight of his discovery pressing down on his chest, one thought refused to leave him:

What was Y/N hiding?

The following weekend, Sunghoon called in sick to work, mumbling some half-hearted excuse about feeling unwell. It wasn’t entirely a lie- his head did feel scrambled, his chest tight with a restless, obsessive energy he couldn’t shake. But it had nothing to do with a virus or a fever. 

It was because of Y/N.

So instead of resting, Sunghoon spent nearly all of Saturday posted right inside his apartment doorway, a chair dragged close enough that he could lean forward, pressing his ear against the wood. He sat there for hours, listening intently for any sounds from the hallway, straining to catch even the faintest whisper, the softest shuffle of footsteps outside.

Saturday morning passed uneventfully. The building was quiet, the only noises drifting through were the occasional thump of someone’s vacuum cleaner, a child laughing two floors up, and the distant hum of traffic far below. By afternoon, Sunghoon was starting to feel foolish. His muscles ached from sitting so long in the same position, and he was growing bored, losing hope in the theory that Y/N was involved in anything illegal. 

A huge part of him felt relieved. Maybe there was an innocent explanation for how she could afford to live in such an expensive apartment. Maybe she really was just a sweet, hardworking kindergarten teacher with no dark secrets lurking behind her gentle smile.

But as evening fell, the quiet shifted.

Somewhere around seven o’clock, Sunghoon heard footsteps in the hallway- soft, deliberate steps that didn’t match any of his neighbors’ usual patterns. They were heavier than Y/N’s light tread but more cautious than the confident strides of the businessmen who lived on their floor. The footsteps approached, and Sunghoon felt his pulse spike as he heard the subtle click of a key sliding into Y/N’s lock.

He shot upright, adrenaline surging through him.

A moment later, Y/N’s voice carried into the hall, soft and cautious.

“Come in, come in!”

Peering through the slim crack of his door, Sunghoon caught a faint glimpse of her silhouette standing at her doorway, her posture slightly nervous, her hands fidgeting as she stepped aside to let someone enter. The figure who brushed past her into the apartment was a man- taller than Y/N, wearing dark clothes, his face half-obscured by the shadows spilling across the hallway. Sunghoon barely caught the sharp line of a jaw, the gleam of something metallic at the man’s wrist, maybe a watch.

And then the door shut with a soft thud, swallowing them into silence.

Sunghoon stood frozen in the threshold of his own apartment, heart hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears. Every instinct screamed that this was the moment he’d been waiting for- that he wasn’t crazy, that there was something more to Y/N than sweet smiles and pastel sweaters.

He clenched his fists at his sides, fighting the sudden urge to storm across the hallway and demand answers (what answers? He wasn’t her boyfriend yet to accuse her of adultery and he had not enough proof to accuse her of illegal activity). Instead, he forced himself to close his door softly, leaning his back against it as he stared at the ceiling, trying to steady his breath.

Half an hour later, Sunghoon was still standing near his door, tense and silent, every nerve on edge. He kept replaying the image of the man slipping into Y/N’s apartment, trying to memorize every shadowy detail- the broad shoulders, the dark clothing, the quick, almost furtive way he’d moved past her.

Then, suddenly, Y/N’s door clicked open again, the quiet sound echoing through the hushed hallway.

A string of small, hushed voices spilled out into the corridor- soft mumbles of polite farewells, fragments of words like “thank you,” and “see you tomorrow.” Sunghoon held his breath as he edged his door open just a few centimeters, peering through the narrow slit.

The man emerged first, stepping into the hall with quick, purposeful strides. In his hand, he now carried a black bag he hadn’t been holding earlier. It wasn’t anything overtly suspicious- a simple duffel, the kind a person might take to the gym- but the sight of it made Sunghoon’s gut twist. The man didn’t look around as he headed for the elevators, his expression unreadable, eyes focused straight ahead as though determined not to acknowledge anyone who might be watching.

Behind him, Y/N lingered in her doorway, one hand gripping the edge of the door frame, offering a polite smile that seemed just a little too practiced.

“Goodnight,” she called softly and clicked her door shut.

The man gave a short nod without turning, and within moments, he disappeared into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a quiet hiss.

Sunghoon stood frozen, staring at the empty hallway, his mind spinning faster than he could control.

Why did that man suddenly have a bag? What had been inside Y/N’s apartment that he needed to carry out? And why was Y/N- the gentle, soft-spoken kindergarten teacher- mixed up with a man who slipped away like he was avoiding being seen?

By Sunday evening, Sunghoon was practically vibrating with restless energy. He hadn’t left his apartment all weekend except to crack his door open and press his ear against it whenever footsteps echoed in the hall. Part of him felt ridiculous, spying like a jealous lover, but the other part- the detective part- couldn’t ignore the gnawing certainty that Y/N was hiding something.

So when the same man returned that evening, carrying the same black bag and arriving almost to the minute as the night before, Sunghoon felt both vindicated and deeply uneasy. He watched through the sliver of his door as Y/N opened hers with that same practiced gesture, stepping aside to let the man in. She was smiling, but there was tension in the set of her shoulders, as if her entire body were braced for something she couldn’t control. Half an hour later, the man was leaving again, only this time the bag was nowhere in sight.

Sunghoon decided that tonight, he wasn’t going to simply watch from the shadows.

The moment Y/N’s door cracked open again and the man stepped into the hallway, Sunghoon swung his own door wider, pretending to be in mid-stride, keys in hand like he was on his way out. Y/N and the man both froze, eyes wide, expressions caught somewhere between surprise and unease. But just as quickly, their faces smoothed back into normalcy, masks snapping into place.

“Oh, Y/N,” Sunghoon said, approaching with measured steps, his voice warm but edged with curiosity. “Nice to see you.”

Y/N tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and offered a bright, practiced smile.

“You too. How are you? No work today?”

“Ah, I wasn’t feeling too well, actually,” Sunghoon replied, letting out an exaggerated sigh as he rubbed his temple. “Headache.”

“Oh, uh… do you need anyth- ”

But Sunghoon cut her off sharply, shifting his gaze toward the man who lingered beside her.

“Who’s this?” He asked, tilting his head slightly, as though trying to place a familiar face.

Y/N hesitated, just for a second- a small hitch in her breath that only someone like Sunghoon would catch. He felt the electric thrill of knowing he’d cornered her, even if only slightly. He could see the calculations racing behind her eyes. Y/N was smart enough to know that by now, Sunghoon had begun to suspect something. She would also know how good he was at detecting lies- she’d told him once she’d fallen down an internet rabbit hole researching him after he’d revealed his job.

Sunghoon waited, silently daring her to slip. He was expecting a lie- and he’d know if it was a bad one. He already knew almost everything about her. Everything he needed to.

Y/N cleared her throat lightly, then reached out and patted the man on the shoulder.

“Oh, he’s my high school friend,” she said smoothly.

The man cracked a confident smile, nodding. “Yes. High school friend.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes to thin slits, studying them both. He knew it was a lie- but he had to admit it was a good one. If she’d claimed he was her brother, that would have been an instant giveaway; Sunghoon knew for a fact that Y/N didn’t have any siblings. But a high school friend… that was plausible enough to muddy the waters.

“Ah,” Sunghoon murmured, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he considered his next move. He debated asking the man’s name, but quickly decided against it. Pushing too hard right now would make his suspicions too obvious. Instead, he forced a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes,” the man- allegedly Y/N’s high school friend- nodded briskly, then stepped past Sunghoon and headed toward the elevator.

Sunghoon didn’t stop him. He turned slightly to watch over his shoulder until the man disappeared behind the closing elevator doors. Then he shifted his gaze back to Y/N, who was still standing there, her fingers twisting lightly around the hem of her sleeve as if waiting for him to say something more.

If Y/N was who Sunghoon now suspected she was, he knew she would have pieced it together by now- that he was watching her, that the detective across the hall was no longer just her friendly neighbor but someone who had begun to look for the cracks in her story.

Sunghoon felt the options swirling in his mind. He could investigate further, dig until he found enough evidence to arrest her- or he could play this differently. Use the situation to his advantage.

And as he looked at her standing there, eyes darting nervously across his features, Sunghoon’s lips curled into the faintest trace of his signature smile.

“We should go on a date.”

Sunghoon, as a servant of the law, knew he should feel sick for twisting a situation like this. Two things haunted the back of his mind like gnawing teeth: first, that he was refraining from investigating a suspicious woman; and second, that he was manipulating a woman he found irresistibly attractive into going on a date with him under the silent, unspoken threat of his badge. He knew it was wrong, that he was stepping over lines no detective ever should.

Yet, he couldn’t help himself.

It was something in the way Y/N looked at him, cautious and wary, as though she understood the unspoken rules of their new game. Neither of them said it aloud, but in their own ways, they both knew exactly what was happening- that this date wasn’t just a date, that there were secrets between them as delicate and dangerous as glass.

But despite the guilt simmering under his skin, Sunghoon took a sharp, almost perverse pleasure in it. He enjoyed watching her give in, watched her let herself be led, her eyes flickering with worry yet her body following him willingly. He enjoyed seeing her dolled up in a dress he was certain she’d bought just for tonight, even though she’d skimped on groceries for weeks. He enjoyed the way she hovered close as he played with his car keys, opening the door for her, helping her into the passenger seat, leaning in to fasten her seatbelt while his breath ghosted hot against the soft curve of her neck.

“Where are you taking me?” Y/N asked, her voice quiet and timid, as if she were stepping around invisible tripwires, afraid that one wrong word would trigger an explosion.

“You’ll see,” Sunghoon replied, grinning as he settled into the driver’s seat, his hands confidently gripping the wheel. He didn’t miss the way Y/N’s eyes darted down the length of his body, lingering on the crisp lines of his shirt and tie, the way his biceps flexed beneath the fabric whenever he turned the steering wheel.

He drove her to a high-end restaurant nestled in the wealthier end of the city, its sleek black interior accented with soft golden light that shimmered off crystal glassware and polished marble. Y/N seemed visibly uneasy as they stepped inside, glancing around as if searching for escape routes, clearly wanting to protest. But she swallowed her objections, knowing that to protest too much would be to reveal something she was trying desperately to keep hidden. So she followed Sunghoon to the table he’d reserved, perching on the velvet seat as if afraid to touch anything, letting him handle the menu without protest because she didn’t know what tasted good in a place like this- and because he clearly wanted to be the one in control.

Sunghoon ordered steak and pasta, pairing it with an expensive bottle of red wine, while Y/N nibbled at her food in tiny, hesitant bites. Of course, Sunghoon noticed. He watched every subtle movement of her fork, the way she daintily touched the edge of her lips with her napkin.

“You’re barely eating,” he remarked, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through her quiet pretense.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” she stammered, shaking her head. “Just… a bit nervous.”

“What are you nervous about?” Sunghoon pressed, tilting his head slightly, studying her reaction the way he’d interrogate a suspect.

“Never dated a cop before.”

Sunghoon burst out laughing, throwing his head back, utterly charmed and amused because it was so far from the answer he’d expected.

“No need to be nervous,” he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “I’m here to keep you safe, aren’t I?”

For a moment, Y/N only stared at him, her eyes glassy, lips parted in silent confusion. She didn’t quite know what he meant, and Sunghoon could see her brain scrambling for the safest assumption. But she let herself believe, just a little, that Sunghoon might truly be offering protection.

When she didn’t speak, Sunghoon reached across the table, his fingers brushing the delicate bones of her hand.

“I want to get to know you,” he murmured. “I really do.”

“What do you want to know?” Y/N asked, her voice cautious, each word weighed before it left her lips.

Sunghoon grinned, his sharp canines glinting as he flashed the kind of smile that disarmed suspects in interrogation rooms. “What’s it like teaching kindergarteners?”

A knot seemed to loosen in Y/N’s chest at that, and she began to talk. She spoke about the children she taught, about the mischievous little monsters who made her want to tear her hair out, and the sweet angels who adored learning and followed her around like ducklings. She told stories about art projects gone wrong, about tantrums and lost shoes, and the occasional hellish parent who stormed into parent-teacher meetings breathing fire.

Sunghoon listened, genuinely engrossed. He knew some of those kids by name- their parents, to be specific. He’d either worked with them before or helped them handle a crisis. It was a wealthy neighborhood, after all, and everything was connected in one way or another.

Yet when it came time to talk about himself, Sunghoon remained cautious. He offered only vague glimpses of his work, speaking in generalities, avoiding any detail that might make Y/N panic. Instead, he shifted the conversation toward safer territory- his childhood, the younger sister he adored, the years he’d spent ice skating as a boy before giving it up to chase his dream of becoming a cop.

By the end of the night, Y/N had allowed herself to lower her guard just enough for real laughter to slip out, for genuine warmth to appear in her eyes. Not total trust, but enough that her smile no longer looked forced. On the drive back home, she didn’t pull away when Sunghoon rested his large hand on her thigh, his fingers warm and possessive against the fabric of her dress. And as they rode the elevator upstairs, they shared silent, loaded glances, each of them acutely aware of the dangerous undercurrent swirling between them.

When they reached her door, Sunghoon leaned casually against the frame, lingering, waiting.

“Good night,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “We should do this more often.”

“We should,” she agreed, offering a smile that might have been genuine- or might have been another carefully constructed mask. And perhaps, Sunghoon thought, it was a bit of both.

That night, Y/N didn’t kiss him. Sunghoon wanted to, badly, but he held himself back. He let her slip inside her apartment, closing the door gently behind her, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.

But when he finally crawled into bed, he fell asleep thinking of her. He couldn’t help it. The memory of her at dinner earlier that evening was too vivid, too intoxicating. His hand instinctively drifted downward, fingers curling around the growing hardness beneath the sheets

She had been sitting across from him, her lips wrapping around the fork as she took a bite of dessert. The way her tongue flicked out to catch a stray crumb, the way her doe eyes locked onto his as if she knew exactly what she was doing- it had driven him wild. And now, here he was, imagining that fork was something else entirely.

His grip tightened around his dick, his breath hitching as he began to stroke himself slowly, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through his body. He closed his eyes, letting the image of her take over. In his mind, it wasn’t a fork between her lips- it was him. Her mouth was warm, wet, and inviting, her tongue swirling around his tip before taking him deeper. He could almost feel the heat of her breath, the way her cheeks would hollow as she sucked him in.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hips bucking slightly as he imagined her looking up at him with those innocent eyes, feigning naivety while she coaxed him closer to the edge. The thought alone was enough to make him groan, his hand moving faster now, the rhythm becoming more urgent.

He could see it so clearly- her lips stretched around him, her hands gripping his thighs for balance as she took him deeper, her eyes never leaving his. She would be so good at it, so eager to please, and yet there would be that hint of innocence in her gaze, as if she didn’t know the effect she was having on him. But she did, she had to know. No one could look at him like that and not know what they were doing.

His breathing grew ragged, his body tensing as he neared the edge. He could feel it building, that familiar pressure in his lower abdomen, and he knew he was close. In his mind, she was moaning around him, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine. Her hands were on his hips now, pulling him closer, urging him to let go.

“God, yes,” he whispered, his voice strained as he imagined her swallowing every last drop, her tongue lapping at him greedily as if she couldn’t get enough. The image was too much, and with a low groan, he came, his release spilling over his hand as he rode out the waves of pleasure.

For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. His mind was still foggy, the image of her lingering even as the reality of what he’d just done settled in. He should feel guilty, maybe even ashamed, but all he felt was a deep, aching need for more.

Because now, more than ever, he was certain- whatever secrets Y/N was hiding… he was going to be the one to uncover them.

The next morning, Y/N stepped into the elevator and felt her pulse spike the instant she saw Sunghoon already inside. He stood tall in his usual work attire, his trousers hugging the firm muscle of his thighs, the crisp white shirt straining ever so slightly against the breadth of his chest and biceps. He looked entirely too handsome for someone whose presence posed such a lethal risk to her carefully balanced life.

Y/N gave him a curt, polite smile, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy, but Sunghoon simply grinned back at her the way he always did. Except now, there was something new between them- a charged understanding, a connection woven from secrets, lies, and stolen glances.

He leaned closer, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear, and murmured, “you look beautiful today.”

Despite herself, Y/N couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, dancing on a knife’s edge, but part of her thrilled at the attention.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You look good too.”

A fleeting look of triumph crossed Sunghoon’s eyes, and then the elevator doors opened. He strode out, heading toward the parking lot to start his day, while Y/N lingered behind, heart pounding like a warning drum in her chest.

As soon as Sunghoon’s tail lights disappeared, Y/N hurried out of the building and practically ran the few blocks to the café near her kindergarten. She risked being late- it didn’t matter, not compared to what she needed to do.

Inside the café, tucked into a shadowy booth near the back, Heeseung was waiting for her. He was the same man Sunghoon had seen slipping into her apartment two nights ago, and now his expression was tight with frustration, jaw set as he leaned forward across the table.

“You need to move out,” he said immediately, voice low but edged with urgency. “It’s not safe anymore.”

Y/N dropped into the seat across from him and wrapped her cold fingers around the coffee cup waiting for her. She knew he was right. Every part of her logical brain screamed that she needed to get as far away from Park Sunghoon as possible. But the thought of leaving- of severing whatever twisted connection had begun to blossom between her and Sunghoon- sent a cold dread spiraling through her stomach.

Because somewhere during that date, as Sunghoon had smiled at her with those sharp, predatory eyes, as he’d listened to her stories and brushed his fingers over her hand, Y/N had started falling for him.

“I don’t want to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung’s glare sharpened, dark eyes glinting.

“I can easily stop paying rent for that apartment, you know that?” He threatened.

Y/N lifted her chin, a hint of defiance flashing across her features. “Who’s gonna stash your drugs for you then, huh?”

Heeseung fell silent, his mouth snapping shut at once. He stared at her, clearly torn between anger and grudging respect.

“I know how to handle this,” Y/N said firmly, pushing back her chair and standing.

But as she left the café and started the short walk to her kindergarten, she felt the lie settle like a stone in her gut. Because the truth was, her way of handling things had never involved loyalty to anyone except herself.

And if it ever came down to choosing between Heeseung and Sunghoon… Y/N already knew who she was going to choose.

Sunghoon took Y/N on more dates over the following weeks- quiet afternoons in cozy cafés, early morning rented bicycle rides through tree-lined park trails, and elegant dinners in restaurants where the chandeliers glittered like stars overhead. He never let her pay for anything; not a single won left her purse when she was with him. Whether it was coffee, movie tickets, or dinner for two, Sunghoon covered it all without a moment’s hesitation, as though he took pride in spoiling her.

It was probably around the third date that Y/N finally kissed him- they’d come back from a modest dinner, the air between them charged with unspoken tension. It happened as they stood on her doorstep, the warm glow of city lights casting a soft halo around her. 

She’d leaned in, her movements tentative yet deliberate, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that was achingly gentle, almost shy. Sunghoon had been instantly obsessed. He couldn’t get enough of her mouth- the way it felt so impossibly soft against his, the faint sweetness of her breath mingling with his own, the way her delicate fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as if she were anchoring herself to him. Even when she tried to pull away, her cheeks flushed and a nervous giggle escaping her lips, he’d caught her wrist and dragged her back in for another, deeper this time, his hunger for her impossible to ignore. The way she melted into him, her body pressing closer, only fueled his desire, leaving him craving more.

Everything seemed perfect- at least, on the surface. Their relationship grew into something that might have seemed genuine to anyone watching. But Y/N’s secret life continued unchanged. Her method of storing Heeseung’s product remained the same, except now he could no longer visit on weekends. She’d given him her spare key, instructing him only to come during the weekdays, when she knew both she and Sunghoon would be safely occupied at work.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, Sunghoon was still investigating her in the shadows, despite how natural and affectionate their relationship appeared. He kept quietly collecting information, determined to trace every thread connecting her to the local drug ring, wrestling each day with the conflict between his growing feelings for her and his loyalty to the badge he wore.

A few weeks later, it was career day at Y/N’s kindergarten- a day her students had been buzzing about for weeks. Each child was supposed to bring in a parent or family member to talk about their profession, and Sunghoon lit up the moment he heard about it. He insisted on coming, eager to introduce himself as the policeman Y/N was dating, and she hadn’t found it in herself to refuse. There was something sweet about imagining her students meeting him.

On the morning of career day, Sunghoon arrived at the kindergarten looking painfully handsome, dressed in a perfectly pressed shirt with his badge clipped to his belt. He crouched beside rows of tiny chairs, introducing himself with a wide grin and explaining in gentle, animated tones what it meant to be a detective.

“Sometimes, I help find people who are lost,” he said, making big hand gestures that made the kids giggle. “Other times, I solve mysteries. Like a real-life superhero.”

Y/N watched him from the side, arms crossed over her chest, biting back a smile as her class practically vibrated with excitement.

One little boy raised his hand and asked very seriously,

“Do you have a gun?”

Sunghoon paused, lips twitching as he tried not to laugh. “Yes. But it stays in my holster, because being safe is the most important part of my job.”

Another child asked if he’d ever chased a bad guy.

“Once,” Sunghoon admitted, eyes wide and conspiratorial. “But he ran slower than me, so I caught him.”

The kids erupted into cheers and applause, clapping their hands, utterly enthralled. Y/N felt a twinge in her chest as she watched him- he looked so natural with the kids, so effortlessly charming. She wondered, briefly, if this was what a normal life with him could look like.

But Y/N didn’t realize the predicament she’d unknowingly set for herself by letting Sunghoon anywhere near her workplace.

Because after career day ended, Sunghoon insisted on grabbing a coffee at a nearby café. It was the same café where Heeseung usually hung around- the same one he’d started making Y/N meet him at since it had become too risky for him to visit her apartment.

Panic coiled hot and tight in Y/N’s chest as she followed Sunghoon out of the kindergarten. She wracked her brain for an excuse to drag him somewhere else, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t sound suspicious. So she kept quiet, trailing behind him with her eyes wide and anxious.

They stepped into the café, and immediately, Y/N’s gaze darted around the softly lit interior. And there, in a corner booth, was Heeseung- slouched over his phone, absently stirring melting ice in his cold coffee.

The moment they entered, Heeseung looked up and locked eyes with Y/N. A split-second of surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by cold calculation. Without missing a beat, he closed his phone, slipped from the booth, and exited the café as casually as if he’d simply gotten bored. He didn’t even spare Sunghoon a second glance.

Y/N’s heart thundered in her chest. She didn’t know if Sunghoon had noticed the brief exchange. Maybe he was too engrossed in flipping through the menu, his fingers trailing over the glossy pages. Or maybe he had noticed and was choosing not to mention it yet.

They’d gone grocery shopping together on a breezy Sunday afternoon when the sun hung low and gold outside the windows of the upscale supermarket near their building.

Sunghoon had suggested it so casually, saying he needed to restock his fridge, and Y/N had agreed, telling herself it was normal- just another thing couples did. But the moment they stepped inside, Sunghoon took control of the cart, one hand wrapped firmly around the handle as he guided it through the aisles with the confidence of a man who’d never worried about a price tag in his life.

“Okay,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her with a grin. “Tell me everything you like.”

Y/N blinked at him, caught off guard.

“Everything I… like?”

“Snacks. Candy. Drinks. Anything you’ve ever wanted to try.”

Y/N hesitated, trailing a few steps behind him, feeling oddly exposed under the bright grocery store lights.

“No, it’s fine,” she murmured. “I don’t need anything.”

But Sunghoon was already steering them straight into the snacks aisle. He started plucking brightly colored packages from the shelves- imported chocolates in gold foil, novelty-flavored chips she’d only ever stared at longingly, matcha cookies, fruit gummies shaped like tiny peaches. He tossed each item into the cart without even checking the price, looking over at her with that mischievous glint in his eyes every time.

“These look good, right?” He said, waving a bag of truffle-flavored popcorn.

“Sunghoon, I don’t even know if I’d like that,” she laughed, trying to grab it back from the cart.

“So try it,” he insisted, gently batting her hand away. “If you hate it, I’ll eat it.”

She watched the pile in the cart grow higher and higher, feeling both giddy and embarrassed.

“I can’t afford all this,” she finally said, voice soft.

Sunghoon stopped pushing the cart and turned to face her fully, expression gentle. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re with me,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of it,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides… what’s the point of money if I can’t spoil my girlfriend a little?”

Heat rushed to Y/N’s cheeks. She tried to protest again, a sense of guilt resting in her stomach, but Sunghoon was already back to tossing more snacks into the cart- fizzy Japanese sodas, tiny jars of imported fruit jam, and gourmet instant noodles that cost as much as a proper meal.

Later, as they stood in line at the checkout, Y/N lingered awkwardly to the side while Sunghoon handed over his sleek black credit card without blinking.

When they finally stepped outside, grocery bags rustling in his arms, he nudged her playfully.

“Next time, I’m buying you every flavor of ice cream in the store.”

And though Y/N tried to roll her eyes and brush it off, she couldn’t help smiling. For a fleeting moment, wrapped in Sunghoon’s attention, she almost let herself believe she could have this- him, the life he offered, and the simple joy of letting him grocery shop for her.

The two-month mark of their relationship was looming. Everything between them had settled into a rhythm that felt almost dangerously normal. Too quiet, too perfect for the reality simmering beneath the surface- a kindergarten teacher who hid drugs in her apartment, and a detective sergeant whose job was to lock people like her away.

Y/N had convinced herself it was fine to leave it unspoken. She wouldn’t bring it up if Sunghoon didn’t. Why risk unraveling the delicate thread of perfection she’d come to crave? She allowed herself to pretend, for just a little longer, that they were like any other couple falling in love.

But that fragile illusion shattered the evening of their two-month anniversary.

Sunghoon knocked on her door, and when Y/N opened it, she froze at the sight of the manila file clutched in his hand. Her name was scrawled across the front in bold letters that seemed to scream at her in the dim hallway light.

Sunghoon’s face was unreadable as he stood there, towering in her doorway, eyes dark and glittering like polished obsidian.

“I know who you are,” he said.

For a moment, Y/N couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Of course he knew. Deep down, she’d always known he’d find out. He was a detective, and she’d been his curiosity from the very beginning. But still- what was the point of the dates, of the laughter, of pretending to be normal? What had all of it meant if it came down to this?

“Sunghoon- ”

But he held up a hand, cutting her off, his voice as calm and steady as it was when reading someone their rights.

“I have two options right now,” he said. “I can do my job. Throw you in jail and shut down the entire drug ring you’re involved in.”

He paused, and in that tiny, trembling silence, Y/N thought she might die if he didn’t finish his sentence.

“Or,” Sunghoon continued, his voice softening just slightly, “you promise to be with me. And I can make all of this go away. You’ll be safe and free. The rest of them- Heeseung and everyone else- will go to jail. And I can protect you. No one will be able to hurt you.”

Y/N stared at him, heart pounding so violently she could feel it echoing in her throat. And the terrible truth was, she’d already known her choice. She’d known it even before he gave her the ultimatum.

She didn’t need to say a word. Sunghoon could read her answer in the way her eyes began to glisten, in the way her shoulders sagged as though in surrender. Because what else could she choose? The man she loved, who promised her a life without fear and hardship- or loyalty to a criminal world she’d only ever joined out of desperation for a little extra cash?

Sunghoon stepped closer, crowding her into the doorway, the file still clutched in his hand.

“It’ll just be you and me now,” he murmured. “No more secrets.”

And Y/N let herself believe him. Because despite everything, the lies, the manipulation, the dark line he’d just drawn between freedom and ruin- he was still the man who bought her snacks she couldn’t afford. The man who smiled at her in the elevator like she was the only person in the world.

She didn’t need to say it. He already knew.

With a sudden burst of desperation, she grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him inside. The folder fell from his hand, landing with a soft thud on the floor as she slammed the door shut behind them. Her lips crashed into his, hungry, urgent, and he responded instantly, his hands gripping her waist like he was afraid she might disappear.

His mouth was hot against hers, demanding, and she melted into him, her body pressing against his as if she could erase the distance between them. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, and she moaned softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.

He broke away just long enough to breathe her name, his voice rough. “Y/N…”

She didn’t let him finish. Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against hers. He helped her, shrugging it off and tossing it aside before his hands were on her again, sliding down her back to grip her hips. His touch was electric, sending shivers through her body as he pulled her flush against him.

She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her thigh, and a thrill shot through her. Her fingers traced the lines of his chest, feeling the muscles tense under her touch as she leaned in to kiss him again. This time, it was slower, deeper, and she could taste the hunger in him, the need that matched her own.

His hands moved to the hem of her dress, lifting it slowly, teasingly, until it pooled at her feet. She stood before him in nothing but her lace underwear, her skin flushed with desire. His eyes darkened as he took her in, his gaze raking over her body like he was memorizing every curve.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick.

She reached for him again, pulling him close as her hands slid down to unbuckle his belt. He let out a low groan as she freed him from his pants, his cock springing free, hard and ready. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly, and he hissed through his teeth, his hands tightening on her hips.

“Y/N,” he growled, his voice strained. “If you keep doing that…”

She smiled up at him, a wicked glint in her eyes. “What? You’ll what?”

In one swift motion, he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the couch, laying her down gently before climbing over her. His lips found hers again, hot and insistent, as his hands roamed her body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He kissed down her neck, nipping at her skin lightly before moving lower, his tongue tracing a path between her breasts.

“You have no idea how long I've waited for this.”

She arched into him, her hands tangling in his hair as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before switching to the other. Her breath came in short gasps as pleasure coursed through her, her body aching for more. His tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, teasing and tugging until she let out a soft moan, her fingers tightening in his hair. He responded with a low growl, the vibration against her skin sending shivers down her spine.

He moved to the other breast, his lips capturing her nipple with the same intensity, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucked hard. She gasped, her back arching off the couch as a jolt of pleasure shot through her. His hands roamed her body, one sliding down to grip her hip while the other cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over the hardened peak he’d just abandoned. The dual sensations were overwhelming, and she could feel herself growing wetter with every touch.

“Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “Please…”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His mouth left her breast, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, each one leaving a mark of his possession. She squirmed beneath him, her hips lifting instinctively as he moved lower, his hands spreading her thighs wider. His breath was warm against her inner thigh, and she could feel the anticipation building, coiling tight in her core.

When his tongue finally touched her, fingers holding her oanties to the side, it was like a spark igniting a fire. He licked her slowly, savoring every inch of her as if she were the most exquisite thing he’d ever tasted. She cried out, her hands gripping the cushions beneath her as he teased her clit with the tip of his tongue, flicking it lightly before swirling around it in slow circles. The pleasure was almost too much, and she could feel herself teetering on the edge, desperate for release.

“I’m close,” she gasped, her voice breaking as she felt herself teetering on the brink. “So close…”

He didn’t let up, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles inside her while his mouth continued its relentless assault. She could feel every stroke, every flick of his tongue, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. Her legs shook, her toes curling as the pressure inside her built to a fever pitch. She was so close, so close, but he held her there, on the brink of edge, drawing out the pleasure until she thought she might scream.

And then, with one final, firm suck on her clit, she shattered. Her body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing over her as she came undone beneath him. He didn’t stop, drawing out her orgasm until she was trembling and breathless, her legs shaking around his shoulders. When he finally pulled away, he looked up at her with a satisfied smirk, his lips glistening.

He didn’t make her wait for more. He stripped off her panties and positioned himself between her legs, his eyes locked on hers as he pushed inside her slowly, inch by torturous inch. She moaned loudly, her nails digging into his shoulders as he filled her completely.

He began to move, his thrusts deep and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure through her body. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he buried himself inside her again and again. His name spilled from her lips like a prayer, each syllable trembling with need.

“You’re mine,” he breathed against her ear, his voice rough with possessiveness. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, her body trembling as he hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. “Only yours.”

He kissed her fiercely, swallowing her moans as he drove into her harder, faster. His hands gripped her hips with a possessive intensity, pulling her closer with each thrust, as if he couldn’t get deep enough. She could feel the tension building inside her, coiling tighter and tighter, a storm of pleasure threatening to break. Her nails dug into his back, leaving faint marks as she clung to him, her body arching to meet his every movement.

“Sunghoon,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His pace quickened, each stroke hitting that gummy spot inside her that made her vision blur. She could feel the heat pooling in her core, spreading through her limbs like wildfire. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her heart pounding in time with the rhythm of their bodies. He leaned down, capturing her lips in another searing kiss, his tongue tangling with hers as if he wanted to consume her completely.

She could feel herself coming close, the knot inside her building to an unbearable peak. Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and she let out a broken cry as the second wave of pleasure crashed over her. Her body convulsed around him, every nerve alight with ecstasy as she came undone. Wave after wave of sensation washed over her, leaving her trembling and breathless.

He groaned against her neck, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release. “Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough with desperation. “I can’t- I need-”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their ragged breathing. “Please.”

With one final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, his body shuddering as he spilled himself with a low, guttural moan. She held him close, her fingers threading through his hair as he collapsed against her, his weight pressing her into the couch. For a moment, they lay there in silence, their hearts beating in sync, their bodies still connected.

He followed soon after, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside her with a low groan. He collapsed on top of her, his breath hot against her skin as they both struggled to catch their breath.

For a moment, they lay there in silence, their bodies still intertwined, the air thick with the heat of their shared passion. Sunghoon’s chest rose and fell against hers, his breath warm on her skin. He crawled back up her body, kissing her as he settled over her once more.

“You made the right choice,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She smiled up at him, her heart swelling with something she hadn’t felt in a long time- hope. “I know.”

Sunghoon burned every last piece of evidence he had on her. He did it methodically, late one night in his kitchen, feeding pages into a metal waste bin and watching flames lick across her name until all that remained was blackened ash. Whatever files the precinct held were quietly erased, hidden beneath layers of bureaucracy that only a seasoned detective like him could navigate.

Meanwhile, Heeseung and everyone else tied to the drug ring were arrested in swift, targeted raids. Sunghoon had overseen the entire operation himself, never once mentioning Y/N’s name, ensuring she was invisible in the official reports. It was over, clean and final.

A few days later, Y/N packed up her apartment- what little she owned- and moved in with Sunghoon. His place felt impossibly spacious compared to hers, sleek and modern, filled with warm light and expensive furniture. It smelled faintly of his cologne and the fresh laundry he was meticulous about folding.

For the first few nights, she lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling while he slept with an arm thrown across her waist, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness.

It was a strange kind of freedom she’d bought for herself- a life where she didn’t have to hide, where no one knocked on her door asking for packages or money. A life where Sunghoon slipped her credit cards and told her to buy whatever she wanted, where he brought her coffee in bed and kissed her temple like she was the most precious thing he’d ever possessed.

But there was still a flicker of fear buried deep in her chest, a knowledge that the man beside her had rewritten the law to keep her safe- and that he’d do it again if she ever thought of leaving.

Yet every morning, Sunghoon would wake, press a kiss to her hair, and murmur,

“Good morning, baby.”

And Y/N would smile back, whispering her reply, letting herself pretend- for as long as she could- that this was all she’d ever wanted.

[gojoest]

diaper duty! — gojo satoru

part of papatoru days

the one where your husband fumbles through his first diaper change

a/n: posting this real quick before i dip again, bye

brrrrt

It’s the sound that comes first.

You and Satoru exchange a look, and then simultaneously turn toward the bassinet where your baby had been soundly sleeping just moments ago.

A second later, the smell hits — your baby just did what most babies do. Filling her diaper.

“Was that her?” Satoru blinks, slightly amused.

You nod. “Well, who else could it be?”

And, as if responding to your conversation, your little one chimes in with a delighted chuckle.

“Don’t babies usually cry when they make a mess?” Satoru questions, pinching his nose.

“Seems like she’s already taking after you… being all smug after pulling off something mischievous”, you snort.

“Well, what can I say — she’s my girl, after all”, Satoru grins.

You grab a clean diaper and head over to the bassinet with Satoru trailing behind, baby wipes in one hand and a bottle of cream in the other. Setting the fresh diaper aside, you gently lift your baby and lay her on the changing table. She’s still all smiles, that little troublemaker, very much basking in the mess she’s made.

Glancing over your shoulder, you ask, “Want to give it a try?”

“Can I?”

“You’ll have to get used to it”, you say, stepping aside. “When I’m not around, you’ll have to deal with it yourself. And by the way — no, you can’t call Ijichi for that too. He’s already juggling enough of your petty requests.”

You do feel a little bad for Ijichi, but it’s hard to deny how helpful he’s been. Satoru hasn’t left your side since you got discharged from the hospital after giving birth to your beautiful daughter, and with the baby still too small for outings, someone has to run out for supplies. You’re not quite ready to be alone with her (or worse — leave her with your chaotic husband). Not just yet. So naturally, the errands fall to Ijichi — your husband’s go-to errand runner.

“But—”

“No buts!” you cut him off with a smirk. “Come on now, your turn.”

Satoru carefully approaches — with baby steps, literally. He’s already fake gagging as he slowly begins to unwrap your little one, calling her “tiny stink ball” and whatnot under his breath. But among all of his ridiculous dramatics, that soft smile tugging at his lips and reaching his eyes tells you that he’s very much enjoying this.

And so is your daughter. She’s still giggling and kicking her tiny feet in delight, making her father’s first attempt at diaper duty a little more chaotic than expected.

“Yeah? You’re having fun there, huh, princess?” Satoru coos, gently trying to keep her still. “Remember this, alright? Because when you grow up and start talking back to me, calling me uncool and lame, I’m going to remind you exactly who wiped your butt when you were blowing it up like this.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Watching your husband in this moment, you think how precious he looks right now and how different from the figure the world knows. You wonder if the curses that cower at the mention of his name or the unbearable higher-ups would find this sight as endearing as you do and maybe cut him some slack so he can forever be this lovely and silly man by your side. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, fumbling his way through a diaper change... Or pacing the house after feedings while holding your daughter to his chest, trying to coax out a burp. His shirt stained with little spots of baby spit… It’s so far from the polished image he presents to the world, and yet… so perfect.

“Fatherhood kind of suits you, you know?” you say, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch his hands tremble while he gently wipes the baby clean.

“Kind of?” he glances over at you, letting out a fake gasp. “Only kind of? I’m offended…” he pouts. “I think I’m doing a stellar job here. I deserve more credit than that.”

“Right”, you laugh. “If you manage to get her to sleep too, I might even give you a reward for being the most perfect husband and father in the world.”

He smirks at you, eyes gleaming, and then turns back to the baby. “You hear that, little one? Papa’s on a mission now and the prize sounds very promising. So be a good girl and help me out, okay?”

[thelastoflosers]

cowboy like me

cowboy!ellie williams x texan!reader

you meet ellie while traveling across 1800s western america and she shows you a thing or two about how to survive, cowbgirl style.

or

after meeting your first masc lesbian you'll never love again.

wc 3.8k

warnings probably horribly inaccurate depictions of cowboys. guns, briefly. dry humping/thigh riding (woohoo) (both!receiving). fingering (r!receiving). unresolved ending (sorry).

the first time you saw her, she was barely visible beneath her wide-brimmed hat. you had thought she was a man. the leader of her group, who you now know to be joel, had stopped yours. you remember your father telling you to go wait with the other women. you should have been scared. a pack of armed, skilled riders approaching a cattle-wielding group usually meant robbery. but you weren’t listening to your father or feeling afraid because at the same moment she was pulling the bandana from her nose and tucking it under her chin. 

instead of harsh lines and facial hair, she was soft. a sloping nose and full lips. it was hard to make out the fine details of her face, still partially shielded with her hat but you had seen enough to be intrigued. 

you listened, but not listened, to your father and joel exchange conversation. joel’s offer to help herd your cattle for a price, your father recalling how your group was headed north from texas. when they came to an agreement you deemed it safe to approach the girl. 

you led your horse towards her, breaking the invisible barrier between the groups.

“you’re a woman.” you pointed out. 

“yes, ma’am.” she replied, she rested her hands on the horn cap of her saddle. her twangy accent matched your own.

“but you’re wearing men’s clothin’.” your eyes drifted from her face, taking in the way her work shirt and chaps clung to her frame. 

“yes ma’am.” she was grinning now. up this close you could see the green in her eyes. the freckles that splattered her face.

“why?” there was no malice in your question, just curiosity. back in the city there were no women like her, it would be blasphemous. 

“well, wearin’ skirts and such makes my job harder than it needs to be.”

you looked down at your own blush colored attire. you’d never considered there was a solution to your struggle of riding in a dress. “you’re a cowboy?”

she nodded, “you’re a city girl?”

you nodded, “but we’re goin’ to build a cattle farm in wyoming, so i suppose i’m not anymore.”

“well, city girl, how much do you know about cattle farmin’?”

“nothin’.” you admitted.

you watched as her eyes slowly slid down your body and back up to meet your own. you made a point to sit a bit straighter in your saddle, “since i’ll be hangin’ round for a while, why don’t i teach you some?”

“i’d like that.” 

joel called out to her, motioning for her to come join in the conversation he was having 

“my name’s ellie.” you repeated it back to her and you told her your name. she steered her horse towards the group. “i’ll see ya round, city girl.”

the next week was blistering hot, the confinement of your corset and skirts made the heat almost unbearable. the group had to take many, many breaks to water the cattle and horses. it was during one of these breaks ellie decided you should know how to shoot a gun. in case bandits come, she’d whispered teasingly in your ear as she led you away from the group.

so the two of you stood in a clearing downstream. ellie had instructed you to aim at a lone, dead tree. 

you held the pistol out in front of you. “like this?”

“if you wanna get knocked on your ass. it’s small but it has more kickback than you’d expect.” she comes up behind you and gently guides your left arm up so it can reinforce the gun.

“use two hands. you have more control that way.” you can feel the tickle of her breath hitting the side of your neck.

you readjust your hold on the weapon and you feel her palms rest on the small of your waist.

“now, put one foot out in front of you so you’ll be able to absorb some of the impact.”

you do as she says, inching your right foot slightly in front of your body.

“good. fire it when you’re ready.” 

it takes a second to build up the courage but you press down on the trigger and watch as a hole seemingly appears in the tree. the blow is more intense than you would have thought and you stumble back into ellie. her grip on your waist tightens and she’s catching you before you really fall. 

“well look at that!” she giggles into your ear. “you’re practically a real-life cowboy.” 

you turn around, laughing. impressed by yourself and doubtful of her comment. “not a real cowboy, yet. you still need to teach me how to actually herd cows.”

you hand over her pistol and her fingers brush against yours as takes it. the touch makes you feel tingly all the way up to your shoulder.

“i will, one day.” she looks back at the river, then at you. she has a mischievous look that you’ve come to recognize means trouble. “how ‘bout now we go swimming?”

you nod, feet already moving towards the water.

when you reach the riverbank ellie is making quick work of her heeled boots and hat. then her shirt. then her pants.

you feel your face heat. not because of the temperature. she was naked in front of you, milky skin almost glowing in the sunlight. the freckles that decorated her face covered her body. her shoulders and back. her thighs. 

the water must be cold because her nipples are perked up. your eyes slide down her chest to her abdomen, then further. you don’t realize you’re staring until she calls out to you.

“havin’ a hard time gettin’ undressed?” her tone is teasing, she’s squinting in the midday sunlight. caught. 

“i’m comin’! i have a lot more layers to take off than you.” your hands work at the strings of your dress and then your underclothes. once you’re bare you step into the river. the water is freezing.

“it’s cold.” you grumble.

when you look up ellie is up to her shoulders. “c’mon, i know you’re not that soft.”

you puff something under your breath that she can’t quite hear and slowly trudge out to her. 

you’ve almost reached her and smile, “i made it. you happy now?”

she smirks and swims back a few feet, “nah you’ve got a bit to go.”

“ellie!” you paddle out to her and she swims back again. 

“you’re too slow, you gotta be faster.” she’s still facing you, just leisurely pushing the water back with her arms. 

“you’re so annoying!” the two of you go back and forth for a while, she swims away while you chase her. eventually you get close enough to grab her ankle, and with strength that surprises her a bit, you yank her towards you.

“hey!” she giggles. 

“stop swimmin’ away from me!” you complain half-heartedly.

she laughs at your pout, “but you’re so much fun to tease.”

you go to shove her but she catches your hand. this time it’s her who’s pulling you closer. you’re in each other’s space, you could count the freckles on her face from here. you can feel her breath on your lips. she’s flushed but you tell yourself it’s probably just a sunburn. 

her eyes flicker between your own. you swear you see them dart down to your mouth for a beat before returning to your eyes. she’s so, so close. you want to devour her. or maybe for her to devour you. you’re not sure but you’re aching for her. you lean in just a bit, just to see if she’d pull away. when she doesn’t, your eyes meet her again. silently asking permission. she nods and you’re closing the gap when you two hear your names.

you separate an inch, startled. joel’s on his horse on the edge of the water, “girls we’re gonna get goin’ soon. better come back now.”

ellie nods, “we’ll be right there, joel!” he nods and turns back towards the group. if he saw what was happening he thankfully didn't let on.

ellie’s still got a grip on your hand, “we should get dressed.”

“yeah.” you croak out.

the walk back to the group is silent, but you’re too busy watching the way water droplets from her hair soak into her shirt to care.

the next day you’re looking up at the sky, watching a flock of birds flutter by when you hear her voice all honey-like, “what’s so interestin’ up there?”

“the birds.” you smile, “can you imagine? just getting to go anywhere you want? any time you want?”

“yeah, i can, actually.” her horse falls into step with yours as you both giggle.

the silence between you two is comfortable. the wind blowing in your hair and horse hooves on the ground help to sooth some of the giddy, anxious feeling you have being in her presence. neither of you make a move to talk about your swim yesterday.

“y’know i was thinkin’, if you want to really learn how to herd cattle we might have to get you a pair of trousers.” when you turn to her in excitement you see she’s already watching you. her big, hopefully eyes staring into yours.

“really?” you ask.

“yeah, i mean, with a group this size i’m sure we can find a pair that would fit. and while we’re looking for them we can see if anyone’s got a pair of boots i can borrow.” she lifts of her foot from the stirrup so you can see the sole of her shoe partially fallen off.

“you have ulterior motives! usin’ me for your own good.” you pretend to scoff and cross your arms.

“i’d never!” 

you and ellie make it your task for the day, find you trousers and her new boots. wandering next to families, asking if they have pants or shoes to spare. you get many, many weird looks but eventually you’re successful.

you see ellie’s horse walking towards you and you meet her halfway. “any luck findin’ pants?” she asks.

“no,” you pull a pair of skillfully made boots from behind your back, “but i found you some boots!” you toss them to her and she catches them midair. 

she takes a moment to admire them, then says, “so sweet bringin’ me presents. almost makes me think you like me.”

“well we can’t have that. give ‘em back.” you tease.

“i got you somethin’ too.” she passes you a pair of pants and you feel your grin growing.

 you wait for the group to stop during a watering break to change. ellie lends you one of her workshirts and you’re rushing to put the outfit on to show her.

“what’dya think?” you twirl for her. your outfit is not “fully cowboy” by any means, your boots are not as heeled as ellie’s and the pants feel foreign. 

she laughs, “you don’t look like a city girl anymore.” 

“now i just need a hat!” you muse.

ellie takes her own from her head and plops it onto yours. you dip it and lean over in a mock bow. “thank you, ma’am.” you lay your southern drawl on thick, so it’s closer to ellie’s.

“c’mon, let’s go herd those cows.” she spins away from you and toward your horses to hide her smile.

the two of you trot your way to the back of your group, towards the cattle.

“hey, kiddo.” joel spots ellie.

“hi, joel,” she nods her head to you, still wearing her hat, “my student for today.”

he chuckles a little, “you girls be careful.”

ellie is riding past him and shouts out, “always! you know i’ll shoot any robbers before they shoot me!”

you watch as the old man shakes his head. 

“that girl is the reason for all this grey.” he points to his hair, “keep her in line for me.” he winks.

“i’ll try my best.” you tell him and follow ellie.

the two of you follow behind the cattle, ellie tells you this part is easy, just hang back and don’t let any cows wander from the group.

so that’s what you do, watching the cattle. all day. it turns out to be incredibly fucking boring to watch cows walk but you did it with ellie. she tells you she’s technically an orphan and met joel when she was fourteen. she says that he’s taught her everything she knows. 

that night was warm, not like the overbearing heat that suffocated you but pleasant, balmy.

families stayed out past dark, gathered around campfires. you spotted a lone campfire, far from the others and knew it was ellie. you made your way over, pants rustling in the tall grass.

her head was tilted back to look at the night sky when you approached and she jumped when you said, “don’t you get lonely out here by yourself?”

“nah, i like the quiet.” she patted the ground next to her, motioning for you to sit.

“am i disturbing your quiet?” you lowered yourself next to her. your knees brushed hers when you adjusted your position.

she shook her head, “i was thinkin’ about you anyways.”

“oh,” you felt a smile creep onto your face, “what’dya thinkin’ about?”

“nothin’.” she was grinning and breathless when she said it.

she looks up again, “d’you think there’s somethin’ out there?”

you follow her gaze up to the stars, “in the sky?”

“in space. like people, i mean.” she whispers.

“i dunno. maybe,” you pull your gaze away from the stars and back to ellie. you trace her profile with your eyes. her thick brows, the right one scarred (you note to ask her how she got it). mossy green eyes that are still watching space. the slope of her nose that leads to full pink lips, the ones that you got so close to tasting.

“i do.” you watch her lips as she speaks, how they move around her words, “i’m gonna go up there some day.”

you giggle, “what? how?”

“my horse! shimmer and i are gonna find space people!” she chuckles and finally her eyes meet yours. or they would have if you weren’t still looking at her lips. when you realize you were caught staring you meet her eyes. you feel your face heat up, the tips of your ears burning. before you can apologize her lips are grazing yours.

it’s a light, barely-even-there, kiss but it makes your belly flutter. you lean in and connect your lips further. ellie lets out a shaky breath. you pull away an inch, checking to make sure she’s okay but her hands are catching your face and pulling you back in. you gasp into her mouth, she takes your bottom lip into her mouth sucks. it makes you ache, heat pooling between your legs. you grab the sides of her face and pull her in even closer. you brush your tongue against her mouth and she opens for you. it’s messy, all teeth and tongue. 

you’re still sitting next to each other and the positioning is awkward, top halves of your bodies twisted and lower halves facing forward. you move so you’re straddling one of her thighs, your own leg sliding in between hers. you thank whatever higher power is out there for the trousers you were wearing.

the two of you are shameless, you grinding down into her and her hips bucking up into you. her lips leave yours and move down to your neck. at the same time your hands go wandering down to her chest. you brush your hands against her pebbled nipples and her mind goes fuzzy, whining into the crook of your shoulder.

“oh my god.” you’re gasping when she moves her thigh and it grazes your clit just right. 

you’re still groping her tits when her mouth moves to your ear, lips brushing against your skin when she whispers, “please let me touch you.” her accent is thicker right now, all rasp.

you nod, your hands already reaching for the button on pants. she helps you to lay on the ground and positions herself on your thigh. you feel her grind down on your leg as she sticks her hand down the front of your pants. her fingers are calloused from years of outdoor labor but gentle as she brushes them against your clit. you wrap a hand around her wrist, not stopping or guiding her, just needing something to hold on to.

her hips are still moving against your thigh and she’s panting as she grinds down on it. her fingers drift further down to your entrance. 

“i can?” she asks into your shoulder.

“yeah- please.” and you arch as she works them in so, so slowly. she uses her palm to keep friction on your clit as she curls her fingers inside.

your own hands find their way to her back, digging into the skin there. you kiss your way up her neck, sloppy and uncoordinated now.

“harder, please.” you whine and she obliges. 

her grinding speeds up and you can feel the heat from between her legs through your pants. “gonnacum.” she says fast and jumbled.

you moan in response and it seems to push her over the edge. her hand stalls for a moment, too lost in her own pleasure before regaining the pace she had. her head rests on your shoulder as she gasps.

you feel your own peak building, the pressure behind your clit becoming almost too much.

“ellie! i-” the words get lost, turning to mush in your brain.

“i know, i know.” her lips graze you collarbones.

and that familiar blinding bliss washes over you, overpowering your senses. your thighs squeeze her hand as they twitch. your chests heaving into teacher as you both try to catch your breath. it takes you a moment to come down and when you do you’re looking up at the stars.

“am i invited?” you ask, voice a little hoarse from overuse.

“what?” she lifts her head up from your shoulder.

“when you go to space with shimmer. can i come too?”

she’s chuckling, her eyes look like they’re full of stars, like the sky above you, “yeah you can come, baby. we’ll start a cattle farm on the moon.”

summer comes and goes. the sun is no longer beating over you and you arrive in wyoming, in a small settlement called jackson. joel and ellie help your family build a home and barn for your farm. you’re sitting under a tree in your new backyard watching joel and your father chop wood for winter.

ellie’s head rests in your lap, she’s going on dinosaurs, telling you how they roamed earth millions of years ago just like she does. one her hands holds yours and the other traces your fingernails and knuckles. 

“y���know, you don’t have to roam.” you watch her fingers, how they stop moving on your hand.

“what’dya mean?” she asks.

“you could stay here. in jackson. with me.” you brush a stray hair from her face, “help me raise cattle. harden me up to be a cowboy like you.”

she’s quiet for a while, her eyebrows scrunch a bit and you have the urge to smooth the line between them. “you know i can’t do that.”

“well why not?” 

“because,” she sits up, “it’s just not me.”

“what’s not you?” you feel your own brows tug towards each other.

“settlin’ down. stayin’ in one place.”

“maybe it could be.” you shrug, “you’d be doin’ the same thing out there that you are here. herding cattle, breeding horses.”

she shakes her head, “you don’t get it.”

“no, i don’t. how’s it any different?” you want her to explain it, you want to understand but she scoffs and stands up. 

“i just- i don’t belong here, you hear the way people talk about me.” sure, you’d heard some of the women–prim and proper in their tightly cinched corsets–calling her names, saying awful things but what did they matter?

“who cares about them?” 

she shakes her head, leaving you sitting at the tree. she walks to where joel stands, still chopping wood, says something to him and pushes past one of the newly built fences. he looks to you with a frown and it stings.

you don’t see much of ellie after that, quick glimpses when she thinks you’re not around. seeing her groom horses on your way back from trading. watching her finish building the stables from your bedroom window.

one day your father tells you joel and ellie left town, gone back to texas to meet more cattle farmers to bring north.

TEN YEARS LATER

you’ve dug up just about every square inch of your room looking for some book your mother needed right this moment. in a last resort you duck your head to see under your bed. trunks of old notebooks, clothing, and other clutter. What catches your attention are a pair of old boots. her old boots. covered in ten years of dust but just as you remember them, sole still falling off one of the toes. you think of her now, her auburn hair, the freckles like stars, splattered over her body, gentle hands. so different from anyone you’d known before. who you’d probably ever know.

you hadn’t seen her since she walked off your ranch all those years ago. you wonder about her now, was she still herding cows? was she killed by bandits? had she settled down?

that night you sit by the candlelight at your desk, pen and paper in hand...

dear, ellie,

i know this letter will never reach you. even if i had a place to send it i’m not sure you’d open it. i still feel compelled to write to you. 

i think about you, still out on the open lands riding shimmer. i think about you wielding your pistol, too arrogant to think anyone could ever touch you. sometimes i worry you were too cocky and found yourself in trouble you couldn’t get out of. shamefully, this isn’t what troubles me most. my biggest fear is that you might have stopped cowboying and now live under one roof with another girl. that i was the reason you left, not jackson or settling down.

i think about you when i look up at the stars. when i collect water from the river. when i hear hooves trotting through town.

sometimes i’m glad you left. if you stayed, i know i would forever be distracted from my chores. i’d use all my energy to make you laugh, to see you smile. sometimes i’m glad i get to keep the ellie i knew in my head. i don’t have to see turn grey from your own children as joel has with you or wither away in old age. 

i’m always hoping for your return, though. always hoping i’ll see you when i walk into town to trade. hoping i’ll see the top of your hat approaching the house from my window. hoping i’ll walk into the saloon and hear you singing with joel.

forever waiting for you,

city girl

TAGLIST @darkdanixoxo @sabrinathewitch982 @sillypuppy77 @ravyaryn @getoe1s @vampirebrewsss @soldemiel @queenofconeyisland222 @pxgeturner @carefullyominouslegacy @slutforabbyanderson @porcelainmystery

[kiplex]

⛧ LaDs Boys Night Time Routine / Sleep HCs ⛧

This came to me in a dream after I heard we were getting the sleep quality time for the 4.0 update. Low-key kind of crack HCs but God forbid I keep up my writing streak!!! Also I made the LI dividers in like 10 minutes be kind to me. I'll work out a long term solution when I do more serious multi boy HCs LMFAO

Warnings: suggestive (for Sylus) and mentions of nüdïty (for Sylus... Again)

Xavier can sleep anywhere at any time. You have a photo album on your phone titled “Xavier sleeping where he shouldn't be." You're favorite is him dozing off during a work meeting, the whole UNICORN unit posing around him

Loves a cozy cup of tea before bed, yes, you guys do have matching mugs!!

Sleeps like a log. Literally will not move, but the second you climb into bed he latches on to you and will not let go no matter how hot it is

He does panic slightly when he wakes up from a nap or the middle of the night and you aren't there. You're normally not far but he still has a slight feeling of uneasiness until you join him again.

While he doesn't snore he does that boy thing were he twitches like crazy in his sleep

Has a plethora of sleep masks still manage to misplace like half of them

Will pout if you forget to give him a goodnight kiss, who cares if he wasn't awake to feel it, how dare you neglect him like that.

Rafayel has a 20 step skin care routine he has to do before bed, which in turn has turned into a “Our 20 step skin care routine…” you guys have matching skincare headbands

Will get you guys, couples pajamas as a joke, but they're so comfy, you should wear yours too and maybe you guys can take a photo or something.. AS A JOKE OF COURSE haha… unless

He's really good about sleeping on his side of the bed, too good sometimes and will complain if you clinging to him is too hot

Sleeps with white noise of the ocean, cannot sleep without it

Rafayel loves to play with your hair while you sleep. Spooning you and braiding your hair gently, feeling your body rise and fall with your breath?? He's in heaven, he could die here and be the happiest man alive

He's a sleep talker, and a very convincing one at that. It's scary how many conversations you guys have had where he doesn't have a clue what you're talking about the next day

Claims he needs his beauty rest, but will turn around and stay up to binge Love Island with you

Zayne is the type to get up in the middle of the night for one of two things, finish work after you begged him to go to but, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, sneak sweets while you are asleep

He is also a sleep talker and a sleep walker. More of a sleep walker though. You've caught him getting dressed for work on multiple occasions, thinking he got called in for an emergency at the hospital but a few minutes later he'll flop down on the bed again.

He also does that boy thing where he twitches a whole lot in his sleep, claims he's never done that before in his life

He's absolutely the best to cuddle with during the summer, his evol makes him run a lot colder. During the winter?? Eh not so much, but you do it anyway

He does value his space when you sleep together, but if you initiate cuddling he's not complaining. He relishes in it honestly.

Do you have insomnia?? Zayne may be a cardiologist but girly, he's still a doctor!!! You already know he's doing everything under the sun to try and solve your sleep issues.

He's the type to really value sleep health and promote deep REM sleep. Has the coziest possible bed and pillows. Bonus points for all of them being tempur-pedic

Sylus sleeps in matching silk pajamas set or completely nude; no in-between

Always humming you to sleep, you always say he’ll make a great dad some day

Loves watching you do your skincare routine, he's starting buy you the expensive Korean skincare products for you, he even caves and starts using some night cream

Always says goodnight to Luke and Kieran, he's such a mother hen sometimes

We know he doesn't sleep much, but will humor you if you ask him to sleep with you. He does pull an Edward Cullen and likes watching you sleep so peacefully in his arms

Can't sleep? Great, Sylus will stay up with you, maybe take you boxing if you need to burn some energy. If you still have energy after that… he finds other ways to expend your energy 😏

When Sylus does sleep… he SNORES oh my god he snores. Should probably have a cpap machine but would definitely deny he snores at all

Caleb will deny he's tired but as soon as his head hits the pillow, he's out. You have a firm theory that during his DAA days, they trained him to be like that

He is a skincare routines worst nightmare. He canonically has dry skin and dry lips. Does not understand for the life of him why you load your face up with lotions and potions. BUT he will do a sheet mask with you from time to time

He always jokes about getting a plane shaped bed to the point where you low-key think it isn't a joke anymore.

He is such a cuddly man. Oh my god he is so dramatic when you are on your side of the bed. He'll pull you toward him, make grabby hands at you, pout and whine that you're too far and you hate him!!!!

Caleb SNORES so loud. Not all the time but when he's especially exhausted, typically after multiple days on the fleet. He wears those nose strips to try and help but… it is what it is.

Suffers from chronic nightmares; boy can't catch a break even when he's sleeping. He's got it under control for the most part but when they're especially bad, he'll sometimes wake you up and ask you to hold him.

He is a low-key blanket hog during the winter. He'll wake up and be like “Pips why are you shivering??" Girl, you took all the blankets??? Will warm you back up with his body heat though, so it's fine.

You can find my master list here (I promise, I write better stuff than this)

[cheftsunoda]

Hi! I just want to say I love your writing! Very much! And I was wondering if you could write one about where reader is Lando or Oscar's baby sister (18) and he's very protective of her and she's secretly dating Ollie and he goes full on big brother mode.

mclaren protection program — ob87

ollie bearman x !norris reader

lando norris x !sister reader

smau + blurbs

being lando’s little sister came with strict rules — no dating drivers, no sneaking around, and definitely no dating drivers while sneaking around. too bad you broke all three. for four months, she’s been secretly dating ollie bearman. lando is clueless. oscar suspects everything. and the rest of the grid? still thinks she’s just mclaren’s innocent little princess. keeping the secret was easy — until it wasn’t. that’s what happens when you’re in the mclaren protection program.

fc: lily rowland

(a/n) : hiiii love!! thank you so much. i hope you enjoy 💋💋

also sorry for the spacing at the end. i had too much fun and made this too long so tumblr did not allow anymore blocks

—

ynnorris

liked by magui_corceiro, lando, oscarpiastri and 2,700,500 others.

ynnorris : girls trip that lando decided to invite himself on

tagged : lando and magui_corceiro

—

view 175,002 other comments.

lando : i just came to check in on you guys and make sure everything was okay…

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : we literally have security for that

↳ lando : i don’t trust them to take care of you. or anyone for that matter. it could’ve been worse. i almost brought oscar

↳ ynnorris : next time send oscar by himself.

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ ynnorris : or better yet, don’t send anyone next time and let me live my life 😍😍😍

↳ lando : never. you are just a baby.

↳ ynnorris : oml OUT of my comments

magui_corceiro : next time we both need to shut off find my friends and just disappear 😇 but i had so much fun! love you queridaaaaa

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : yeahh we do🙂‍↔️but soooo fun with you my baby. love you more💌

liked by magui_corceiro

↳ lando : see that’s what we aren’t gonna do

↳ ynnorris : 🍅🍅🍅

alexandrasaintmleux : belle fille😻

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : that is all you my angel

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

georgerussell63 : lando…no offense but how are you going to protect them? no one is scared of a smiley british man and you also lack all survival skills and instincts

liked by ynnorris

↳ lando : whose side are you even on here russell???

↳ georgerussell63 : yn’s

liked by ynnorris

oscarpiastri : Glad to see Mclaren Protection Program is still alive and well.

↳ ynnorris : osccccc make him stopppp

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : sadly i cannot, we are all protective in different ways. lando is very obvious about it and i just stand behind you and glare at anyone that looks at you. i protect from a distance.

↳ ynnorris : i prefer your way even though you always scare men away from me

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : that is the whole point little norris

↳ ynnorris : guyssss im 19 now. let me liveeee

↳ lando : 19 is a baby in my eyes. just a little muppet

↳ oscarpiastri : I trust you, yn. I do not trust men, they are all disgusting.

↳ username00 : this is so cute omg i cant

carmenmmundt : pretty pretty girl ❤️

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : carms🥹 imy

liked by carmenmmundt

username1 : does this prove the magui/lando theories??

↳ username7 : wouldn’t be too sure about it. yn and magui have both done many shoots for alo together, could just simply be friends hanging out

—

You are blissfully unaware that your entire life is about to implode. The sun is low in the sky, casting a honey-gold glow across the resort pool, the water shimmering like glass. You’re stretched out on your lounger in a bikini and Lando’s technically-stolen bucket hat, sipping something cold and citrusy while Magui is next to you in oversized sunglasses, legs crossed and judgment fully activated.

“I swear,” she says, adjusting her towel and lowering her shades, “if you smile at your phone one more time like that, I’m going to push you into the pool.”

You don’t even try to stop the grin tugging at your lips. “I’m not even doing anything.”

“You’re texting your secret boyfriend.”

You snort. “You don’t know that.”

Magui raises an eyebrow. “YN, you literally giggled when his contact name popped up. Like, audibly. Who giggles at a name? You’re in love.”

You roll your eyes, trying to fight the smile, but fail miserably. “Fine. Maybe I am.”

“I knew it.” She turns toward you, fully invested. “Okay, spill. How bad is it? Like, ‘I miss him after five hours’ bad or ‘I wrote his name in my notes app with little hearts’ bad?”

“…Second one.”

Magui throws her head back in horror. “You’re a lost cause.”

Your voice is soft, honest, almost dreamy as you say, “Fine, I’ll say it. I think I’m actually in love, Magui.”

She lifts her sunglasses and gives you a look of pure disbelief. “Actually in love?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Like, properly. I’m done for, can’t think straight, smile every time he texts kind of love.”

Magui groans into her drink. “Oh no. You’re so doomed. Lando’s going to kill you.”

You laugh. “He’s not even in the country.”

And that’s when the universe decides to ruin your life.

“Interesting.”

A familiar voice cuts through the air like a brick through glass. Your entire body goes cold. You turn so slowly, dread washing over you like a tidal wave — and there he is.

Lando.

Standing there in board shorts and a backwards cap, holding a drink and looking way too amused for someone who should be on the other side of the planet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you shriek, clutching your towel like it’s a shield.

He lifts his drink. “Surprise. Thought I’d crash your little girls trip.”

Magui nearly drops her glass. “You said you were in Monaco!”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “flights exist. Also, you left your hoodie in my flat and I got suspicious. Turns out my sister is sneaky as hell.”

You blink. “You tracked me down over a hoodie?!”

“I have your location, genius.”

Magui mouths “I’m so sorry” behind him.

Lando crosses his arms. “So. You’re in love?”

You freeze. Your heart lurches. “What?”

“You just told Magui,” he says casually. “I walked up right in the middle of your whole confession. Thought I was interrupting some gossip, not a rom com.”

You open and close your mouth. “That could’ve been about anyone. A book. A movie.”

“You said he texts you and makes you smile.”

You want to die.

Magui chimes in helpfully, “Could be a fictional character!”

You glare at her.

Lando narrows his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

You scramble. “I’m not!”

He stares at you, then huffs a breath and backs off — for now. “Fine. But you’re being weird. Just… don’t do anything dumb, okay?”

He walks away toward the bar, muttering something about needing tequila and a nap. As soon as he’s gone, you collapse onto your lounger, clutching your face.

“He didn’t hear Ollie’s name,” Magui whispers.

You nod, whisper-screaming, “But he knows I’m in love! That’s bad enough!”

“He’s gonna turn into a bloodhound.”

You groan. “This trip was supposed to be peaceful.”

Magui hands you your drink. “You better text your secret boyfriend and warn him. Code red.”

—

The sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the Abu Dhabi skyline in hues of peach and lavender. You’re curled up in the oversized armchair by the window, hair wrapped in a towel, legs tucked beneath you, skin still warm from the sun and the chaos of earlier.

Your phone screen glows with Ollie’s face — he’s fresh out of the sim room, damp curls flattened under a cap, hoodie halfway zipped, and that smile already softening every bone in your body.

“You survived?” he teases, voice low and sweet. “Magui said you were one panic attack away from throwing yourself into the pool.”

“She’s dramatic,” you murmur, grinning. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You told her you were in love. Lando heard you say it.”

You cover your face with one hand. “Okay… fine, it was that bad.”

He laughs — low and fond — and you swear your heart somersaults.

“I’m serious, Ollie. He showed up out of nowhere. We didn’t even know he was in the same country.”

“Well, now I’m scared,” Ollie says, mock-serious. “What if he finds out and I have to leave F1 just to stay alive?”

“You’re not helping,” you whisper, giggling into your hand. “He already gave me the ‘don’t do anything dumb’ speech, which means he knows something is up. He’s circling. Like a vulture in swim trunks.”

Ollie smiles, eyes flicking across the screen like he’s memorizing every detail of you.

“I’ll keep my head down,” he says gently. “But for the record… I’d still risk it.”

Your cheeks flush. You’re about to reply — something sappy, something stupid — when the door to your suite clicks open. You freeze. You immediately twist the phone screen away from the door, just as Lando strolls in like he owns the place, mid-scroll on his own phone.

“You left your charger in the cabana,” he says casually, not even looking up.

You fumble with your screen. “Oh, uh—thanks.”

Ollie is still on the call, and you panic, scrambling to hit end. His face disappears mid-laugh. Your phone drops into your lap. Too late. Lando pauses. His eyes narrow, and now he is looking at you.

“Were you just on the phone?” he asks, slow, suspicious.

You force a smile. “Nope.”

“Really?” he tilts his head. “Because I’m very sure I heard you laughing like someone was flirting with you.”

“I laugh at you sometimes,” you offer weakly.

“Not like that.”

You sit there, heart pounding, towel slipping from your hair. Lando squints at you for a second longer, like he’s scanning your soul. Then, with a little nod, he turns and walks to the minibar. “You’re hiding something.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally just in my suite.”

“With freshly wet hair, flushed cheeks, and that ‘I just hung up on a boy I like’ face.”

You blink. “That’s not a real face.”

“It is on you.”

He grabs a soda and cracks it open, then stares at you over the can.

“I’ll figure it out, you know.”

You cross your arms. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

Lando smirks, but it’s not angry — it’s something more dangerous: amused. Curious. Calculating.

“Right,�� he says. “Sure.”

He turns and leaves the room. And now you’re alone, phone still warm in your lap, and your heart racing because you know that boy is putting pieces together. Fast.

—

You’re already on edge when you sit down. The Abu Dhabi sun is warm but not brutal yet, the hotel’s rooftop terrace breezy and quiet — but none of that matters, because Lando is sitting across from you with his sunglasses pushed up on his head, a croissant in one hand and his interrogation eyes locked on you like a laser sight. Magui is seated between you both, playing neutral Switzerland, pretending her yogurt parfait is more interesting than the slow death happening at the table.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Lando says, sipping his espresso with annoying calm.

“I’m enjoying the peace,” you say sweetly. “Which would be easier if someone wasn’t staring at me like I’m a suspect on Criminal Minds.”

He smirks. “I’m just watching you squirm. It’s very entertaining.”

Magui coughs, awkward. You narrow your eyes. “I’m not squirming.”

“Really?” He leans forward. “Because ever since I showed up, you’ve been weird. You hang up mystery phone calls, deflect every question I ask, and now you’re sweating.”

“I’m just hot!” you snap.

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Mmm. From love, or guilt?”

You gape. “You’re so dramatic.”

Magui mutters into her parfait, “She’s not denying it though.”

You turn on her. “Magui!”

“I’m sorry! I panic under pressure!” she whisper yells.

Lando claps once, smug. “Thank you, Magui. Finally someone with a conscience.”

You groan and reach for your juice.

“I don’t know who you think you’re in love with,” Lando continues, “but I will find out. You know I will.”

You throw your napkin in his face.

“Oh, you’re mad now? Cute,” he says, catching it mid-air. “I wonder if your other brother knows anything about this.”

You blink. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late. Lando already has his phone out. He’s calling Oscar. Magui gasps.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Watch me.”

He hits speaker. It rings. Once. Twice.

Oscar groans as he answers the phone. “Mate, it’s 6 a.m. in Monaco. Someone better be dying.”

Lando smirks to himself. “Hey, quick question. You know anything about YN being in love?”

Oscar instantly wakes up.’ “WHAT?!”

You slap a hand over your face. Oscar sighs loudly. “With WHO? What happened? Is she okay?”

“YES I’M OKAY,” you yell across the table.

“Why does she sound defensive? Is it someone on the grid? Tell me it’s not someone on the grid.”

Lando shrugs to himself. “She won’t tell me anything. But she hung up a call suspiciously fast last night and started blushing.”

Oscar thinks for a second and then questions, “Was it Ollie?”

Your head snaps up. “WHAT?!”

Magui chokes on her parfait. Lando glances up at you quickly. “Wait, WHAT?!”

You leap across the table and slap Lando’s phone off speaker just in time. “He was JOKING!” you say way too loud. “Oscar jokes like that all the time! Classic Oscar!”

Lando stares at you. “Why was Ollie his first guess?”

You stare back. “Because Oscar is weird. And wrong. So wrong. Very, very wrong.”

You are sweating. Magui looks like she wants to melt into her seat. Lando doesn’t say anything. He just slowly picks up his coffee and takes a sip like he’s storing everything away for later. And when Oscar texts you three seconds later —

who is it. swear to god i will find him myself.

—you know this nightmare is only beginning.

—

You’re exhausted. Not just physically — though the hours of sun, sand, and your brother’s relentless investigation certainly didn’t help — but emotionally, too. Keeping a secret this big, this special, from the people you love is harder than you ever expected. And despite the laughter and the lounging, the poolside mocktails and Magui’s dramatic gossiping, the truth is— you missed him.

You missed Ollie. You unlock your apartment door and push it open with a sigh, expecting the usual stillness, maybe your throw blanket half-slid off the couch or your suitcase left in the hallway. But instead—

The lights are on. Warm, low, golden lighting. The scent of something delicious drifts from the kitchen. A familiar hoodie is draped over the back of the dining chair. Music hums softly through the room — something old and gentle, maybe Frank Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald — and then.

“Hi, angel.”

You freeze in the doorway. Ollie steps out from the kitchen, dish towel slung over one shoulder, curls damp from a recent shower, smile so soft it nearly knocks the breath out of you.

In one hand, he’s holding a bouquet — white tulips, your favorite. In the other, he’s gesturing toward the table, where two plates are already set and candles flicker beside a bowl of pasta.

You blink, stunned. “You’re—here?”

He grins. “I couldn’t wait.”

You don’t even think. You run to him. He laughs as you crash into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, flowers still clutched awkwardly behind your back as he kisses the top of your head.

You breathe him in — that comforting scent that was just distinctly Ollie. Your heart finally settles in your chest.

“I missed you,” you mumble into his hoodie.

“I missed you more,” he whispers, kissing your temple.

You tilt your head up and he leans in immediately, kissing you like he’s been waiting all week — slow and deep and sweet, like there’s nothing else in the world except the two of you and the soft music playing behind you.

When you finally pull back, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“You made dinner?” you ask, eyeing the pasta with awe and suspicion.

“Attempted dinner,” he corrects. “Let’s just say Kimi’s mum talked me through 90% of it over FaceTime and I nearly set off the smoke alarm. But I didn’t. So… success.”

You giggle, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “It smells amazing. And the flowers—”

“You’ve been through it this week,” he says, serious now. “I figured you deserved something nice. And something normal.”

Your chest aches with how much you love him. He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the table, but not before kissing your knuckles like a cheesy old movie. You both sit, and he pours you water like he’s been rehearsing this all day.

Halfway through dinner, you’re mid-laugh about Magui accidentally texting Lando a shirtless selfie meant for her situationship when Ollie suddenly reaches across the table and laces your fingers with his. You blink at him.

“What?”

He shrugs, smiling softly. “Just needed to touch you again. Make sure you’re real.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m real. And yours.”

His cheeks flush pink. “I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

You press your foot against his under the table. “You’re literally the best thing I’ve ever kept a secret.”

He grins. “Yeah? Even better than the time you ‘borrowed’ Lando’s credit card and bought a Dyson Hairdryer?”

You raise a brow. “Especially better than that.”

When dinner’s finished, he insists on doing the dishes while you sit on the counter with your legs swinging, stealing kisses every few minutes. Eventually, he pulls you off the counter and into his arms again, this time guiding you to the couch and wrapping you up in a blanket like he has no plans of ever letting you go.

You fall asleep curled into his side, his hand tangled in your hair, the scent of tulips and tomato sauce still lingering in the air.

And for the first time in days, you feel at home.

—

ynnorris added a post to her story!

seen by lando, oscarpiastri, olliebearman & 2,705,003 others.

lando : wtf is this. WHO IS THE BAE

↳ lando : where are you

↳ lando : on my way!

↳ ynnorris : this is quite literally a paid sponsor post - why r u tweaking

↳ lando : i am going to the restaurant and paying the waitress to tell me all she knows

↳ ynnorris : ok detective. have fun x

↳ lando : why is ur location off?

↳ lando : yn;(

↳ ynnorris : lol

magui_corceiro : tão lindaaaaa 😍

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : thank u ma love but can u pls distract lando with your boobs again? he is being annoying.

liked by magui_corceiro

↳ magui_corceiro : lmao sorry babe - he already left. he was mumbling something about killing someone

↳ ynnorris : oh jfc this man

↳ ynnorris : i CANNOT even breath without him

↳ magui_corceiro : he just loves you. so much. its annoying the way he shows it but he is genuine.

lando : oscar and i r on the way

↳ lando : didn't turn off his location hehe

—

You’re sitting across from Ollie at a tiny round table tucked into the corner of your favorite café — all exposed brick, flower boxes in the windows, and exactly the kind of hidden gem where you can pretend you’re not dating a fellow F1 driver in total secrecy.

The two of you are mid-laugh over something stupid — probably Ollie butchering your coffee order in a fake posh accent — when your food arrives. You add your sponsored post to your story before digging in. Aesthetic. Harmless. Vague. You even remember to crop out his sleeve.

And you turned off your location for Lando. But not Oscar.

You find this out approximately six minutes later, when Ollie’s halfway through his eggs and you see Oscar’s name pop up on your screen. Your stomach plummets.

“Oh no.”

Ollie freezes, fork mid air. “What?”

You answer the phone. “Hi.”

Oscar’s voice is far too casual. “Hey, YN. Just out of curiosity… where exactly are you right now?”

You blink. “Home?”

There’s a pause. And then, in the background—

“IS SHE LYING?”  That’s Lando.

Oscar clears his throat. “Funny. Because I can literally see your live location. At a café. 10 minutes away from home.”

You hang up.

“OH MY GOD,” you whisper scream, jumping up so fast your chair scrapes the tile. “They’re coming.”

Ollie chokes on his coffee. “Who?!”

“My brother. And Oscar.”

He bolts upright. “HOW?! I thought you said you turned off sharing!”

“For Lando! I forgot Oscar still has it! Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna throw up—”

You spin in circles, full panic mode.

“Hide,” you hiss.

Ollie blinks. “Where?!”

“I don’t know! Bathroom?! Tuck your limbs, be compact!”

He doesn’t even argue — just grabs his plate, shoves the croissant in his mouth like a criminal, and sprints toward the back, disappearing into the bathroom just as the café bell rings—Ding. You freeze.

“Hi.” Lando. Sunglasses, hoodie, chaos in his eyes.

Oscar’s behind him, arms crossed, face neutral but clearly buzzing with big brother mode.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Lando says, sauntering toward you like he hasn’t just hunted you down like a bloodhound. “Thought you said you were home.”

“I was,” you say quickly. “But then I got hungry.”

Oscar squints at your table. “You ordered two lattes?”

“I’m growing,” you blurt.

Lando snorts and gestures to the empty chair across from you. “Mind if we join?”

You panic. “Actually yes. I’m waiting for a friend.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up. “Magui?”

“Yep,” you lie.

“Funny, I just left hers,” Lando says, pulling out his phone. 

You blink. “Other Magui.”

Oscar leans over the table, eyes narrowing. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why are you sweating again?”

“It’s hot..again.” 

Lando suddenly turns to the waitress, who is just trying to refill the sugar jar. “Hey, random question. Who was my sister sitting with earlier?”

Your soul leaves your body.

The waitress pauses. “Um…”

“Tall?” Oscar asks. “Blonde?”

You kick him under the table. “Are you interrogating the staff now?!”

The poor waitress stares between all of you. “I… I think she was alone?”

You flash her the most grateful look of your life.

“See?” you say, smiling sweetly. “Alone.”

Lando doesn’t buy it. He stands up suddenly. “I’m checking the bathroom.”

“YOU’RE WHAT?!” you shriek, grabbing his sleeve.

Oscar raises both eyebrows. “Why would you stop him if you weren’t hiding someone?”

You flail. “Because it’s weird! What if someone’s in there peeing?!”

“I hope someone’s in there peeing,” Lando says, already walking.

You run after him. “Lando, do not—”

But just as he reaches for the bathroom door, it opens. And out walks an elderly man. You nearly cry with relief.

“Oh,” Lando says, disappointed. “Thought I had you.”

You flip him off behind your back. He shrugs and walks back to the table. “You’re being sketchy as hell, YN.”

“I’m being harassed,” you mutter, sinking into your seat as they finally sit down and start stealing bites of your breakfast.

And then, under the table, your phone buzzes.

please don’t let them kill me.

You smile into your cup.

“Everything okay?” Oscar asks.

You nod. “Perfect.”

—

Across the table, Lando and Oscar are finishing your pancakes like they paid for it, still occasionally side eyeing you like you’re one blink away from cracking under pressure.

“Anyway,” Lando says, licking syrupoff his thumb, “we’re heading to sim. Try not to start a secret relationship while we’re gone.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply flatly.

Oscar leans in. “If it is someone on the grid… he better be ready to fight me and God.”

You blink. “Okay.”

They both stand, adjusting sunglasses like undercover agents. You smile sweetly. Too sweet. The kind of smile that says please leave before I scream.

“Text me later,” Lando says, pointing at you.

“Be normal,” you reply.

They finally, finally head for the door. You count to ten in your head.

One.

You keep your expression blank.

Two.

Oscar glances back. You pretend to stir your cold coffee.

Three. Four.

Door closes behind them.

Five. Six. Seven.

You stand, head on a swivel, checking for any return.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

You speed walk to the back.

“Babe?” you whisper, tapping gently on the bathroom door like you're defusing a bomb. “They’re gone.”

The door cracks open. Ollie peeks out, cautious.

“Swear?”

“I watched them leave. I waited. I counted.”

He slowly emerges, looking like a hostage who’s been hiding in a bunker. “That was the most terrifying thirty minutes of my life.”

“I aged six years,” you whisper, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the back hallway. “We’re going out the side exit.”

He follows you quietly, his curls slightly messy from running his hands through them, and his hoodie tucked up over his head like he's avoiding paparazzi. You open the alleyway door, peek outside, and the coast is clear. You both walk fast — not quite a run, not quite casual — like two people absolutely doing something suspicious.

When you’re finally around the corner, behind a row of parked scooters, you collapse against a brick wall and burst out laughing.

Ollie bends forward, hands on his knees. “I swear Lando sniffed the air when he walked in. Like he could smell guilt.”

“He tried to interrogate the waitress,” you say, wheezing. “Oscar kept guessing names like he was hosting a live game show.”

Ollie groans, rubbing his eyes. “I was ready to climb out the bathroom window and flee to Monaco.”

You step toward him, arms wrapping around his waist, and bury your face in his hoodie. He immediately pulls you close, chin resting on your head.

“You were so brave,” you murmur into his chest, laughing softly.

“I was a hero,” he replies dramatically. “Someone should’ve given me a medal in there.”

“I’ll give you a kiss instead.”

He doesn’t hesitate — he tilts your chin up and kisses you gently, slowly, like he missed the feel of your lips during the entire harrowing café drama. His hands stay firm on your waist, grounding you as your heart finally settles again.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, smiling.

He smiles back. “You’re the one who posted the breakfast photo.”

You gasp. “Are you blaming me?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, laughing as you swat at his chest, “your boyfriend might have survived longer if his girlfriend wasn’t so chronically online.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling.

“Come on,” you say, grabbing his hand. “Your place. We’re locking the door and ignoring everyone for the next twelve hours.”

He squeezes your hand. “Best plan I’ve heard all day.”

—

The drive had started off normal enough — Lando behind the wheel of his matte black Urus, sunglasses on, music low, Monaco’s streets breezing past in sharp curves and shiny yachts. Oscar was in the passenger seat, sipping an overpriced iced coffee and talking about literally nothing. Until they hit the residential bend up in La Rousse. And that’s when they saw it.

Your car.

A McLaren 750S, papaya orange, obnoxiously clean — parked in front of a sleek glass apartment building tucked between a bougie wine bar and a tiny yoga studio.

Oscar pointed like he’d spotted a wild animal. “Wait. That’s her car.”

Lando glanced over, barely needing a second. “That’s definitely her car.”

Oscar leaned forward, squinting. “She said she was going to lunch at the harbor. This is not lunch at the harbor.”

Lando frowned. “Is she… seeing someone who lives here?”

Oscar’s head whipped around. “Do we know anyone who lives here?”

“I don’t know, Oscar. Monaco is small. Could be anyone.”

“Could be someone terrible.”

They stared at the building. Lando shifted into park.

Oscar looked at him, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Lando said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “She’s being shady. This is my little sister. And she’s lying about where she is.”

Oscar followed, both of them marching across the cobbled street toward the front entrance like a couple of underqualified spies in overpriced sneakers. They reached the glass door and immediately ran into… a problem.

The intercom.

Oscar jabbed the call button. “Just press the most expensive sounding name.”

Lando smacked his hand away. “You don’t press things when you don’t know who lives here. That’s literally how you get arrested.”

“Then what’s the plan?”

“Wait until someone leaves and sneak in,” Lando said, peering through the lobby window like a raccoon. “That’s how she got in, probably.”

Oscar tilted his head. “You think she’s sneaking around?”

“I think she’s being suspicious as hell, and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.”

Meanwhile, up on the fifth floor, you're curled up with a throw blanket, your legs over Ollie’s lap as he lazily braids a strand of your hair. It’s the first time you’ve truly relaxed since you got back from the girls trip. Until you hear it. Muffled, echoing from the street.

“YN!”

You freeze.

You and Ollie both look up, alarmed.

“No,” you whisper.

He sets your hair down slowly. “Was that—?”

You leap off the couch and race to the balcony, throw open the doors— And there they are.

Lando and Oscar. Standing like two overzealous detectives outside Ollie’s building, both looking up at balconies and pointing at cars like this is some heist movie.

Oscar cups his hands and yells again. “YN! We KNOW you’re in there!”

Lando starts pacing. “Come down and explain why your car is parked here!”

You lean over the railing, completely unbothered.

“Hi boys,” you say sweetly. “Are we playing Where’s Waldo but for my love life?”

Lando shields his eyes and glares. “WHY are you here?”

“I live here now,” you lie smoothly. “Decided to become a mysterious heiress.”

Oscar shook his head. “We don’t know anyone who lives in that building!”

You sip from your water glass dramatically. “Maybe I’ve made new friends. You two are awfully invested.”

Lando turns to Oscar. “We’re getting in.”

Oscar knocks on the door again. “Maybe if I say it’s an emergency—”

The front desk security guy appears, looking visibly tired. “You two again?”

“We need to speak to someone in 5B,” Lando says.

“We can’t give out resident info.”

Oscar points. “But that’s our sister’s car—”

“Still not my problem.”

You watch this unfold from your balcony like a queen surveying her court.

Ollie peeks from behind the curtain. “Are they really trying to break in?”

“Yep.”

“Should I hide again?”

“No,” you say, grabbing your water glass. “I’ve got a better idea.”

You step to the edge of the balcony.

“Hey, Lando!” you yell sweetly.

He looks up. “What?”

You smile. “You’re looking a little dehydrated!”

And you dump the water. Splash. It lands squarely on his hoodie and half his head. Oscar screams laughing.

Lando yells, “YOU ABSOLUTE MUPPET!”

You blow him a kiss and disappear inside, shutting the door behind you.

Ollie collapses on the couch, dying laughing. “They’re gonna murder me.”

You throw yourself down next to him. “They don’t even know it’s you yet.”

He pauses. “Do you think they’ll guess?”

You grin, climbing into his lap. “Not before I hit them with the actual glass next.”

—

ynnorris

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, kimi.antonelli and 3,001,008 others.

ynnorris : ◡̈ dump dump dump ◡̈ also shoutout to @/diesel for always dressing me!

—

view 201,110 other comments.

lando : well

↳ lando : he has arms, brown hair and a...ferrari

↳ lando : none of which he will have once i am done with him

magui_corceiro : girl you are GLOWINGGG

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : it's because of you know whooooo

liked by magui_corceiro

↳ lando : WAIT MAGUI YOU KNOW???

↳ lando : gasp. betrayal.

↳ magui_corceiro : bros before hoes srry

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : ilysfm mags

lando : whose baby is that???? is it yours??? oh my god. im sick to my stomach.

↳ ynnorris : lando. have i looked pregnant the last 9 months?

↳ lando : no but i saw you eat pickles with takis yesterday

↳ ynnorris : ive done that for years im just gross

↳ lando : that baby knows something i don't

↳ ynnorris : yes the infant is smarter than you. well aware.

↳ lando : WAIT. does he have kids???? how old is this fucker???

↳ ynnorris : lando. hush. im two seconds away from blocking you. or calling mum.

↳ lando : ok.

diesel : we LOVE you pretty girl

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : love you all even more!!

franciscagomes : call the wag group rn. we all have questions

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : anything for my ladies

↳ lando : KIKA. MY FRIEND. PLS RECORD THE CONVERSATION.

↳ franciscagomes : bros before hoes srry

oscarpiastri : ferrari? arthur. i swear to god. the things i will do to you.

↳ arthur_leclerc : surprisingly not me. good luck man. half of monaco has ferrari's.

liked by ynnorris

username00 : half the comment section being lando talking to himself is taking me out.

liked by ynnorris

—

The Bearmans’ house smells like fresh-baked bread and a hint of rose from the garden. You’re barefoot in the grass, sipping lemonade, laughter echoing around the yard as the sun dips just a little lower behind the tall trees. It’s warm in the way only June afternoons can be — not too hot, just sun-kissed and soft, like the kind of day you want to bottle up and live in forever.

Ollie’s little sister, Amalie, is painting your nails a bright coral shade on the back patio. She’s concentrating so hard her tongue is sticking out, and you’re trying not to giggle because her hands are surprisingly steady.

“You’d make a killer glam team,” you say.

Amalie beams. “I already told Ollie I want to do makeup models one day.”

From a few feet away, you hear Thomas — Ollie’s younger brother — shout “heads up!” just before he launches a soccer ball across the garden to their dad. Chaos. Pure, happy chaos.

But the world slows down when Ollie walks out of the house, cradling his cousin’s newborn in his arms. You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s so gentle. Careful. Like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever held — which she might be. The way he looks down at her with soft eyes, how he adjusts the blanket on her little chest, how he sways back and forth without even realizing it. Your heart does something dangerous.

“She loves him,” Ollie’s mum whispers beside you, having appeared with a tray of snacks like all mums do. “He’s always been good with babies. Even when he was little, he’d hold Amalie like she was made of glass.”

You nod slowly, unable to look away from him. The baby coos. Ollie smiles — all pink cheeks and affection — and then, like he can feel your gaze, he looks up and catches your eyes.

“Want to hold her?” he asks.

You hesitate. “I might drop her.”

“You won’t.” He’s already walking over. 

“She’s tiny,” you murmur.

“She’s perfect,” he says, softly, as he passes her to you.

You settle into the chair, heart in your throat, arms curved just right, and suddenly — she’s there. A little pink face. Sleepy eyes. A tuft of fuzzy hair and a lemon-print onesie. She sighs once and then melts against your chest, like you were made to hold her.

You blink, overwhelmed. “Oh my god.”

Ollie crouches in front of you, watching you with this look — soft, proud, like he’s seeing something sacred.

“She likes you,” he murmurs.

“She snuggled,” you whisper. “Ollie, she snuggled me.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s usually a good sign.”

You glance up at him, the warmth of the baby against your heart, and you swear the moment stretches. Like time pauses for just the two of you.

“She’s so small,” you say, voice barely above a breath.

“You’re holding her like you’ve done it a thousand times.”

And you feel it — not just the weight of the baby in your arms, but something heavier in your chest. The kind of love that sneaks up on you quietly, builds over months and moments until it breaks the dam. You look at Ollie again, and he’s still staring. Like you’ve just said his name without saying anything at all. Later, when you’re lying on the couch inside, baby-free, curled up next to him with a blanket over your knees, Ollie kisses the top of your head and whispers,

“I think I fell a little more in love with you today.”

You smile, sleepy and full. “Me too.”

—

The second you pull up in Ollie’s Ferrari, you already regret it. Not because it isn’t fun — it is. The car purrs beneath your fingertips, the sun reflects off its deep metallic red like a spotlight, and people turn their heads when you park it like you own half the street. But because your brother and…other brother are already outside the café. And they see everything. Oscar squints the moment you parallel park. Lando does a full body pivot like a sniffer dog. And by the time you’ve stepped out, their jaws are already halfway on the pavement.

“Since when do you drive a Ferrari?” Lando asks, arms crossed.

You shrug, locking the car. “Borrowed it.”

Oscar walks a slow, suspicious circle around the car like it’s a crime scene. “From who?”

You smile, innocent. “A friend.”

Lando points at you. “You don’t have friends with cars like this.”

“I do now.”

He mutters something under his breath, then crouches in front of the grille like he’s about to get a reading off the VIN number. Oscar checks the back.

You blink. “Are you serious right now?”

“Very,” Lando says, pressing a hand to the hood. “Still warm.”

“I just drove it here, sherlock.”

He ignores you and turns to Oscar. “This isn’t a rental.”

Oscar nods solemnly. “This is definitely someone’s personal car. That color isn’t even in the stock range. This is custom paint.”

You walk past them into the restaurant. “Okay, Sherlocks. You two enjoy your Top Gear moment.”

Inside, the hostess leads you to your table. Through the floor to ceiling glass, you watch Lando and Oscar continue their ridiculous investigation. Oscar checks the side mirrors. Lando opens his Notes app like he’s logging evidence.

You text Ollie under the table.

ur car is being interrogated.

what did he say.

oscar just wiped a fingerprint off the bumper and looked disappointed it wasn’t a match.

they’re unwell.

they’re obsessed with me.

i don’t blame them.

You smile and sip your drink, just as Lando finally enters, sunglasses now pushed up into his hair.

He sits down, leans across the table, and says with total seriousness.

“You’re hiding something.”

Oscar sits beside him, arms folded. “And we’re going to find out what it is.”

You lean back in your seat, unbothered. “You guys do know you’re not in a Netflix documentary, right?”

They don’t blink. You smile sweetly. “Hope you like the carbon fiber seats. They’re heated.”

They both groan at once.

—

ynnorris

liked by lando, olliebearman, oscarpiastri and 3,709,002 others.

ynnorris : beach bummin

(comments r off until lando and oscar learn to behave)

—

The sun is warm on your skin, the sand soft beneath your towel, and Ollie is lying next to you, arm lazily thrown over your waist, both of you half-asleep under a wide straw umbrella. Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you grin at the likes rolling in on your Instagram post. Back in Monaco, however, peace is not the vibe.

Lando’s lying on his couch, one sock on, one sock missing, a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, and a look of absolute suspicion on his face. The moment your story popped up, he froze mid-bite. He stares at it again now, zooming in and out like it’ll suddenly reveal a reflection of the man holding your hand. Next to him, Oscar is half asleep, scrolling TikTok. He only glances up when Lando mutters-

“She’s on a beach. Somewhere tropical. And that arm isn’t hers.”

Oscar peers at the screen. “Yeah, no. That’s 100% male forearm. Good tan too.”

Lando groans and slaps his phone down. “She turned her location off for me, Oscar.”

Oscar shrugs. “She didn’t for me.”

Lando’s head whips around. “What?!”

Oscar scrolls casually. “Says she’s in Ibiza.”

Lando stands up like he’s just been personally betrayed by the island of Ibiza. “Who the hell is she in Ibiza with?!”

Oscar hums. “Could be anyone. Could be a friend.”

“A friend with coconut water and veiny forearms? Yeah, okay.”

Lando paces.

Oscar adds, “She’s posting suspiciously curated content. This isn’t an accident.”

Lando stops. “There’s only one person who might know.”

Oscar’s brow lifts. “You’re not gonna—”

“Oh, I am.”

—

Magui opens the door in an oversized tee, holding a smoothie bowl and looking halfway through a Real Housewives binge.

Lando barges in. “Where is she?”

“Hello to you too,” Magui deadpans, shutting the door behind him. “Can I help you, detective Norris?”

He turns his phone toward her, showing your story. “Do you see this? Do you see the coconut? The hand? The shoulder vein?”

Magui takes the phone, sighs, and walks into the kitchen. “I’m not doing this today.”

Oscar appears behind Lando with a quiet “Hey,” and grabs a spoon from her counter like he lives there.

Magui points at them both. “You two need a hobby. And no, I’m not telling you where she is.”

“She’s in Ibiza,” Lando growls. “With a man.”

Oscar squints at the photo again. “He has nice wrists.”

Lando smacks his shoulder.

Magui leans against the counter, bored. “You’re acting like she’s being kidnapped. She’s on holiday. During her break. Living her best life.”

“With who?” Lando repeats, clearly unraveling.

Magui smiles slowly. “Let’s just say he treats her right. Brings her flowers. Drives a Ferrari.”

Oscar gasps. “It’s someone we know.”

Lando looks like he’s about to pass out.

Magui grabs the remote. “Maybe if you two stopped acting like overprotective sitcom dads, she’d actually tell you things.”

Lando stares at the TV. Oscar leans over the couch, mouth full of granola. “I think I’m gonna solve this before him.”

Lando glares. “Over my dead body.”

—

You’re sitting poolside, legs in the water, a mocktail in your hand, and your boyfriend’s head resting comfortably in your lap. Ollie’s got on sunglasses and a backwards cap, sun-warm and sleepy as you run your fingers through his curls and talk about absolutely nothing. The playlist you made together is playing softly in the background, your towel smells like coconut, and you haven’t worn real shoes in three days. Life is perfect. Until Ollie tenses. And sits up slowly.

You blink. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer — just stares out across the resort terrace like he’s seen a ghost. You follow his gaze. And there they are. Lando. And Oscar.

Wearing disguises that don’t work, sunglasses, baseball caps, and matching white linen shirts like they’re auditioning for a DJ set at a beach club. They’re lurking behind a fake palm tree near the juice bar, whispering and peeking over the shrubbery like two middle-aged tourists in a soap opera. You blink again.

“Oh my god.”

Ollie looks at you in horror. “Do we run?”

You sip your drink calmly. “No. We act natural.”

“Define natural,” he whispers as you pull your sunglasses on.

“Hot. Unbothered. Maybe a little smug.”

Ollie adjusts his hat. “So just you, then.”

You grin. Meanwhile, across the patio, Lando is practically vibrating with tension.

“That’s him. That’s his hair,” he hisses to Oscar.

Oscar nods gravely. “Same jawline. Definitely Bearman. I knew it.”

“I can’t believe she’s dating Ollie.” Lando sounds genuinely wounded. “She went for the baby driver?!”

“He’s not even legally old enough to rent a car in some countries,” Oscar mutters.

“I knew that arm in the story was familiar,” Lando groans. “I knew it.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow. “They’re… touching.”

“They’re cuddling.” Lando grips the fake tree like it insulted him. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

“Stay strong,” Oscar whispers. “We’re already here. We finish the mission.”

Lando squares his shoulders like he’s going into war.

“Let’s go confront them.”

You look up from your drink just in time to see Lando and Oscar marching toward you with the energy of two men who haven’t thought this through even slightly.

Ollie mutters under his breath. “Should I pretend I don’t speak English?”

Lando points the moment he gets close. “YOU!”

You smile brightly. “Me?”

Oscar looks at Ollie like he just kicked his dog. “So it is you.”

Ollie raises his hands. “Hi.”

“How long?” Lando demands, arms crossed, dramatic as ever. “How long has this been happening?”

You feign innocence. “Define ‘this’?”

“The hand-holding. The pool-side spooning. The vacationing.”

Ollie opens his mouth, closes it, then says gently, “About… five months?”

Lando gasps like he’s just been stabbed.

“FIVE?!”

Oscar turns to you. “You told me you were going to get lunch. That was three months ago.”

Lando paces. “Oh my god. We interrogated the car.”

You sip your drink calmly. “Yeah, that was super embarrassing for you both.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Oscar asks, voice only slightly hurt now. “We’re your brothers.”

“Because you’re my brothers,” you say, motioning toward their matching shirts. “And look at you. You flew to Ibiza to catch me like I’m running a smuggling ring.”

“Honestly,” Ollie mumbles, “this went way better than I thought it would.”

Lando stops pacing. “You thought this went well? I want to fight you. Right now. In the pool.”

You grab Ollie’s arm protectively. “Absolutely not.”

Oscar sighs and flops onto the lounger beside you. “Well… now that it’s out there… I guess I can stop cyberstalking every hand in your photos.”

Lando mutters, “I need a drink. Or five.”

You nudge Ollie. “Should we buy them smoothies as a peace offering?”

Ollie smiles weakly. “Will they spit in them?”

“Almost definitely.”

—

olliebearman

liked by ynnorris, lando, kimi.antonelli and 5,007,005 others.

olliebearman : since her brother and her...oscar...flew all the way to ibiza to bust us. happy hard launc

tagged : ynnorris

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—

[muntitled]

Playtime

Pairing: Nam-gyu x fem!reader

Summary: You weren't ready to kill anyone in Hide And Seek, thank God he's there to help

Warnings: Language, Blood, Gore, Violence, Religious Trauma, Murder, Mentions of Rape Dark Fic, Smut (+18, mdni), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dub/Con, PiV, Rough Sex, Blood Play, Ingesting Bodily Fluids, Dom!Namgyu, Sub!Reader, Mutual Masturbation, Spitting, Dirty Talk

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume

Nam-gyu could taste colours.

He's quite sure that if he jumped off a high enough ledge, he'd fly.

Ever since they entered the gameroom with its low ceiling and labrinth streets, he's been on a bender unlike any other. A bender he's struggling to enjoy in its entirety because something almost akin to a conscience has been niggling away at him ever since he ran into you during Hide and Seek.

He was straddling a corpse, playing in its blood while Myung-gi called for him to hurry up.

You'd run into the same alley. You and your frightened eyes and your red vest clean of blood. He'd been smiling but that's because his face couldn't conjure up any other expression even if he tried.

And he did try.

He tried stepping towards you. Only to show you how to properly hold that knife you carried with such uncertainty.

But you'd already fled.

He knew you didn't have it in you to kill anyone.

That's why he was doing this. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't get why we can't just kill it" Myung-gi watches with displeased eyes as Nam-gyu drags the living body of a middle aged man through the

He's stalling their movements significantly trying to pull the man whose own legs have no use for him now. Nam-Gyu made sure they weren't working. He made sure the man could not run. But he also made sure the man wasn't dead.

Nam-gyu's still twitchy, from the pills and from all the blood. It could've been so easy to stick another knife inside a hot body- it would've been way more fun. But then he thought of you. Your wide eyed gaze. Your trembling hand around the whimsical dagger.

That's when he stopped himself. That's when he whispered, to the frightened old man in the blue vest, “I'm not gonna be the one to do it,”

He could've killed this man. He could have watched the knife sink right through his blue vest.

He giggles to himself. Thinking about those corpses and their doll-like eyes. Their comatose little bodies. The fear. The peace.

"Thing is," he's speaking without noticing he's speaking. Nam-gyu drags the man through the ground like he's lugging a sack of potatoes. Like they don't have 15 minutes left in the game.

The man is either infuriatingly heavy or Nam-gyu's too high- it's proving to be a Herculean task even with his two hands on the collar of the old man's shirt. Myung-gi doesnt slow down his very serious gait but he cranes his ear back. "I kinda... like," Nam-gyu giggles to himself, still trying to find the space between reason and hallucination, "I kinda fucked things with my girl when I-" he rolls his eyes, "killed that bitch Se-mi," he groans as he pulls the man closer to an already open door. A dead end. "So now I kinda have to make up for that. You're in love too, you get it."

"You dont know what love is," says Myung-gi and before Nam-gyu enters the dead end door he looks at the man, chest rising snd falling from all that heavy lefiting. "Why would you say something so hurtful- and so true?"

"Why are we stopping here-"

"Tonight I'm gonna need her." Nam-gyu says, kicking the metal door further open to reveal you cowering in the corner of a dimly lit room. Dragon flies are painted across the wall and yet you're crouched like a shy little beetle in the corner. Nam-gyu nearly stops himself from cooing.

"I get antsy at night." He says, turning back to Myung-gi who regards you with a pitiful gaze. "Im so sick of jerking off-"

"Stop talking."

"I needed to get her a gift." Nam-gyu gestures wildly at the old man he's lugged across the streets, the man with wild eyes and broken legs.

He drops the man's collar and the blue vest's head hits the ground with a loud thud.

Nam-gyu's already walking towards you in the corner.

"Here, babe, I've brought you a gift-"

You're out of it. Spiraling. Cradling your legs. Trying to tell yourself this was never supposed to be about hurting others. It was only supposed to be about surviving. And now, here you were, face-to-face with the very reason you're in these games anyway.

"What am I supposed to do with him, Nam-gyu."

"Isn't it obvious?" He crouches down in front of you. Over Nam-gyu's shoulder, you notice his accomplice, player 333 looking immeasurably ill.

"Kill him, silly," as soon as Nam-gyu's words drop, Player 333 steps out of the room, murmuring lowly under his breath. Soon its just you, an old man pleading for his life and Nam-gyu.

You're shaking your head when your eyes meet that of the man you're supposed to kill.

Round.

Wide.

His fight or flight activated and going crazy. Someone who's prepared themselves for their own impromptu death.

Nam-gyu, still crouching in front of you, drags your face back to him by the tip of his finger.

He's blood soaked and crazy but familiar. His presence grounds you.

"I'd rather they gun me down-" the words dont leave your mouth before hes clamping your mouth shut with his hand. His mood is like a switch. Gone is his smile.

"Dont do that." He says, "babe, don't do that- I fucking killed that bitch, Se-mi, now you wanna suffer the same fate?"

Your words are muffled through his mouth but your tears spill over his hands "We're all going to hell anywayI-" your mind is flooded with Bible verses. Church sermons. All of them from your childhood. All of them condemning you. They're kickstarting a wave of panic and regret and shame and you're falling. You're drowning.

"Babe," he cradles your face once more, his thumbs drifting over yojr tear streaked cheeks, "Hell? We're already here. This is it, okay? I'm just gonna need you to be a big girl and do this one big thing for me." You look over his shoulder and you see the man's eyes, pleading. He could've tried to crawl to the door. He could've tried. But he's smart enough to know when he's right between the predator's jaws."

"What did you have out there, Princess? Hm?" Nam-gyu's still cradling your face like a baby. His bloodshot eyes are still gazing down at you like you hung the moon. His hands are trembling and he's leaving blood on your cheeks but you listen.

"A junkie boyfriend who left me in crippling debt?" You ask,

"Ok, I deserved that-"

You've avoided Nam-gyu since the lights out massacre. Since he lost himself to this place. And now, here you were, needing reassurance from the worst possible voice of reason. His eyes tracked your movements ever since hide and seek began. It was almost like a mirror of when you two were dating outside the games. The only difference is, he had been the liability then, with the shifty eyes, you'd save him...

This time he promised he'd save you.

"But you forgot something," he leans in closer until his lips graze your ear. For once you're feeling something other than fear. Other than existential doom. When he whispers his next words, gone is all hope for your humanity.

"That asshole who raped you," his voice is gentle, "Made you loose your job? I killed him."

Your brows furrow and you try to pull back but he's smelling your hair now, patting down on your braids like you mean something to him. Like you're a thing he's enjoying playing with.

"You what?"

"Yeah babe, you think I'd let him rape you and get you fired? I was a shit boyfriend, yes. But I loved you out there, and I love you in he-"

In between his words that resurrected all the ghosts of the outside world, everything that landed you in this hell in the first place, you'd detangled yourself from his limbs. By the time Nam-gyu finished his confession- about the disappearance of your boss right after you lost your job- your knife was already digging clean through the blue players vest, already unwrapping Nam-gyu's little present.

Just one kill and it saved you from yet another game.

You're out of it

Unable to look away.

The world is still.

The knife feels stable, like it's being held between two boulders.

You now know what it feels like to kill someone but before you can really drown in it, you hear his voice boom behind you

“Jesus fuck! That was so hot, did you see its eyes?!” He's pacing on unsteady feet across the room,” biting at his fingernails before crouching down beside you.

“Babe you need to see its eyes when you do it, that's the best part fuck-” you watch with wide eyes as something foreign overtakes Nam-gyu's entire being. You'd only seen him like this one other time. The lights out massacre. When he stabbed that girl over and over.

Now he's trying to open the eyelids of a corpse, as if you weren't sitting there.

“Fuck, he's already gone,” hes slapping at the corpses cheek but yku look down at your blood soaked hands bleeding heavily.

“It's okay,” he says, speaking louder than he needs to, “It's okay, Princess, we'll get another one-” You're about to protest but he's already standing up, dragging you off the floor in the process. His hands are cold and trembling in yours.

His lips are dry and warm as they pepper kisses all over your face.

“Which means-” more and more kisses- and maybe even a lick- “we have ro be really quick yeah?”

“Quick with what-”

He's already pulling his pants down far enough to pull himself out and your eyes widen as you step back. His pupils are blown. Two obsidian orbs, like the death in the room was another pill to him

“Y-You wanna have sex now?” You gesture wildly, “Here?”

He steps closer until he's completely made your personal space, his own. You turn your head away but he's breathing right against your cheek, plastering his body to you, “I need to fuck you,”

“Gyu-” he's twitchy and his words are slurred, and he's grinding against you with the urgency of a desperate man.

“Please-” he pushes your hair away messily, kissing up the side of your neck, “Play with me just for a bit, hm? Look at how pretty you look with all that blood on you-fuck-” he chuckles lowly, bringing your hand down until you're wrapping it around his exposed cock. “I nearly came watching you do it…” he whispers, squeezing your hand around his cock, “C'mon there's no one here…”

“There's a corpse right there-”

“He's not here anymore.” he's stroking himself using your hand. A part of you wishes you'd be more disgusted. A part of you wishes your moral code was still intact. But the body betrays. And right now your cunt is leaking while your boyfriend with his wild eyes jerks himself off with your hand, as if you were an object. “C'mon, please,”

You're not even sure why his asking anymore. His other hand is already mapping out the contours of your hips, already slipping under your shirt to paw at your breasts

You gasp when he pushes himself between your legs humping frantically against you as he pebbles your nipple between his thumb and index.

“Need it so bad, Princess, please,”

Your hand around his cock isn't even moving anymore, his hips are pushing forward in an act that has your mind slipping.

“I could fuck you like this,” he mumbles, “-without actually fucking you…”

You moan out loud, back arching off the wall, “I swear I'd cum,” he says, “That's how bad I want it-”

“Are you… Nam-gyu are you high?” You try to grapple onto reason with both hands because you were sinking fast. Your eyes were heavy lidded and you were jerking him off now on your own accord.

“Mm, and horny, babe I need it. Don't tell me you don't need it-”

“He spits on his hand before making it disappear through the waistband of your sweats-”

“Jesus this pussy-” in your hand, his cock twitches, right when his cold fingers make contact with your cunt, slick with its own arousal.

“Y-You're disgusting-” you try to say. As if your hips weren't rolling against his hand, as if you didn't drag your hand up and down the length of his shaft.

“Only for you-” his eyes roll back, “I'll be whatever you want me to be,” he says before dipping down to whisper. “I'd live inside you if I could-” That alone has your mind descending further and further into this pit of hellfire you're both swimming in.

“That's it,” his hand rubs circles around your clit. Fast, demanding circles that have you wincing, “Your pussy wants me so bad. You want me so bad I’m- fuck-” Its like he’s not talking to you and that alone makes you delirious.

“Gonna let me cum inside?”

Right when you're on the edge of it all, right when your about to cum, it stops. He's pulling your pants down- slotting himself messily between his legs before he brings his hand under your mouth.

“Spit.” He says, “Spit for me baby quickly.”

You do.

And when he uses it to lube up his cock your head hollows itself of all reason. You need him just as badly and soon, you're bucking upwards, guiding his cock in.

Through the slightly open door, your heart screams. Helpless, violent screams, and for a moment you delude yourself into believing you really have died and gone to hell.

But now the head of his cock is slicing right through you. He stabs you with it, slamming himself in until he's fully sheathed inside you. Your hand paws at his back. You wish he was shirtless so you can sink your nails into his back. Bring him closer. Until you've consumed him whole.

“You're pussy's so good- fuck. Between this, and the pills… Don't know which is better, baby-” he's already fucjing you at a quick and desperate pace against the wall. He lifts your leg up by hooking a hand under your thigh, only slotting himself in deeper.

With his other hand, he lifts the knife up. He lets it glint under the fluorescents. He lets you see it

“I could hurt you too.”

There's no rule that says I can't. I could make you all pretty with your eyes all empty. He presses the knife to the side of the neck as he fucks you, his eyes keenly zeroed in on your hot, sweating dark skin against the pointed tip. His cock oozes precum inside you.

“But your eyes are already pretty, yeah? My pretty baby

“Gyu- I'm gonna cum-”

“Fuck-”

He tilts the knife a little too deep, until a single bead of crimson dots your throat. You don't notice but he does.

“Im gonna cum inside you,” he says, fucking you harder against the wall. You nod, and when he dips his head between your neck to lick that bead of your blood, you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Wanna taste you, your pussy, your skin, your blood- fuck-”

He's shooting his load inside you as he spews his unholy vitriol. It fills and then it spills and you're creaming around him as you slip into your own orgasm. It muddies your head and you cry out clutching at him like you want him completely inside you..

The door opens.

A blue vest, stops and stares at you two with wide eyes, before shuffling out.

You're both breathing heavily, both on a high that feels impossible to come down from. He's tracing patterns with the knife on your skin and you know next time he cuts you it won't be an accident.

[thevoidstaredback]

I'm a bit late to the party, but this was too cute not to expand upon.

After Boxy and Bitty Bute left, word spread quickly aiming the ghosts. They'd always been huge gossips.

At first, just after Box Ghost and Box Lunch, only a few ghosts dropped by Gotham in a month. Kitty, Johnny and Shadow; Skulker; Desiree. They all came by to ask Phantom to teach them how to hide.

He helped them and they went on to teach the others. Those who couldn't quite get it found their way to Gotham, asking for Danny to teach them.

Watching Danny made Jason feel warm. This was the side of Danny he'd never been allowed to see before, the side that was hidden for fear for his life. Sure, Danny was nice to the kids he encountered everyday, and he could never not help someone whenever he could, but to see him teach people who he never would've met otherwise?

Jason fell more and more in love with him every day. Had since they met, had since they got married, and will until the end of their eternity.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" That was the very first thing Jason had ever said to Danny.

Danny had raised an eyebrow. "Not quite. I believe that first impressions are useless. What really matters is in the moments that happen afterwards."

Jason had smiled dumbly at that. "Will you give me the chance to have those extra moments?"

"Sure,"

It was a moment he remembered more clearly than anything else in his life. He was so beyond happy to watch Danny prove how much he loved the people around him again and again.

"What're you thinking about?" Dick asked

Jason's eyes never strayed from where Danny was helping another ghost, this one a child named Poindexter, learn how to 'let go of the sky'. "About how lucky I am."

Dick fakes a groan. "Don't go mushy on me, Little Wing. I do not need to know anything about your love life." He paused. "Unless it's anything but healthy." He looked between Danny and his brother before saying, "Though, I don't think that'll ever be a worry."

"I am way outta my league," Jason sighed, "I love him so much."

"Even a blind man could see that,"

"Don't worry," Danny chimed, the ghost he'd been helping no longer in the field, "You'll find someone some day, Dick."

He spluttered while Jason laughed and kissed his husband. "Traitor!"

Danny shrugged. "I could refer you to a great fortune teller? She's great at granting wishes."

Dick cringed back a bit. "No, thanks."

"Suit yourself."

"Anymore news on those GIW bastards?" Jason asked.

Danny sighed and shook his head. "No one knows exactly where they are, just that they're tracking me."

"Do you really think staying in one place is safe?"

A nod. "If worst comes to worst, I can escape them faster than they can catch me."

"And if they do catch you?"

"Then I know you'll be right behind with a rescue team and the wrath of a titan."

Dick mimed gagging. "You guys are way too cute, it's actually sickening."

Jason shrugged this time. "You'll understand one day, Dick Wing."

I've been playing with a no-one-knows AU where Danny has been married to Jason for years but hasn't told him his secret. Jason knows that Danny isn't human, but hasn't pressed because Danny is so terrified when he approaches the topic. The Batfamily do not know.

Presently, the GIW are in Gotham and closing in, and the Box Ghost has come to Danny seeking help.

----

“You’re a ghost,” Jason said gently, pulling one of Danny’s hands away from his face to wrap it in his own. Danny let him. “Aren’t you?”

Danny’s breath hitched again.

Surprisingly, the Box Ghost looked almost as horrified as Danny.

“What? NO! I, the BOX GHOST, would not out Danny Fenton to his human family! For he is as human as I once was!” He flailed his arms in blatant panic. “There is nothing to reveal, for Danny Fenton is most certainly NOT a ghost!”

“What’s wrong with Danny being a ghost?” Box Lunch wanted to know, tilting her head up to peer up at her father in confusion. “Is it a secret?”

“BOX LUNCH!” the Box Ghost wailed, every inch a mortified parent.

“Yes, it was, or your father would not be so blatantly lying about it,” Damian told her, taking pity on the child ghost.

“Oh!” Box Lunch nodded seriously. “Danny isn’t a ghost!”

Danny let out a slightly hysterical laugh, and then started to cry, gasping quietly with tears pouring down his face, hunched down to hide from them. He didn’t pull his hand out of Jason’s.

“It is no longer a secret here, as it has become apparent,” Damian elaborated.

Box Lunch scrunched up her nose. “Oh.”

“Ghosts are not bad,” Cass said softly, “if ghosts are Danny.”

“Danny.” Jason scooted closer and pulled Danny against him, and Danny let him, pressing into him without unwinding at all. “Danny, I already knew. I’ve known for years.” Danny tilted his head up to give him an incredulous look, and Jason grinned at him. “You’re not good at hiding it, stardust. Your freckles glow when you’re excited and your eyes flash green when you’re frustrated. You walk through closed doors when you’re sleepy and things fall through your hands when people startle you. I’ve known you aren’t human since we moved in together.”

“…Oh,” Danny murmured, guilt and relief and wonder swirling together in his still-wet eyes.

“Phantom!” the Box Ghost scolded. Jason took note of the sudden change in address. “You are the worst secret keeper ever!”

“Shut up, Boxy,” Danny snapped. He pulled away from Jason and wiped his eyes, sniffling. Their hands stayed locked together. “We, we need to hide you and bitty-bite b-before we talk about this any more. I wasn’t joking about the Guys in White.”

The Box Ghost flapped his arms dismissively. “They will not find us! They are looking for YOU, and their instruments will not be prepared for such subtle spirits as Box Lunch and I!”

“They are looking for me while I am hiding,” Danny said, soft but barbed. He wiped his face again and turned around to better face the other ghost, glaring sharply. “Something I am well known to be very good at. Far better at than you.”

The Box Ghost went so pale he was almost translucent.

“You don’t look like a ghost at all,” Tim said, studying Danny. “Your skin is pink, you don’t glow… most of the time, no pointed ears or fangs. Your eyes are normal.” His eyes narrowed. “Is this… not your natural appearance?”

Danny flinched. “I… I…” He swallowed, staring at nothing, and then forced his attention back onto the Box Ghost. “Your base signatures are pretty low. If you stop using your powers and suppress your auras as much as you can, you can probably bring them low enough to hide.”

No answers would be forthcoming for now, Jason understood. He signaled sharply to Bruce and Tim, the most likely to try to interrupt. Wait. Time-sensitive, finish operation before proceeding.

Bruce didn’t look pleased, but he nodded sharply. Tim just watched, thoughtful eyes fixed on Danny. Damian was scowling, Dick frowning faintly, but Cass’ curiosity looked borderline idle. Jason watched Danny interact with the other ghost with a healthy blend of interest and concern, and tried not to wonder if Tim was right.

“Box Lunch, do you know how to land?” Danny asked. It seemed like a silly question until Box Lunch wrinkled her nose and cocked her head.

“Land?” she asked, audibly uncertain. For that matter, her father looked vaguely baffled too. “Like… with my feet? On the floor?”

Danny managed a smile and nodded. Box Lunch eyed the floor, then drifted down to hover at floor level. “Like this?”

“Not exactly,” Danny said, sounding more fond than anything. He slid off the bar stool and knelt down in front of Box Lunch. Jason couldn’t look away; he’d been deprived of any open knowledge of Danny’s nonhuman side for so long that his curiosity was damn near insatiable now. And Danny teaching a kid of his species? That was doing things to Jason. Good things. “Close your eyes.” Box Lunch did. “Feel the energy in the air. Do you feel gravity? Do you sense how it pulls things down?” She nodded uncertainly. “Hold onto that feeling. Let it hold onto you. Do you feel it?” Nod. “Good. Now- let go of the sky.”

The instructions didn’t make a lick of sense to Jason, but Box Lunch dropped right out of the air and landed on her feet. Her eyes flew open, and she pinwheeled dramatically until Danny caught her.

“Ahh!” she squealed, looking dismayed. “I’m heavy!”

Danny chuckled. “No, bitty-bite, you’re still light as a feather.” He picked Box Lunch up and held her out in front of him, smiling. She squealed again, kicking her feet, her eyes bright with delight. “Good job. Do you think you can hold that?”

“Um, sure,” she mumbled, not looking at all sure.

The Box Ghost landed on the floor with a grunt - Jason suspected that he’d been listening to Danny’s instructions too. He held out his arms for Box Lunch, and Danny handed her over willingly.

“Now what?” the Box Ghost asked tentatively, staring at the floor like it would eat him. Yeah, Jason could definitely believe that he’d never landed before either.

“Now, you listen to me,” Danny said seriously. He reached out and grabbed Box Ghost’s arm, demanding his attention, and forced eye contact. From the Box Ghost’s wide eyes, this behavior was as new to him as it was to Jason. But then Danny continued, speaking as firmly as if he were willing his words into existence. “You are not a ghost. You are not a ghost.” Understanding flickered across the Box Ghost’s face, and he screwed his eyes shut. His glow started to dim. “You are solid. You are heavy. You are warm. You are made of flesh, blood, and bone. You are not a ghost. You are not a ghost. You are human.”

The Box Ghost’s glow receded and disappeared. Except for his blue skin, he almost looked human now. He opened his eyes uncertainly, and Danny gave him a weary smile and a nod, letting go of his arm and leaning back.

“But what about Box Lunch?” the Box Ghost asked anxiously, looking down at Box Lunch. She’d squeezed her eyes shut to try and follow Danny’s instructions, but didn’t seem to be meeting with the same success.

Danny sighed. “I’m not sure how to explain it to her,” he admitted, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair as he looked at the little girl with worry. She opened her eyes and gave him an anxious look, and Danny gave her a small smile. “It’s not your fault, bitty-bite. It’s just… you’ve always been a ghost, so you don’t have your dad’s memories of what it felt like to be human.”

Box Lunch stomped her feet. “I can pretend!”

“Then pretend,” Danny said seriously. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just do your best.”

“Wehh!” Box Lunch flailed her arms, brow furrowed in concentration. “I am human! My body is super solid and I crash into things a lot! And I run around on the ground and eat human food! Fear me!”

It was so cute that Jason muffled a laugh, and he wasn’t the only one. Box Lunch ran a circle around the floor, then crashed into a wall on purpose and bounced off, giggling. Even Bruce’s hard expression softened into a fond look.

“That should keep you off the sensors,” Danny said to the Box Ghost, voice low. Something about his eyes looked exhausted. “Just make sure Box Lunch maintains it. Maybe keep playing human with her.”

The Box Ghost nodded uncertainly. “Thank you, Phantom,” he said quietly. “I know that we can count on you.”

[tittykittyqt]

ᰔ—>just bf!Sukuna and your new obsession with calico critters !

Sukuna slowly started to notice the little critters around the apartment. He would be preparing dinner and suddenly see a baby deer right next to his favorite mug. These little shits were everywhere—he even saw one in the glove compartment in his car! He knew about your obsession with the weird naked babies and the green glow in the dark thingies—but these animals just keep popping up in the house. He was starting to think yuji is the one doing it, he’s a kid so it’s probably just him right?

It was 8am and sukuna slowly opened his eyes—groaning as he awakens from the deep slumber. Reaching down to pull the blanket off, he felt something in his pants poking him. No not his dick—a small bunny calico critter looking at him with its dumbass beady eyes.”Babe. what the fuck is this?!”— picking it up like it’s some disgusting bug and shoving it in your face. Rubbing your eyes to get a clear view of what’s happening—all you can see is your grumpy boyfriend with a cute pout on his face, holding one of your favorite critters.

“oh hehe it’s one of my calico critters! it’s cute isn’t it?” . he looks at you with a dumb expression on his face—no way you think these fuckass critters are cute. “you’re the one putting these around the house?!”, huffing and puffing as he places the bunny on his night stand. “Yeah duh, who else would it be?”— he sighs as he stares at the little bunny, it is kinda cute..reminds him of you.

12pm, you begged sukuna to go to the bookstore to look at more calico critters—he thought it was pointless, whats the point of going to a bookstore if you’re not gonna buy a book? “oooh ! look at this one baby,It’s a hamburger stand!”—nodding and giving “mhm” every time you show him one of the animal families and play sets. Unfortunately the two of you were running on a short amount of time, sukuna has to drop off his car to get it fixed. “Hey brat, we gotta get going—don’t want a fucked up car, do we?”. You pout as you stare at the hamburger stand set that you really want. Looking up at him hoping that he senses that you really want it—and of course he notices. He groans as he takes the box and places it back on the shelf, “babe we really gotta hurry up and get the fuck out of here, let’s go—you already got enough of those weird shits”.

For the entire day you had this sad look on your face, you really wanted that damn hamburger stand. Sukuna notices your sulking and secretly leaves the house—he’s going back to that bookstore. Arriving and searching for that set, a little kid was holding it and coughing—spreading his germs all over the set. Sukuna knew what he had to do, “hey excuse me dirty brat”—quickly snatching the box and speed walking towards the checkout. As he walks he can hear the little kid saying— “mommy he took the toy!” bawling his eyes out with snot coming out of his nose. Sukuna disinfected the box after he paid of course.

Returning back home, he approaches you from behind—wrapping one of his arms around your waist and placing his head on top of yours. “what do you need kuna?”, doing the dishes while yearning for that cute set—oh it was so adorbs. His other arm coming out behind his back as he places the set in front of you, kissing your cheek and saying— “got the stupid ass set for ya, had to snatch it from some kid but I still got it”.

The man certainly did not like the critters but it was certain that he would do anything for you. Even stealing from a kid.

a/n: I have a calico collection and I just thought putting two of my favs together in a drabble would be cute ☹️ creds to whoever made the kuna art..could not find the artist. sorry for the writers block btw!

[foxtrology]

material girl (2)

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image.

─────

Harry didn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole.

He really didn’t.

But once the folder was open—once the picture was in front of him, once youwere in front of him—it stopped being a folder. It stopped being a file. It became something else.

A door. A flare. A beginning.

So he searched.

He told himself it was research, at first. Due diligence. Curiosity, in the polite, professional sense. Sheer practicality. You were part of a high-profile family—of course—look at you. 

But then his fingers hovered over the keys just a little too long. His breath stilled. The city blurred at the edges.

And he typed your name.

Your full name.

He added Scorsese because he remembered your father mentioning it during the meeting, offhandedly, as if saying you'd once worked with the man was equivalent to noting you'd studied French abroad.

The first article was an old Vanity Fair feature. You were six. The headline..."The Girl Who Wouldn't Smile."

There was a photo of you at Cannes—baby-faced, sulking gloriously in some tiny couture number, middle finger raised to the paparazzi while agents reached out too late to stop you.

Harry blinked.

It wasn’t the gesture. It was the expression.

You were delighted to be bad. You wore the mischief like a designer scent. Head thrown back, grin feral, surrounded by men in tuxedos and women with tense smiles trying to hide their horror.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until his reflection caught in the dark window of his office.

God.

You were chaos. And not the kind that needed fixing. The kind that had already decided she didn’t care if you approved.

He scrolled.

There were clips from the Scorsese film. Grainy uploads, bad aspect ratios. You—tiny and unsmiling, eyes like blown glass—delivering lines in a voice too calm for someone your age. You played a child in mourning, the daughter of a dying boss. You didn’t cry. You just looked at people and made them uncomfortable.

Critics had called your performance "bone-deep."

You’d done no press.

There were murmurs of a nomination, but your mother had declined on your behalf. Said something about childhood being sacred.

And yet—

Photos kept surfacing. Official portraits. Red carpets. Especially the paparazzi shots.

Harry found them like breadcrumbs.

You on a yacht in the Mediterranean at twelve, holding a film magazine and wearing sunglasses that didn’t belong to you. You at a Paris café at fifteen, legs crossed too sharply, being scolded by your aunt and still not blinking. You in your twenties, in the front row at Dior, laughing too hard at something an actor said. You walking out of a gallery opening with a cigarette tucked behind your ear and a man trailing you like a lost dog.

You looked...untouchable.

Not in the princess sense. Not porcelain. More like a blade in a glass case, beautiful and always just out of reach.

Harry leaned closer to the screen, reading articles like they were scripture.

He found interviews your mother gave—quotes about you, never with you. She’d called you “singular,” “difficult,” “a little too aware of herself, even in the womb.”

He found a piece in The New Yorker about the house you grew up in—how the rooms had been preserved like museum wings, how the wallpaper hadn’t changed since 1963. You’d been quoted once. One sentence.

“I don’t dwell in the past.”

Harry said it out loud. Quietly.

“I don’t dwell in the past.”

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. His other hand was already opening a new tab.

Your name plus "breakup."

It shouldn’t have mattered. It did.

There it was. The play actor.

Lucian Voss.

Of course that was his name. The kind of name that came with daddy's money and deep insecurities.

There were photos—too many.

You on his arm at premieres, wearing gold dresses and dead expressions. You sitting beside him at some award show, staring straight ahead while he whispered something in your ear that made your jaw clench.

Then the headlines.

“Cinematic Heiress and Broadway Heartthrob Split in Fiery End.”

“Sources Say Locke ‘Devastated’ by Heiress’s Alleged Ultimatum.”

“Too Beautiful to Behave?”

Harry’s stomach went cold.

The coverage was savage. Brutal in that lazy, misogynistic way—pitting your aloofness against his sensitivity. Framing your silence as contempt, your cool as cruelty. Calling you icy, vain, a muse gone sour.

There were quotes from Locke’s representation. How you “shut down emotionally,” how you “never really wanted him to succeed,” how you “laughed when he cried after losing the Tony.”

Harry scowled.

What kind of man leaks something like that?

He found the only quote from you, buried deep in a long-form piece...

“It wasn’t love. It was casting.”

Harry stared at the screen.

Then leaned back and muttered, “Jesus.”

You’d been cast in your own relationship. And you'd walked away.

Of course you had.

There were photos from the aftermath.

You in Milan, laughing with friends. You in Tokyo, slipping into a car with your sunglasses on at midnight. You on your terrace with a drink and no one beside you.

You looked...untouched. But Harry could see it now. The difference. The tightness around your eyes. The new rigidity in your spine. The distance.

He opened another tab.

Found a gossip forum, of all things. People trying to decode your Instagram posts, though you rarely posted. Others speculating about your love life, your wealth, your sanity.

A thread titled...“Is she a genius or just terrifyingly well-styled?”

Harry didn’t laugh.

He wanted to throw his laptop.

Instead, he clicked on your tagged photos.

The camera never loved you gently. It wanted you. Needed you. And you gave it just enough. But never everything.

There were shots of you leaving clubs at dawn, your lipstick perfect. Walking barefoot across marble at some villa in Portugal. Wearing vintage Chanel in the snow with no coat. That one made him pause.

You were...mad. Opulent. Wound tight with history.

And Harry, very quietly, was losing his mind.

It wasn’t infatuation. Not exactly. He was too old for that. Too pragmatic.

It was something else.

Something cellular.

You’d been a myth when he met you—half-mentioned in boardrooms, glimpsed in portfolios. But now? Now you were in his blood.

You were everything he’d never let himself want.

Fire and ferocity. Elegance and mess. A woman who wouldn’t look at him twice unless he earned it.

And he wanted to.

God help him, he wanted to.

The window beside him reflected his face back at him—strong, weathered, tired. His hair curled slightly where it touched his neck, streaked with silver, his jaw tense. His eyes dark, thoughtful, still searching.

He clicked on one last photo.

You, standing on the steps of your family's townhouse. Black turtleneck, wide-legged trousers, a cigarette between your fingers. No expression.

The caption wasn’t even a quote. Just a date. The anniversary of your grandfather’s death.

He stared at it.

Stared like it might move.

It didn’t.

But something in him did.

He didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t try to.

He sat there, with the folder open on his desk and your face on his screen.

The internet kept going. More links. More stories.

He kept clicking.

Because the more he saw, the worse it got.

The worse it got, the better you looked.

And still—

he wasn’t done.

Harry’s hand hovered over the trackpad again, eyes dry from staring, back tense from leaning too close. The screen’s cold light lit the hollow of his throat, the arch of his brow, the cut of his jaw in profile. Hair mussed like he’d slept in a dream of you and never made it out.

He rubbed the heel of his palm over his eye, exhaled through his nose.

Then, finally, he sat back.

It was nearly three.

The city outside was emptied of meaning—just lights and shadows and the occasional bleating horn five stories down. Everyone else in his building was likely asleep, lulled into a curated calm by smart glass, cashmere sheets, the knowledge that nothing chaotic happened above Canal if you paid enough to keep it out.

But chaos had already arrived.

In the form of you.

Harry let his head fall back against the leather of his office chair. He stared at the ceiling. Then he reached for his phone.

Rose.

He didn’t hesitate.

She wouldn’t answer. Not at this hour. That was the point.

He wanted to say it out loud, but only to the kind of silence that wouldn’t try to interpret it.

He tapped the contact.

Voicemail.

He waited for the tone, then spoke.

“Rose. It’s Harry. Castillo.”

His voice was rougher than he meant it to be. He cleared it, leaned forward, elbow on the desk, his other hand still absently holding the photo you’d been tagged in—your fingers curled around a coupe glass, the kind of gaze that didn’t invite comments.

“I know it’s late. You’re probably asleep, or meditating in a sensory deprivation chamber, or whatever it is you people do to stay ahead of everyone else.” He exhaled lightly. “I got your folder. Obviously.”

He looked at the black wax seal, now resting in pieces like a ritual had already been performed.

“I opened it.”

Silence filled the line. He imagined her listening to this in the morning—brow raised, the kind of woman who catalogued things people didn’t know they revealed.

“I wasn’t going to,” he admitted, voice softer now. “Not yet. I thought it would feel…manufactured. But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself once I saw her.”

He hesitated.

The silence felt heavier now. Intimate, somehow.

“Here’s the thing,” he said, adjusting slightly in his chair. “I met her today.”

The words tasted different out loud. True in a way he couldn’t explain.

“She doesn’t know, obviously. That we’re… whatever this is. A possibility. But I sat across from her in that boardroom while her grandmother talked and her sister tried not to yawn, and I looked at her—and something just…tilted.”

He paused. Looked down. Ran a hand over his thigh, felt the faint trace of the scar through the fabric.

“She didn’t smile at me. Didn’t even really look at me. And I haven’t been able to think about anything else since.”

The corner of his mouth pulled. Not a smile, not quite.

“I read everything I could find. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I read the articles, the interviews. I saw the way they talked about her—like she’s just a headline with jewelry. I saw the way they dragged her through the breakup with that—” he broke off, jaw tightening. “That actor.”

He leaned forward again, voice low now.

“They tried to make her the villain. For not playing along. For not shrinking to make him feel bigger. It made me—”

He let the sentence die. No need to finish. Rose would hear the rest anyway.

“She’s brilliant. She’s—” he stopped, searching. “She’s not what people say. She’s real. And I don’t know what you were thinking, Rose, matching me with someone like that. But you were right.”

He looked at the photo again.

That posture. That tension. That hunger she kept folded in silk.

“I’m interested,” he said quietly. “In the match. In her.”

Another pause.

“I know we’re working with her family. I know that complicates things. I don’t know when I’ll see her again, and I’m not going to push anything. But I needed you to know.”

His voice dropped just a little.

“From what I’ve seen already, she seems incredible—I’d love to get to know her.”

A longer pause now.

Just him and the hum of his building’s smart systems and the distant throb of traffic. He could feel sleep trying to reach him. It wouldn't win.

“Call me in the morning,” he finished. “Or don’t. Just…keep me in the loop.”

He hung up without saying goodbye.

The screen went black. He didn’t move.

The silence after the call was total.

The room felt smaller now. Like he’d cracked something open and it wouldn’t quite close.

He stared out the window, into the dark.

You were probably asleep. Sprawled out in some oversized bed in an apartment filled with objects too beautiful to use. Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you weren’t the type.

He looked back at the laptop.

Still open. Still on the last photo. Of you.

When he finally looked up again, the clock on his desk read 4:02 AM.

A low, incredulous breath left him.

That was enough. For now.

He closed the laptop slowly, as if the silence in the room had grown sentient and was listening in. He rose from the desk, joints cracking faintly as he stretched his back.

His sweats hung low on his hips, the fabric soft and worn from years of ownership. The cotton shirt he wore still smelled faintly of cedar and something cleaner—something like order.

He padded barefoot across the apartment, lights dimmed automatically as he passed. The city was still alive outside, but quieter now, gentler. He liked it best like this, before the noise, before the emails, before the world expected anything.

When he reached his bedroom, he didn’t bother turning on the lights.

The bed was vast. Perfectly made. Uninviting in its symmetry.

He climbed in anyway.

One arm behind his head. Eyes wide open. Your face still floating behind his lids, even now.

He wasn’t done.

But sleep came eventually.

Not because he was tired.

Because your silence finally let him go.

The sun rose in slanted gold, catching on crown molding and spilling into curated spaces like memory.

You blinked awake slowly, like you resented the intrusion.

Your bedroom was warm already, sunlight filtered through your ivory sheers, casting soft shadows over your silk duvet. The air smelled faintly of orange blossom and last night’s candle smoke. One leg slid from the sheets, cool air greeting your thigh.

Your limbs were heavy, but not unpleasantly so. The way they got after a long dinner, or a memory you didn’t want to examine just yet.

You didn’t move right away.

Instead, you stared at the ceiling and let the morning wash over you in pieces. Your jaw was tight. You’d clenched again in your sleep. Your stomach, flatter than it had been last week, ached faintly from last night’s wine and not enough food.

Typical.

Eventually, you rose.

You didn’t believe in morning routines in the spiritual sense, but you moved through yours like a rite.

Bathroom first. Cold water on your face, then that French exfoliant your facialist swears by. Eyes still half-shut as you brushed your teeth, hair a loose, expensive mess.

Your robe—cream, monogrammed, heavy enough to feel like a hand on your back—hung on its usual hook. You wore it without thinking.

Kitchen next.

You didn’t eat, not yet. You never did before pilates.

Espresso instead. Two shots. No sugar. You stood barefoot on the terrazzo while the machine hummed, staring out your kitchen window toward the Hudson, like the water might have changed shape overnight.

Then your phone buzzed.

You ignored it.

Another buzz.

You sighed, walked over, picked it up, eyes still not fully adjusted.

And then you saw the name.

Lucian.

It hit like a dull knock behind the ribs.

You hadn’t blocked him.

That would’ve felt like admitting something.

But you’d muted him months ago—after the interviews, after the public performance of heartbreak he orchestrated for his own benefit. You hadn’t seen his name on your screen in weeks.

And now, there it was. Like a dog scratching at the door.

Lucian Voss: Saw your little Vogue feature. You look thinner. That new?

You stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Not shocked. Not hurt.

Just...bored by it. In that deep, bone-deep way that comes when a pattern becomes a punchline.

He always did this.

The slow, snide drip of commentary disguised as interest. The need to remind you that he was still watching. Still haunting.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

You didn’t reply.

You just locked the phone. Set it down.

And sipped your espresso.

The bitterness grounded you.

Lucian didn’t matter. Not anymore.

He was a scene you'd already played to death. And you didn’t do reruns.

You turned toward your closet, silk robe slipping from one shoulder, the city beginning to hum outside your window like a chorus of old gods waking up.

You had pilates in an hour.

You had sweat to break. Tension to burn.

You had no idea that somewhere, in a different part of the city, a man was waking up with your name in his mouth like a secret.

But soon—

You would.

For now, the world was still quiet. Or as quiet as Manhattan ever got at 8:22 on a Tuesday morning.

You pulled on your black leggings—structured, matte—and a matching long-sleeved top, the kind with thumb holes and a neckline just high enough. Your hair went into a slick knot, your sunglasses went on, and you tucked your keys into the small, zipped pocket in your coat with the same precision you'd once used to accept an award you didn’t remember earning.

Today, you walked.

The pilates studio was only a few blocks away, and the morning air was still cool enough to allow it. Spring hadn’t entirely bloomed yet—it was that thin season between coats and sweat, where fashion outpaced the weather and no one knew if they were too early or too late for what was coming.

You walked quickly, heels clipped against the pavement even in sneakers.

The city greeted you the way it always did—selectively. Doormen nodding. Strangers half-looking. Tourists pretending not to gawk. Someone’s latte spilled in a perfect little bloom on the corner of Madison and 74th. Someone’s poodle in a sweater more expensive than your first agent.

You didn’t care.

You had no room for it today.

Not after him.

Lucian and his predatory nonchalance.

That message—you look thinner, is that new?—still vibrating faintly in your chest like the echo of a slap you didn’t flinch from.

He always found a way to crawl back in. Not lovingly. Not regretfully. Just...performatively. As if reminding you that he still existed meant you had to fold in some part of yourself to make room.

You didn’t.

You never had.

He was a scene partner who’d mistaken you for a prop.

You kept walking.

Three blocks down, just before Lexington, you passed the newsstand.

You weren’t planning to stop.

You never stopped. Print was for grandfathers, like hers. You got your news from inherited instincts.

But this time—

You caught a glimpse of the headline.

"Voss Nominated Again. Still No Shot?"

You stopped walking.

Your eyes dropped to the page.

There he was.

Lucian.

Front page of the arts section, hair blown out like he was auditioning for the ghost of someone talented, jaw clenched just enough to suggest tortured genius. Beneath the photo was the quote—a predictable nominee in an unpredictable year—and under that, the little line that caught the back of your teeth.

“Better luck this time. Or don’t.”

It wasn’t journalism. It was gossip dressed in serif. And it was glorious.

Your mouth curled.

Not in shock. Not in sympathy.

Just that slow, private grin. The kind that tasted like revenge and something mean you’d almost forgotten how to enjoy.

You pulled your phone from your pocket.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

You snapped the photo clean. Cropped it just right. Just that face, and that quote, and the quiet little dagger that lived between them.

You hit send.

To him.

The message flew off like a carrier pigeon made of pettiness and velvet.

You didn’t regret it. Not even a flicker.

He’d asked if you looked thinner.

Now he’d read about his limitations before he even got to set.

Fair was fair.

You handed the vendor a five and didn’t take the change. Walked off with the crisp page folded under your arm like a receipt for a favor you hadn’t asked for.

The sidewalk opened up again.

Traffic thickened.

Someone honked, unnecessarily.

A woman jogged past you with a dog the size of a wolf.

You breathed in—cool metal, hot bread, something floral from a nearby stoop—and kept walking.

Your body was already preparing for the familiar ache of reformer straps and core engagement and Matteo’s irritatingly gorgeous smirk.

The newspaper was still warm under your arm.

Lucian’s headline printed bold.

Your smile lingered.

He deserved worse. But this was enough. For now.

The day was young. The city was watching.

And you had better things to do.

The studio was cool, almost cold, the way moneyed spaces liked to mimic Scandinavian minimalism as a performance of calm. Concrete floors, pale wood, tall windows that filtered in light like it had been vetted. Everything matte. Everything just expensive enough to remind you not to touch it too hard.

Your friends were waiting in the lobby, already glowing in their curated pre-sweat.

Sophia looked up first. Her ponytail was sharp, a statement of discipline. “Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms. “The duchess arrives.”

You smirked. “Your form of address improves every week.”

Inez was seated on the edge of the plush bench, lacing her shoes like she was preparing for battle. “Did you walk?” she asked, eyes flicking to your sneakers with mock disbelief. “God. Are you poor?”

“She’s unwell,” Sophia said. “Leave her.”

You shook your head, pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, and let your coat slide from your shoulders. “I was clearing my head,” you said.

“Of what?” Inez asked, genuinely. “Carbonated water and maternal trauma?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

They knew you well enough to leave it alone when your silence stretched just a little too long.

You signed in with a flick of your wrist, the front desk girl giving you the requisite compliment—love the bag, love the coat, you're glowing—before guiding you toward studio two, where the reformers waited like minimalist torture racks.

Your Celine bag, soft black, slid from your shoulder with a practiced motion and was tucked gently into the wall cubby, resting atop your neatly folded coat. Your phone was still inside. You didn’t look at it.

You never did during class. That was the point.

Silence as ritual. Movement as penance.

You took your place on the reformer, slid your feet into the straps, let your arms rest by your sides. Matteo entered moments later, barefoot and all perfect lines, voice low and gently accented. The kind of man who spoke like your body was a problem he could solve.

You ignored the heat in your neck when he adjusted your spine with a tap of his fingers.

“Relax your jaw,” he said softly near your ear. “Let it go.”

You did.

You tried to.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, the call went through.

Once. Twice.

No answer.

Rose sat at her desk—no, not a desk, a surface—clear glass, nothing on it but her tablet, phone, a Montblanc pen, and a ceramic dish with three slices of dried pear she had no intention of eating. She wore white, as always. Cream, technically. Tailored pants, a blouse with a twisted collar. Her hair was pulled into something that defied gravity and logic and yet still looked editorial.

She stared at her phone like it had said something rude.

The call rang out. Straight to voicemail.

She let it.

Set the phone down.

Exhaled through her nose.

She didn’t need you to answer, of course.

She never needed anything.

But still—she liked to establish momentum early. Get a read. Set a tone. She was a matchmaker, yes, but more than that...a cartographer of potential, a soft-spoken oracle with a portfolio of impossible people trying to fall in love without admitting that they wanted to.

She’d gotten your number from your sister. Quietly. Unofficially. A little line at the bottom of the form, barely legible.

She’d known from the beginning that you would be the problem in this pairing.

Not in the way men were problems—restless, unoriginal, scared of softness—but in that elegant, jagged way only women like you managed to be.

Women with names that meant something, with voices like old cinema and mothers who taught you never to flinch. You didn’t trust easily. You didn’t play nice. You didn’t need anything.

Which was why it was working.

She had watched Harry’s profile ever since his breakup with Lucy. 

Watched him decline one match after another with calm efficiency, with polite detachment, with that haunted air of a man who hadn’t yet learned what it meant to want something out loud.

Until you.

You, with your curated iciness and terrible ex and voice like a dare.

She could see it already—the slow unraveling, the tension, the mirroring. Two people who didn’t flinch. Two people who only leaned forward when it hurt a little.

Her phone buzzed again.

A text this time.

Harry: Let me know if she calls you back. I’m not in a rush. But I’m ready when she is.

Rose smiled faintly.

She didn’t reply. Not yet.

Back in studio two, your breath was shallow but even. The burn had begun. Thighs lit up. Core tight. Wrists gripping the soft bar in that silent way that told everyone in the room you knew what you were doing.

Your thoughts had quieted.

Lucian’s name had stopped echoing.

The morning had stretched out, softened.

You didn’t know that your phone had lit up six minutes ago. That a woman with power in her voice and blood in her perfume had tried to reach you.

You didn’t know what she’d say.

Not yet.

You were too busy reclaiming your body from its stiffness.

From its history.

From the small, jagged voice that lived in your head, asking if you were still desirable, still brilliant, still wanted.

You were.

More than you knew.

And across the city, a man had already decided he’d wait.

As long as it took.

You left the studio warm and slightly unsteady, bones loosened, head clearer but body heavier. Your legs had that soft post-pilates wobble, the kind that made your movements feel momentarily honest. Human.

Matteo had winked at you on the way out—too knowing, too charming—and you didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

Your friends loitered in the lobby, still glowing, half-laughing about someone’s awful date, someone else’s therapist, the way the barista downstairs looked like he was in witness protection.

“Lucien texted me this morning,” you finally said, dryly.

Sophia’s face twisted like she tasted blood. “Of course he did.”

“What’d he say?” Inez asked, already wondering what that asshole had said.

You only shrugged. “The usual projection. I sent him a nasty newspaper headline about the Tony award he's probably going to loose.”

They cackled. Gasped. Sophia touched her chest like you’d given her religion.

“You are God’s favorite,” she said.

“I’m declining breakfast,” you said.

“You always decline breakfast,” Inez said, pouting. “You’ll get rickets.”

“I’ll get peace,” you said, tugging your sunglasses from your coat pocket.

You kissed their cheeks and left them there, still laughing, still golden.

The air outside was brighter now, mid-morning sun sharpening everything into better versions of itself. Your hair was damp with sweat. Your sunglasses sat too perfectly on your face. The city felt like it was watching you again, only half-bored this time.

You didn’t check your phone until you were already on your street.

Habit. Avoidance. A strange form of self-discipline, or maybe just denial.

But as soon as you pulled it from your bag, you saw it...

1 Missed Call

1 Voicemail

1 Text Message

Unknown Number

You paused on the sidewalk, one foot already angled toward your building.

The number looked… intentional. Like it came from somewhere with hardwood floors and good stationery.

You didn’t open the voicemail.

Didn’t check the text.

Not yet.

You shoved the phone back into your pocket and went upstairs.

The elevator ride was too slow, your reflection in the mirrored walls too clear. You tried not to look at yourself but failed. You looked like you always did after exercise—slightly unraveled, like something had been softened inside you without permission.

Inside your apartment, you stripped quickly. Tossed your clothes on the bed, moved through the rooms in that deliberate, floating way you did when you were trying to pretend you weren’t thinking about something.

You showered.

Steam fogged the mirror.

You let the water run too hot. Watched it pool over your collarbone, your shoulders, down your spine. You washed your hair slowly, each movement its own punctuation. As if clarity could be coaxed from shampoo and pressure.

By the time you stepped out, towel wrapped tightly, the outside world felt further away.

But your phone was still on the counter.

Still buzzing inside your mind.

You picked it up again.

Stared at the number.

Then finally, like peeling a band-aid you didn’t want to look at—

You opened your browser.

Typed it in.

The number led to a landing page. Minimalist. Monochrome. The kind of design that didn’t try to impress—because it already had the clients that mattered.

Adore Matchmaking.

You blinked.

Then sat down on the edge of your bed, heart dropping into some strange, glittering pit inside you.

Rose.

It was her.

The envelope. The notes.

Him.

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth was.

She’d called.

And now everything tilted again.

You didn’t hesitate this time. You hit call.

The line picked up quickly. Not immediately—but with that precise rhythm of someone who’d been waiting. Not urgently. Just patiently.

“Hello?”

Her voice was exactly what you expected. Controlled. Glassy. A wineglass being set down just out of reach.

“This is Rose.”

You cleared your throat. Tried to pretend your towel didn’t suddenly feel like it was strangling you. “Hi. You called me earlier. This is—”

“I know who you are,” she said gently. “Thank you for calling back.”

You waited. She didn’t rush.

“I assume,” she said, “you’ve realized why I reached out.”

You let out a small laugh. Sharp at the edges. “The envelope. The profile.”

“Yes,” she said. “That was me.”

You felt your throat tighten.

You hadn’t thought about that folder in days. And also—you’d thought about nothing else. It had been tucked into your drawer, yes, but it lived somewhere deeper. Lived in the way you noticed broad shoulders on strangers now. In the way you replayed that line over and over—

He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now

Rose continued, calm and clipped. “I wanted to let you know the man in that profile…has seen your profile as well.”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t race.

It slowed.

Because for all your bravado, all your dismissals and eye-rolls and curated indifference—you hadn’t expected that.

He knew.

Whoever he was—

he knew you.

She went on.

“It wasn’t my intention to send your information without your direct permission. Your sister submitted it, but I always wait until I’m sure about the match before making contact. I sent yours to him because I felt—confident. And I waited to contact you until I knew he was interested.”

Your voice, when it came, was thin. “Interested how?”

There was the faintest smile in Rose’s voice. “Enough to ask about you. Enough to leave a voicemail.”

You said nothing.

Just stared out the window at the street below, the people moving like punctuation marks you didn’t want to decipher.

You didn’t know him. Not yet.

But you knew of him. Or what he allowed the world to see.

His notes had haunted you. Had lived under your skin like static. Now you knew—he had yours.

Your words. Your preferences. Your sister’s horrible little bullet points about the things that gave you the ick.

Your fingers tightened slightly on the edge of your towel.

It should’ve unnerved you.

It did.

But not in the bad way.

More like a glass being tapped from the inside. The sound of something wanting out.

“He’s… interested,” Rose said again, gently. “Which, in this context, means he would like to meet you.”

You swallowed.

The corners of your mouth lifted.

It wasn’t a smile.

Not yet.

But it was close.

Still, something in you tensed. “And who is he?”

Rose paused.

Only for a beat.

“I’d like you to discover that on your own,” she said. “If you’re open.”

You laughed once, softly. “That’s sadistic.”

“It’s deliberate.”

Another pause.

Rose’s voice dropped into something quieter. Something more intimate. A therapist, a confidante, a very expensive friend.

“I know you’ve been hurt,” she said. “And I know you don’t trust things that look like gifts.”

You said nothing.

Your chest burned slightly. The good kind.

“But this isn’t a gift,” she said. “It’s an intersection.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Still didn’t smile.

But god—you were glowing now.

You could feel it.

There in the quiet, in the flicker of your reflection in the window. Something inside you had turned over.

The man had read you.

Seen your profile.

Not as a performance. Not as gossip.

As you.

And he wanted in.

You didn’t know his name.

You didn’t know when, or how, or why.

But you were in.

And the city felt different now.

Like a door had opened somewhere.

And wind was rushing through.

You held the phone to your ear like it might burn you. It didn’t. But your palm was warm, and your pulse was suddenly awake in your wrist, ticking too clearly.

You didn’t answer right away.

You let the silence bloom between you and Rose, delicate and charged, the way a woman like you lets herself hesitate when something real is brushing too close. The silence wasn’t fear. It was consideration. Curated pause. The instinct to slow down when something felt true.

But then—

“I’ll do it,” you said, finally.

Your voice was calm. Perfectly measured. Not breathless. You never gave breathless. But your chest did this strange, ridiculous little thing. Like a stretch. Like a held breath finding its exit.

You agreed.

And you never agreed to things like this.

Not dates—not curated, pre-arranged, prescreened introductions. Not experiences that reeked of vulnerability and small talk and the possibility of rejection in the backseat of a car. You’d turned down royalty. Literally. An actual Viscount had once offered to fly you to Madrid for a dinner party and you’d said no without looking up from your tea.

But this?

This man, this stranger, this…presence, this profile that had set up camp inside your chest?

You were saying yes to him.

And that was the difference.

On the other end of the line, Rose made a sound. Small, almost startled. The kind of reaction that only escaped when someone very composed forgot to rehearse it.

“I wasn’t sure you would,” she said. Not disappointed. Just… honest.

“You sent the envelope. You knew something.”

“I did,” she admitted. “But I also know people like you. The legacy. The armor. You say no because it protects you.”

Another silence.

This one sweeter. Intimate.

“You’ll like him,” she said eventually, her voice dipped in some light she wasn’t trying to explain. “And he’ll be…happy.”

Your stomach did something traitorous.

You curled tighter into yourself on the bed, legs still bare, your towel beginning to fall loose around your thigh. The way she said happy landed like a note in a song you didn’t know you’d been humming. Not delighted. Not excited. Not giddy.

Happy.

You hadn’t made a man happy in years.

You didn't care to. 

They said they were happy, sure—but it was the kind of happiness that wilted once they realized you wouldn’t shrink for them. That you didn’t melt. That your affections were real but your need was not their mirror.

This?

This was different.

“I’ll set it up,” Rose said. “And I’ll let him know you’re open. I won’t tell him when or how. Just that you said yes.”

You nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see you. “Alright.”

“He’s going to be happy,” she said.

Your mouth parted slightly, just the softest exhale escaping you.

It wasn’t that you needed to be wanted.

It was that you liked being understood.

And somehow—this stranger, this man who had seen your profile, seen your mess, your middle name, your icks, your preferences, your sarcasm filtered through your sister’s warped little lens—he’d seen it and still said yes.

You hung up shortly after.

Rose didn’t linger. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She gave you space to recalibrate, to fold the moment back into your body without interruption.

You set the phone down.

Sat very still.

The sun had shifted in the window. It was sliding slowly across the bed, brushing your knee like a silent approval. Outside, the city was swelling into afternoon—horns, pigeons, the low beat of someone’s terrible rooftop playlist.

Inside, you had work to do.

That part of your day always came next. The soft click of the machine, the ritual opening of your inbox, the scroll of things people expected from you. Your towel stayed on for the first ten minutes. Then you slid into a linen robe, loose and worn, something you stole from a hotel in Capri and never felt guilty about.

You opened your laptop.

Emails. Dozens.

Your publicist had sent over a press itinerary, too long and overly flattering.

VOGUE – Digital feature interview, styling TBD

MoMA Spring Gala – Confirm attendance? Seating with Wintour/Andersson table

*Met Costume Preview – Invite extended for private showing. Do you want press on-site?

You replied with short, clean answers. Yes. No. Push to next week. Cut the photographer. Move me to the other table, I don’t want to sit next to Wintour.

You’d already seen the dress.

It needed tailoring. Everything did.

Your assistant had also sent a spreadsheet. Events. Flights. RSVPs. A note in the margin about the auction your father was presenting at Bafta's next month—he asked if you’d be in town, if you wanted to weigh in on the order of the clips they’re screening beforehand.

You sighed.

Typed back, I’ll look. I always look.

There were texts from people you liked but didn’t love.

A designer wanting to send you samples. A gallery director inviting you to something “quiet and luminous” in Tribeca. A distant cousin asking if you’d consider being on a podcast about “women in film whose last names carry weight.”

You didn’t answer that one.

Your phone buzzed again.

Another text.

From your mother this time.

Mom: Call me. I had a dream about you and it wasn’t flattering.

You ignored it. You’d already done your emotional cardio for the day.

Instead, you closed your laptop. Stretched. Rolled your shoulders.

You were different now.

Still you—but post-yes.

Post-possibility.

Somewhere in the city, he was out there.

The man you didn’t know.

The man who’d read about you and wanted more anyway.

The man who, apparently, would be happy to see you.

You stood, walked barefoot across the terrazzo, and opened your closet.

You had nothing to wear.

You had everything to wear.

And suddenly—

You wanted to be seen.

And across the city, in a corner office high above West Broadway, someone was trying not to feel too much about that exact thing.

Harry’s sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his forearms tense as he leaned over a ledger, pen in hand, posture deliberate. The light in his office was warm and low, filtered by blinds he hadn’t touched in weeks. He liked it that way—half-shadowed, like everything in his life had become lately. The quiet hum of the floor around him, the sound of heels clicking past the glass, the occasional soft knock from an assistant bringing something that didn’t matter.

He hadn’t heard from Rose yet.

He hadn’t expected to—not immediately. Not even within the day.

But still, he kept the phone close.

Watched it, in intervals. Like it might become something more than plastic if he stared long enough. Like it might breathe.

He was reviewing language in a family trust clause when it finally rang.

The sound startled him—not because it was loud, but because it had intent.

He recognized the number immediately.

He didn’t even let it hit the second ring.

“Harry Castillo,” he answered, voice rough from disuse.

Rose’s tone was clipped and warm, the voice of a woman who’d built her career on unflappable elegance.

“Harry. I hope now’s a good time.”

He stood from his chair without realizing it. The pen dropped soundlessly onto the document. “It is.”

“I wanted to call you myself,” she said. “Rather than leave a message.”

His jaw tightened, not in impatience but in anticipation.

Rose didn’t dramatize. If she was calling, it meant something was happening.

“I spoke to her,” she said.

The words hit like something low and steady.

Harry moved to the window. Pressed one hand against the glass, the skyline spilling below in lines and edges. “And?”

“She's interested,” Rose said.

For a moment, the city went quiet.

Not literally—cars still moved, horns still flared, construction still murmured in the distance—but inside Harry, something calmed. Like pressure easing off a wire.

“She wants to meet,” Rose continued. “She was…hesitant, in the way you’d expect. But she’s curious. Open.”

Harry closed his eyes.

Let that sink in.

She was going to meet him.

Not in theory. Not someday.

In real time. In real air.

After days of sitting with your image, your name, your voice reduced to black serif on cream paper—now, there was a date. A point on the map where your lives would touch again.

This time not through business. Not through legacy. Not in a boardroom made of glass and money.

But in something...chosen.

“That’s good,” he said. Understatement. His voice was too even, even for himself.

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Rose added, always precise. “Not yet.”

He opened his eyes. Let his hand fall to his side. “You didn’t tell her?”

“I never do.”

Harry paused. A thousand thoughts bloomed and died in his mouth.

“And when she finds out?” he asked. “That it’s me?”

“She’ll be surprised,” Rose said. “But not unkindly. You made an impression. And now she’ll see it wasn’t an accident.”

There was silence on the line, but the kind that invited something else.

Harry inhaled. Exhaled. Then said, “Let me plan it.”

A small beat.

Rose’s tone shifted slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want this to feel like another consultation,” he said. “Not for her. Not for me.”

She said nothing.

He could feel her thinking—calculating risk, assessing control.

“This is your first date since Lucy,” she said quietly. “Do you want to carry that into this?”

“No,” he said. “That’s the point.”

He stepped away from the window now, slower, as if the room were rearranging itself beneath his feet. He could still feel the faint buzz of Lucy in his system—the civility, the correctness of it all. The way she’d studied compatibility like it was a proof to be solved. The way she’d never once made him want to be wrong.

But this?

You?

You were a fucking wild card.

You were unreasonable. Untameable. Beautiful in a way that made sense only in the dark.

You were not a Lucy.

And he didn’t want to be that man again. Careful. Measured. Numb by design.

“I’ll send you the details once I confirm,” she tells Harry.

“Alright.”

“He’s going to be happy,” she’d said to you.

And now, she was letting him do what he rarely asked for—take a risk.

He hung up a few minutes later.

No flourish. No recap.

He returned to his desk, but didn’t sit.

He paced.

Thought.

Thought about what kind of place would feel like the opposite of a boardroom. Not loud, not performative. Just…meaningful. Somewhere real. Somewhere a woman like you might lower your chin and say something devastatingly true over a glass of something dark.

He’d call in favors. Clear tables. Speak to someone who owed him something.

He wanted low lighting. Something in brick. Intimate, but not needy. He wanted to be somewhere he could study you without feeling like he was on display.

He wanted it to work.

Not because it was strategic.

But because for the first time in years, he wanted something.

He ran a hand through his hair. His curls were loose again. That unruly softness that always came when he let himself think too long.

He glanced at the folder on the corner of his desk.

Still there. Your profile. That photo.

He didn’t open it again.

He didn’t need to.

He already knew the date wasn’t a formality.

It was a moment.

And it was coming.

Fast.

That’s how the world moved once the call ended.

Once you said yes, once Rose confirmed it—one week.

A week from today.

That’s all the time Harry had until he saw you again. Not on a screen, not in an archived photo or an interview with your mother or a still from a Criterion-restored reel.

But in real time. In fabric. In the kind of space where hands touched the same wine glass and glances shifted whole conversations.

A week.

He read the confirmation Rose sent twice. There was no flourish. Just a simple message:

Rose: You’re meeting her next Thursday. 8:00 PM. Your call on the location. Let me know. —R

Harry didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he sat very still in his office, hands folded, staring down at the message like it might bloom into something more vivid.

A week.

The word had weight. Not enough to feel like delay. Just enough to prepare.

He didn’t like waiting. But he liked this.

The ache of it. The slow tension. The luxury of knowing it was already set—on the calendar, in motion, something future-bound and irreversible.

He spent the rest of the day doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing—signing off on restructuring documents, joining a call about a tech acquisition that barely moved the needle. His assistant brought him espresso he didn’t drink. The day ended with too many people saying his name and none of them saying it the way he wanted to hear it.

That night, he went home.

His penthouse was its usual perfection—silent, shadowed, designed to soothe.

He dropped his keys into the marble tray by the door. Took off his coat. Removed his watch.

And then, finally, sat at the kitchen counter with his laptop open and typed in three words...

“Best restaurants NYC.”

It was a stupid search. A beginner’s search. He didn’t need it.

He already knew where people went when they wanted to be seen.

He had spreadsheets. He had investments in some of them.

Still, he let himself spiral for a moment.

A week.

L’Abeille was first to come up.

Of course it was—quiet luxury, enough restraint to impress without feeling try-hard. He’d been there with Lucy. Twice. She’d said it was pretty and spent the entire dessert course tracing the stitching on the hem of her napkin, silent in that way that made him feel like he was apologizing just for taking her somewhere nice.

He clicked through photos anyway. Minimalist plating. Pretty, yes. But it held the wrong memory.

Next...Alto Paradiso. More casual. Beautiful in that downtown way that made all the chairs look like sculpture and all the diners look like press photos.

He’d taken Lucy there too. A different kind of date. Easier. Laughing. She’d liked the food but kept saying she felt like the waitstaff were judging her shoes. She wore boots that night—secondhand, she said—and drank too quickly. Said the wine made her feel like she’d broken into someone else’s apartment.

By the end of the night she was uncomfortable. Not loudly. Just enough.

Harry had told her it didn’t matter where she came from. She’d said, Exactly. That’s why it hurts.

He hadn’t known what to say then. He still didn’t.

But what he did know—

This wasn’t Lucy.

You weren’t Lucy.

You had no interest in being protected from wealth.

You were wealth.

Legacy wealth. The kind that didn’t apologize or second-guess or try to make itself smaller to be more palatable to people who couldn’t afford the wine list.

You’d been born in bergamot and linen and old reels of silent films. You didn’t enter rooms—you assessed them.

Harry wanted you to look at the place and see him.

So he kept searching.

Not for somewhere safe.

For somewhere honest.

By midnight, he’d made the reservation.

Masa.

No menus. Just the chef’s omakase. No noise. Just reverence. Located inside a windowless cube on the fourth floor of the Time Warner Center, behind a silent door and a long hallway of shadow. It wasn’t a restaurant—it was a temple.

People flew in for this. Dressed in soft cashmere and fear.

Harry had been there only twice. Never with Lucy. Never with anyone, really. Once alone. Once with his brother. Both times it felt like being invited into someone’s secret.

It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. There were no candles. No dimly lit corners. No violin in the background.

But it was intimate.

He thought of you in that space—your wrist resting against the edge of hinoki wood, your eyes flicking toward the chef without blinking. The silence between courses. The respect you’d command simply by existing.

It was perfect.

He sent the reservation details to Rose without comment.

Masa. 8:00 PM. Thursday. Private counter.

She replied only with...

R: Got it. She’ll know where to go.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaled.

Didn’t smile. But the room felt warmer somehow.

Over the next week, he did what he always did.

He worked. He ran. He read late into the night and forgot what he’d read.

But this time, you were in it.

In the rhythm of things.

You haunted the details.

He picked out a suit—something softer, less formal than his usual. Still tailored, still deliberate. Slate-gray again. 

He checked his watch more often.

He declined a drink with his brother. Didn’t say why.

Every time he walked into a room, he thought of your eyes skimming past him in the boardroom. That flicker of non-recognition. That mild disdain. That unbearable indifference.

He was going to earn your attention this time.

Not because he had something to prove.

But because for the first time in a very long time, Harry Castillo didn’t want to be invisible.

He wanted to be known.

By you.

A week.

And then—

Everything would begin.

But first—there was Fifth Avenue.

There was your sister, already four iced lattes deep, flopped across the boucle sofa like a woman mid-rehab for retail therapy. There was the fitting room’s dim, reverent lighting. The too-quiet hush of money that didn’t need to announce itself. The pale carpet you were scared to breathe on, the racks of pre-spring couture that looked less like clothing and more like curated moods.

You hadn’t wanted to come.

She’d dragged you out of the apartment. Said you were “gathering dust” in your own life, which was rich, coming from someone who still thought dating an heir to a rum dynasty was a form of employment.

Now you stood half-undressed, halfway out of a floor-length silk gown that did nothing for your shoulders, the zipper halfway down your spine like a betrayal. One strap had slipped off completely, baring one shoulder, and your hair was already escaping the clip you'd used to twist it back.

It was your third dress.

You’d already told the woman assisting you that you weren’t buying anything, that this was all your sister’s fault. She’d just smiled in that Chanel way—trained politeness, equal parts silent judgment—and said nothing.

Your sister was on her phone, filming herself trying on sunglasses.

“You look like someone who married for a vineyard,” you replied, tugging at the neckline in the mirror. “And not one of the nice ones.”

She threw a hanger at you and missed.

You rolled your eyes, then turned, reaching awkwardly to unzip the last few inches. The silk clung to your hips in that way that said run, don’t walk, to another boutique.

Just then—your phone buzzed.

Not the light kind. The call kind. The sound echoed in the dressing room like a tiny alarm bell.

“Can someone—?” you called through the half-closed door.

A moment passed. Then the Chanel girl’s voice floated in.

“There’s a call for you. R… S?”

You froze.

The zipper halfway down. Your heart stalling.

R.S.

Your hands jerked forward, one arm clutching the dress to your chest, the other fumbling with the latch.

You stumbled barefoot out of the fitting room, hugging the gown around you, silk swishing at your ankles as you nearly tripped over your sister’s designer bags.

“Give me the phone,” 

She held it out wordlessly, eyes wide. “Jesus, are you okay?”

But you were already pressing accept.

You turned away, one hand holding the phone to your ear, the other gripping the neckline of the dress like it might betray you too.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon,” Rose’s voice, cool and untouched. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

You breathed once. Twice. “No,” you lied. “I’m just…shopping.”

“Lovely,” she said, and you could hear the smile in it. “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to confirm that your date is officially set.”

The words landed like something poured over ice.

You blinked at the mirror, your reflection looking flushed and startled, half-wrapped in silk and expectation.

“When?”

“Thursday,” she said. “8 PM.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

She continued, unfazed. “The location is being chosen by him. He asked to plan it himself.”

That made something in your stomach tilt. “He did?”

“He was very specific,” she said. “He didn’t want it to feel like an assignment. He wanted it to be personal.”

You sat on the edge of the velvet ottoman in the corner, legs crossed under the dress, still holding it closed with one hand. The room was too warm. Or you were.

“What kind of place is it?” you asked, then immediately regretted it. “Wait. Don’t tell me.”

You didn’t want to spoil it.

You hated surprises, usually.

But this—this didn’t feel like a surprise. It felt like a…sign.

“You don’t have to tell me much,” you said. “Just… is it nice?”

Rose gave a low hum of approval. “It’s not just nice,” she said. “It’s intentional.”

That word landed like a soft blow.

“Intentional?”

“Yes,” she said. “Which tells me something about how he wants to meet you. It’s not flashy. But it’s…curated. Intimate. Specific.”

You didn’t realize how tightly you were gripping the fabric until your fingers went numb.

“And just to be clear,” she added, “I didn’t suggest any of it. He took full control. He knew exactly what he wanted.”

You exhaled—too sharply.

“You sound like you’re trying to impress me,” you said, mouth twitching.

“I don’t need to,” Rose replied. “He’s doing that himself.”

You stood slowly, adjusting the gown, suddenly aware of the way it hugged your ribs. The air felt thicker. You were jittery in a way that wasn’t about caffeine or your sister’s Chanel-induced mania.

This was anticipation. Clean and sharp. Not because it was your first date. But because it didn’t feel like one.

You knew something about him already.

Not a name. Not a face.

A presence.

“Any hints?” you asked.

Rose only smiled. You could feel it through the line.

“I think you’ll know when you see him.”

“Cruel,” you muttered.

“Correct,” she replied. “And you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t hang up right away. Neither did she.

There was something reverent in the pause. Like both of you knew a line had just been drawn. A clock had started ticking.

“Thursday,” you said again. “Alright.”

“I’ll text you the address,” Rose said. “You don’t need to confirm. Just show up.”

You did hang up then.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.

Just…quietly.

Like someone closing the door of a room they wanted to return to.

You stood still, phone in hand, the dress clutched to your body like a secret.

Your sister looked confused, very unaware. “Okay, what the fuck was that?”

You turned toward her slowly.

Then, “I have a date.”

The words sounded fake in your mouth. Like a line someone gave you to say in a scene you hadn’t rehearsed. But they were real.

You had a date.

With him.

Whoever he was.

The man who took control. Who read your profile and didn’t flinch. Who was planning a night for you with the kind of care most people reserved for marriage proposals or final meals.

You went back into the fitting room and stared at yourself in the mirror.

Then you let the dress fall.

It wasn’t right.

Not for Thursday.

Not for this.

You needed something better. Something sharper. Softer. Something that said I know you don’t know me, but you’re about to.

Your phone buzzed again.

A text from Rose.

Just the address.

No name.

Just a time. A location. A start.

The thing about your sister was that she thrived in moments like these—when she could claim credit for something larger than herself, for something with teeth and sparkle. When she could say I did this, and there was no one left in the room to contradict her.

So of course, once you stepped out of Chanel, she became a woman possessed.

“We need a dress,” she said, already halfway down the sidewalk, bag swinging against her hip like a weapon. “No, a dress. This is going to be fucking amazing!”

“It’s just a date,” you said, following slowly, your heels catching on the edge of the concrete.

She spun to face you. “With a man handpicked by an elite matchmaker who sent a wax-sealed envelope to your penthouse. This is not just a date. This is the start of your life.”

You rolled your eyes. “My life has already started.”

“It really hasn't,” she said, breezing into the revolving door of Bergdorf’s. “God, I’m so good at this.”

Inside, everything smelled like cashmere and potential. Sales associates glanced your way with the practiced recognition of people who knew your family, who had seen your mother sweep through on the eve of galas, your grandmother arrive with her driver and opinions. One of them nodded and said your last name like it was a password.

Your sister didn’t slow.

She headed straight for the private collections, where the dresses weren’t on racks but on display—isolated pieces under gentle spotlights, like rare books or sacred objects.

You followed, slower. Thinking.

This wasn’t a task you’d expected to want. It felt performative at first, indulgent, an errand dressed up as romance.

But now?

Now it felt like ritual.

Now it felt like claiming something.

“Do you know what he looks like yet?” your sister asked, spinning a dress form lightly by its waist.

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

You looked at her. “Not yet.”

She grinned. “God, you’re so weird. I love that for you.”

You sifted through fabric. Racks were parted for you like the sea—silk, velvet, raw-edge satin, pieces flown in from ateliers that didn’t even list phone numbers. Your fingers moved on instinct, bypassing anything too soft, too polite. This wasn’t a moment for sweetness. This wasn’t a dress that could be worn by accident.

He had taken control. He’d planned it himself.

You wanted to meet intention with intention.

You tried on five. Rejected four.

Your sister sat on the fitting room bench and narrated each appearance like a fashion critic with a mean streak.

“Too virgin.”

“Too bitter divorcée.”

“Too cocktail hour.”

And then—

The sixth.

You stepped out. Slowly. The room quieted. She didn’t speak right away.

The saleswoman’s expression flickered into something almost reverent.

And your sister whispered, “Oh. That’s it.”

The dress was clean in silhouette. No embellishment. High-necked, sleeveless. Midnight black. It cut in at the waist just enough to feel deliberate, the fabric weighty, sculptural. The hem fell to the ankle, a quiet defiance of expectation. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Unmoving.

The woman in the glass didn’t look like someone waiting to be chosen.

She looked like someone you had to be ready for.

She looked like you.

You bought it, of course.

The associate wrapped it in a garment bag the color of paper money, the hanger thick, branded, discreet.

You held it yourself.

Back outside, your sister refused to stop talking.

“I knew it,” she said. “I knew you’d say yes. I knew this would work.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know anything. You just filled out a form behind my back.”

“And now look at you,” she said, gesturing to the bag. “On your way to a date with a man so serious about you that he made Rose say he’s planning it. You don’t even let people plan dinner.”

You ignored the flutter in your chest. “You just want credit.”

She shrugged. “Obviously. You’re welcome, again.”

Back at your apartment, you didn’t hang the dress in your closet like your other clothes. You didn’t toss it over a chair or leave it folded in tissue. You cleared space.

You opened the closet and made room.

Pushed aside pieces from past seasons, coats that still smelled faintly of places you no longer cared about, dresses worn for events that never delivered.

The dress went in alone. Hung carefully. The bag zipped shut, the hanger balanced just so.

You stepped back.

Looked at it.

Didn’t touch it again.

Not yet.

You’d wear it once.

And it would mean something.

A beginning. A shift.

The kind of dress you didn’t put on unless you were ready to be seen by someone who might actually see you back

And so the week passed like a current under glass—calm on the surface, something wild humming beneath.

You did what you were supposed to do.

You attended dinner with your parents at Le Coucou, your mother in a lacquered silk blouse and your father pretending not to check his watch during dessert. She asked if you were dating again and you lied with ease, stirring your spoon through the custard, saying something about taking a break from men.

She laughed—an elegant, bloodless laugh—and moved on to discussing your grandfather’s reel archive and whether it was finally time to donate it to the museum in Los Angeles. You nodded. You didn't really care. Not in that moment.

The date hovered behind your ribs like a bruise you didn’t want anyone to touch.

You had brunch with your friends that Sunday, slipping into the corner seat at your usual table at the Mercer Hotel. The table was cluttered with glasses of sparkling water, oysters, coffee, and unsolicited advice.

Sophia was showing everyone a screenshot of a man she’d matched with on an app. “He has a photo holding a fish,” she groaned. “A fish. What do we think?”

“He’s honest,” Inez said, sipping her drink. “About the fact that he’s emotionally unavailable and smells like a boat.”

“God, I hate this city,” Sophia muttered.

You smiled but didn’t speak much. You were quieter than usual. Someone asked if you were hungover. You just shook your head and reached for the grapefruit.

You kept the date to yourself.

Not because you were hiding it.

Because you didn’t want to share something that hadn’t happened yet.

Didn’t want it dissected. Predicted. Polluted by projection.

Only your sister knew. Of course. And Claude.

Claude had driven your family through scandals, courtrooms, and three separate affairs your mother denied ever happened. He’d taught you to drive stick in Provence. He’d once pulled your ex’s cufflink off during a handshake because he didn’t like the way he looked at you.

Claude never asked questions.

But when you told him—softly, carefully—that you had somewhere to be Thursday night, and someone to meet, he just nodded and said, I’ll keep the engine running.

The week continued. You went to pilates four times. You worked through your inbox. You rescheduled a Vanity Fair interview because you didn’t like the tone of the questions.

You googled the address once.

Just once.

Then closed the tab.

You didn’t want to know anything until you got there.

You just wanted it to unfold.

You didn’t overthink your makeup. Not yet.

But you thought about his hands.

His eyes.

The way he’d look up when you arrived.

If he’d stand. If he’d smile.

You didn’t even know his name.

Not truly.

But something inside you ached with the shape of him. The way you’d imagined him...broad shoulders. Eyes that didn’t dart. A man who didn’t rush his sentences or blink when things got quiet.

A man who wanted you.

The night of the date, you shut down the rest of your world like it was a set you no longer belonged to.

Your calendar went dark.

You muted the group chat.

Turned off location sharing.

You soaked in a salt bath for forty minutes, water still and faintly pink from a luxury oil someone in Milan had sent you last year. You drank cold white wine. You listened to a jazz record that didn’t belong to you—it had been left behind by a lover whose name you barely remembered, but the sound had stayed.

Your hair was still damp when you wrapped yourself in the robe. No silk tonight. Cotton. Soft. Bare.

You sat at your vanity and stared at yourself.

Skin prepped. Eyes minimal. The kind of face that demanded the room come to you.

You pulled the dress from the closet like it was a promise.

The weight of it in your hands was serious. Reassuring.

You slipped it over your shoulders slowly, the fabric hugging your hips, falling like water. It didn’t cling—it draped. Like it already knew you.

No necklace. Just earrings. Sharp, architectural. A ring your mother once gave you. You kept it on.

You stepped into your heels—black satin, pointed, higher than necessary.

Then you stood in front of the mirror and looked.

You looked like every woman he wouldn’t know how to forget.

When Claude pulled up outside your building, he didn’t say anything when he saw you. He just opened the door and made sure the temperature was right.

You sat back in the leather seat and said nothing.

The city blurred past you, all metal and golden streetlights and people moving like brushstrokes.

You watched it but didn’t feel it. Not fully.

Your body was too aware of what was about to happen.

Claude pulled up across the street from the address.

Didn’t drop you right at the door. You hadn’t asked him to.

He put the car in park.

“I’ll stay close,” he said quietly.

You touched his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Then you stepped out.

The sidewalk met your heels like it was built for them.

You stood in front of the entrance, face upturned.

The building was unmarked. Discreet. The kind of door that only opened for those who belonged.

You inhaled.

Lifted your chin.

And walked inside the building.

The door closed behind you with that specific kind of hush only wealth could afford—soundproofed, softened, thick with silence that wasn’t absence but design.

The lobby was understated, almost empty. A long marble hallway led to an elevator tucked into the corner like a well-kept secret.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your heels clicked softly across the stone, each step echoing not because it was loud, but because there was no one else. Just you, the glint of brushed metal, the man and security guard at the front desk who didn’t ask your name—just nodded once and pressed a button.

The elevator opened like it had been waiting.

Inside, it was mirrored, the walls soft gold, the floor impossibly clean. You stood in the middle, spine straight, dress falling like a sentence, and watched your own reflection multiply infinitely.

It was not a nervous thing.

You didn’t get nervous. Not like that.

People watched you the way they watched legacy.

With that mix of awe and subtle resentment.

Like you were a statue come to life and somehow still had a credit line. When people saw you, they saw your last name first. Your posture second. And only then, if they dared, your mouth.

But tonight wasn’t about being watched.

It was about seeing.

The elevator ascended slowly. A single floor.

The doors opened.

No music. No host stand. Just another hallway—longer, quieter, bathed in that kind of minimalist lighting that made every step feel curated.

You walked.

There was doors at the end. A man opened it for you before you reached it.

He said nothing.

Just inclined his head, and held the door wide.

Inside—

Silence.

But not empty.

It took you a moment to process it.

Masa.

You’d never been. Always invited. Never interested. Too curated, too precious. But tonight—it felt right.

Hinoki wood. Pale and warm. The lighting like dusk. No chatter. No plates clinking. Just space.

And at the counter—

Him.

Alone.

Sitting with his back half-turned, slate-gray jacket soft against his frame, sleeves rolled, posture easy but alert.

His hair was slightly curled at the edges, the silver at his temples catching the low light. He wasn’t checking his watch. Wasn’t on his phone. He was just…there.

And when he turned—

You saw him fully.

Harry Castillo.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

You almost smiled.

You’d noticed him at that family meeting.

Pretended not to.

Pretended to be too busy analyzing estate clauses and your grandmother’s bone structure.

But you’d seen him.

The way he listened when no one else did. The way he didn’t interrupt youwhen you spoke. The way his eyes didn’t wander, didn’t scan, didn’t apologize for landing.

And now—here he was again.

Except not as an associate.

Not as a number-cruncher your father respected.

Now he was your date.

Your match.

He stood slowly when he saw you.

Not rushed.

Just…steady.

Like he’d been rehearsing this moment all week and didn’t want to mess up the delivery.

And god, he looked good.

Not in that easy, accessible way. But in the way men look when they’ve lived long enough to mean it.

“Hello,” he said.

His voice—low, deliberate. That same quiet control. A man who didn’t need to fill silences to make them safe.

You stepped toward the counter, letting him pull the chair out for you.

You sat, unbothered. Perfect posture. Your skirt folding like fabric in a painting.

You turned to him. “So it’s you.”

He gave the smallest smile. “It’s me.”

You nodded once, lips curving at the edges.

“I remember you,” you said.

“I remember you,” he replied.

The chef behind the counter placed two chilled towels in front of you with the reverence of a man setting down holy texts.

Neither of you reached for them.

You just looked at each other.

Like two people who had circled each other in another life and were finally allowed to speak.

You didn’t ask him why he chose this place.

You didn’t have to.

It was written in everything—his gaze, his stillness, the way he hadn’t tried to charm you, just show up.

“I’m glad you came,” he said after a moment.

You tilted your head.

“I almost didn’t,” you lied.

He didn’t laugh. Just watched you. Let the air hold it.

“I would’ve waited,” he said.

And that—

That was the first moment.

The first break in the ice that hadn’t yet formed.

You breathed out slowly.

The chef placed the first course in front of you.

You didn’t look down.

You weren’t ready to look away yet.

You reached for your towel.

Wiped your hands.

Lifted your chopsticks.

And smiled like the beginning of something.

The door behind you closed gently.

And outside—

Claude waited. Engine idling. Eyes on the door.

But inside—

Everything had just started.

And you—

You weren’t leaving.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal @glxsyymads @greenwitchfromthewoods @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @possiblyafangirl @sarahhxx03 @silksepia @noisynightmarepoetry @discoems @havensucks @yournameyn @mallingcalling-blog @he-is-the-destined @strawberrylemontart1 @stargirl-mayaa @maniac-penguin @rosylnsworld @llamaproblem @ultrav10l3nce @the-curator1 @lazybot @books-for-summer @junggoku @wecanbepiratez @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @victoriaholland @star-of-velaris @primadonnasdream @ilovefictionallmenn @brittmb115 @girl-eaterr @hermionelove

[rawme-price]

Thinking 'bout all the different gear and toys 141 pups would like...

Pup!price who likes to keep it simple. A thick leather collar and chain leash. He finds the simplicity and aesthetics of it match the rest of his home well, something he takes pride in. Ofc he also gets the biggest fluffiest dog bed bc his old man joints would die if he slept on the floor without it. On top of that, I think he'd have like a dedicated mat to kneel on for the same reason, bc the last time he knelt without a cushion his knees cracked so loud you flinched lol. Doesn't do much more than that.

Pup!gaz appreciates some good toys. His collar is one of those brightly colored leather ones with a tag. He's actually got a few different tags but prefers the one with ur name on it. He's definitely got gags and knotted dildos, the gag is ofc doggy bone shaped. Also. Cages. Hed definitely love a nice big crate with a dog bed and blankets inside. Stuff a toy in him and leave him there, its for enrichment.

Pup!soap is a bit tricky, he loves all the gear and toys but gets super excited, so his gear has to account for that. He's got the classic collar, but sometimes it gets swapped out for a shock collar when hes being disobedient. Also owns the most muzzles, caged, leather, whatever. He will bite anything if u dont muzzle or gag him. Hed own a pretty decent collection of toys. Deffo has a knotted strap for his partner. Also owns doggy bowls.

Pup!ghost is the most "extreme". He literally wears a costume to work, you think he wont go all out in pup gear? He's got a few different pup hoods, but prefers the all black one most. While he gets a bit anxious with collars, ghost opts for harnesses with handles on the back. Also a tail. I feel like he'd also lowkey have a dedicated room, just from the sheer quantity of stuff he owns. He had to get a custom crate made bc lets be real this guy is huge. Also helps him get into the pup mindset when there's a dedicated area. Overall, definitely the most extreme of the four.

[coolchasteboy]

I remember the first time this happened to me. I was on the back porch. We had just gotten home. As soon as we were on the porch, I was on my knees. I am the girl. That is my position. Always on my knees. I unbuckled his belt and undid his pants. They fell to the floor. His hard cock was straining in his boxer briefs. I put my nose to his cock and breathed in. I loved his scent, his manliness. And then, as I had done so many times before, I slowly pulled down his boxer briefs. Chris' beautiful cock pop out. Hard. Leaking pre-cum. I opened my mouth and guided it in. I love his cock. Every single time I sucked it I got turned on. I was a natural. I love how he moaned each time I deep throated him. To have the tip of beautiful penis touching the back of my throat with his public hair touching my lips and tickling my nose and hearing him moan as he pulled the back of my head close to his body was just heaven. I loved his cock!!!

He was very manly. And he was the man in this relationship. He always took. He never asked. That is the natural order.

He pulled me up. He kissed me. He turned me around and held me from behind. He took one hand and bent me over the table on the porch. He didn't ask. He just did it. He was holding me face down on the table. He lifted my skirt and pulled down my pink string bikini panties to my knees. I had heard him spit on his other hand. Then he rubbed his cock and entered me. He didn't say a thing. There was no warning. There was no "baby girl I am going to fuck you now." That was not Chris' style. His style was to put his cock in my hole whenever he wanted. He didn't ask me if it felt good. He just forced it and started pumping my pussy. I could tell it felt good to him. He moaned. And he moaned. And he just kept fucking my pussy with both hands on my back forcing me down on the table. I didn't really know what to do accept just take his cock. So I did.

He must have fucked me for 10 minutes. Sometimes soft and slow and sometimes pounding my pussy. He did this I think to show me that he was he man. But honestly there was never any doubt about that. Then his rhythm picked up speed. He started grunting. Then there was a final push deep into my pussy and I could feel his seed flooding my insides. This was the first time he fucked me bareback. He didn't ask. He just did it. It was to be expected. He was my man and he needed his seed to be in me. After all that is my purpose. He just kept pumping and pumping. Finally he pulled me up, his cock still inside me. He kissed my neck and said "make me dinner baby girl." I always melted when he called me that. Especially after we fucked. But now, he had deposited his seed in me. I started to cry. He pulled his cock out, patted my ass, and pulled my string bikini panties up. "I don't want any of my seed to leak out of your panties" he said. He got dressed and went inside. I straightened my panties and skirt and went inside. I got him a beer while he watched TV and made his dinner.

His cum leaked out my pussy all evening long. At bedtime when I changed into a nighty I could see a major cum stain in my panties. I let them soak in the sink overnight. I couldn't believe it, but I was now a real woman with a real man's sperm inside me washing my panties of his cum. I LOVE MINA for helping me realize my role was to be a woman!!! I.LOVE.MINA.

[diabolikwriter]

Sarang/Love

Part I - Meeting

Tags: Creeps being Creeps, protectiveness, mates, poly! Relationship, crying, first meeting,

This is a short first part, I’m still kinda rusty (It’s been a couple of years since the last time I wrote something non-academic). I hope you guys find this satisfying, I might do some changes here and there, but hope you enjoy!

Running through the streets, you were wondering how your day had ended up like this:

The day had started as it normally did, you awoke to the sound of your alarm going off at 7 AM. You got out of bed, brushed your teeth and got dressed before going out to the nearest cafe and getting your morning coffee and some breakfast.

After you had enjoyed your breakfast, you went to the library and studied for your university class for a couple of hours before you decided to get some fresh air and lunch.

Though that was when it had gone down hill. Upon leaving the library you had bumped into a normal looking business man, except there was something off about him.

“Oh sorry I didn’t see you” you apologised,

“It’s fine darling, but if you want you can apologise for it by coming home with me and entertaining me and my friends.”. Slowly a couple of other guys had started creeping up, their grins making chills runs down your spine, thoughts were racing in your head as they closed in on her, until instincts as old as time kicked in and you ran.

Now as you were running through the streets, you couldn’t help but feel thankful for the years you had spent playing handball. Your stamina was good enough that you could just about keep the men away, but if you didn’t find somewhere to hide and rest soon, then you didn’t dare to think about what those men would do to you.

Turning around the corner you ran into something warm and solid, and hands cradled you close. The scent surrounding you was warm and comforting, embracing you and making you feel safe. When you looked up at the source of the scent, you were met with a pair of brown eyes, which shockingly seemed to shine gold for a split second.

“Are you alright?”, the voice asking you made warmth coil in your stomach and making you clench your thighs together.

“Y-yeah, sorry I’m kinda in a hurry”, growls and groans broke out from both sides of you, which alerted you to the four other guys near you. Guys she had seen before… oh. The Saja Boys.

You looked back at the person you had bumped into, and yep it was Jinu, the two guys right next to him were Abby and Baby, and beside each of them stood Mystery and Romance.

“Hey! There she is!”, the voice of the man you had bumped into earlier, and desperately were trying to get away from, cut through your realisation.

“Oi! We found her first, go find another girl, this one is coming home with us.” The group of men which had chased you was closing in on you and the Saja Boys, all of which growled at the approaching men.

Abby and Baby stepped towards the men, while Mystery, Romance and Jinu prevented you from seeing them, and shielding you from their view at the same time. “We don’t care about some shitty idols, just give us the girl, man!” One of the men said, even though he could feel the charged energy from the Saja Boys. The very fragile calm was ruined the moment a sob forced itself out of your throat, the air became charged with something dangerous, and it felt as if time stood still and the arms around you tightened. You could see looks being passed between the members of the boy-band, and it seemed as if they came to an agreement because shortly after pained shrieks could be heard before it went silent.

“Shh, don’t cry sweet girl, everything is okay now.”, Abby gently said, which made you cry even harder from the realisation that if you hadn’t bumped into these guys, you would probably have been taken by the men chasing you and had to be put through unspeakable things. “It’s okay, you’re safe now”, assured Romance, but before more could be said, a whine came from your lips and your legs gave out from underneath her.

“It’s starting now, we need to get her somewhere safe.”, noted Baby.

“Yeah, you’re right, we need to get her to safety, keep her hidden, healthy, we must protect her, make her ours in all ways.” Growled Abby, his eyes glowing golden and his lilac marks became visible, the other guys weren’t faring any better, but then Jinu interrupted their various fantasies playing in their heads, “stop. Calm down, all of you. This isn’t just some random woman, she is OURS and we will treat her with the utmost respect and care.” His voice was stern and left no room for discussion, “we will take her with us, put her in my room and get her through the first wave, without anything untowards being done, before we ask for her consent.” With that final statement Abby gathered you in his arms and carried you back to their apartment.

Taglist: @gremlinartstudio @permanenceimp @faerie-soirxx @cottonheadedninnymugggins @amery-benson-cvii