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noblebynura · 9 days ago

Text

People need people

Pairing: tfatws!Bucky Barnes x teacher!Reader

Synopsis: Moving to Brooklyn for a new job has landed you in the presence of a peculiar neighbour with a cat.

Genre & warnings: Strangers to neighbours to friends to lovers, fluff, slight angst, domestic Bucky because we all need him

Word count: 7.6k | masterlist

a/n: Follows TFATWS timeline VERY loosely and Alpine is in here! (I also don't know if she's a rescue but for the sake of this, she is) andd it rains a lot because it was raining when I drafted this. Enjoy <3

It was raining.

Of course it was.

The kind of steady drizzle that soaked through everything slowly, until even your bones felt tired. You weren’t even surprised. Not after the kind of week you'd had. One that was chaotic, rushed, uncertain in ways that left your nerves frayed and your back aching. And now, standing in the narrow, dimly lit lobby of your new apartment building, you stared at the final insult: your couch, lots of boxes, still downstairs. Along with everything else.

The movers had dropped it all off and left without so much as a grunt. Something about “upstairs fees” and “not included” and “policy.” You could barely remember the specifics. Just the tight, sour twist in your stomach when you realized what it meant.

You were on your own.

The elevator was broken. Of course it was.

Now you were two trips in, shoulders screaming, breath short, arms trembling as you clutched a stack of boxes. They tilted in your grip, one on top threatening to slide with every uneven step. You couldn’t see. You didn’t care. You just needed to make it to the third floor and unlock your apartment without crying.

“Careful there.”

A voice, unexpected, drifted down from the landing above.

It was calm. Amused.

You froze mid-step, heart leaping slightly. Didn't know whether from surprise or imbalance, you weren’t sure. A moment later, a pair of boots appeared in your limited line of sight. Black. Worn. Slow, steady footsteps descending toward you.

“You losing a fight with gravity,” the voice said again, closer now, “or should I mind my business?”

You huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. “Little bit of both, honestly.”

Then the weight shifted. Hands, gentle and sure, lifted the top box from your arms. Your breath eased slightly, the burden less impossible. You blinked up, finally getting a glimpse.

He was tall. Quiet in movement. Hair short and neat. Stubble catching the low hallway light. A black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. You noticed that he was wearing gloves. The leather gave a dull shine under the low light.

You straightened instinctively. “I can handle it.”

His eyes found yours then, an unreadable blue, tired in a way that felt older than he looked. But something flickered in them. Dry amusement, maybe. Or a kind of silent understanding.

“Sure,” he said. “In another three hours. I’ve got time.”

He waited. Letting you decide.

You hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.”

Hey, you're more than capable of doing everything on your own, but if a man offered to help then… why not?

“Bucky,” he introduced his name as he followed you to your door. You replied your name back as you unlocked your brand new home.

And that was the first real moment—the one that would replay later in your mind, quiet and odd and meaningful in a way you didn’t fully understand yet.

Together, you climbed the stairs. Neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It just… settled.

Your door was the corner unit. 3C. When you reached it, your arms ached and your lungs burned, but you turned to him anyway.

“I’d offer you dinner or something as a thank-you,” you said, voice breathy, “but I haven’t cooked yet. There’s a suspicious amount of instant noodles in my cupboard, and not much else.”

His expression didn’t change, but something softened. “Rain check. Consider this a neighbor thing.”

You smiled. “Okay. Thanks again, Bucky. See you… around?”

It came out awkward. A little hopeful.

He just nodded once, no smile but not cold. “Yeah. See ya.”

Then he turned, keys already in hand, and disappeared into the apartment across yours. 3B. A meow can be heard with the soft jingles of a bell. He’s got a cat?

You watched the door shut behind him. Stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then leaned back against your own with a sigh.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “The hot neighbor helps you move in, and you sound like a middle schooler with a crush.”

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

You didn’t see him much after that.

Not really.

There were glimpses. Fragments. Faint silhouette of presence that slipped between the folds of your day like pages in a worn book. Sometimes you thought you'd imagined him entirely, like a figure that belonged to the shadows.

Your mornings were early—too early but it came with the job. You’d shuffle out with coffee in one hand and a stack of lesson plans in the other, shoes half-tied and clothes a little wrinkled because you didn’t push down the iron hard enough sometimes. The hallway would always be quiet. Still. Like the building hadn’t quite woken up yet. And his door, just across the way, would be closed. Silent.

You didn’t know what he did for work. Or if he even worked at all. His hours seemed... sporadic. Untethered. Sometimes, when you returned in the late afternoon, arms full of groceries and finger-painted crafts from class earlier, the hallway would still be empty. His door unchanged. Even the cat was silent. You thought you had imagined that white feline.

But other times, quietly, in the hush between night and sleep, only then you’d hear it.

A door closing softly. The low click of a lock. Footsteps in boots, measured, unhurried moving down the hall. The whisper of movement just beyond your wall.

It was strange, how you began to notice his rhythm without ever sharing a schedule.

Occasionally, your paths would cross in the laundry room. Or on the front steps. A murmured “Hey.” A small nod in passing. No more than that.

Yet somehow, it stayed with you.

The way he moved—carefully, like someone used to measuring space. The way his eyes flicked to every corner before they rested on you. Like he was always bracing for something. Or maybe trying not to be seen at all.

You found yourself thinking about him more than you should.

Wondering. Noticing. The quiet apartment with the lights rarely on. The absence of sound. No music. No television. No signs of life that should have trickled through the walls of shared space.

You didn’t hear phone calls. You didn’t hear laughter.

Once, you saw a shadow move past the bottom gap of his door, and for a second you stood there, frozen. Just listening.

And it hit you.

Maybe he was lonely.

Or maybe you were just projecting.

You didn’t know which would be worse.

At least he has a pet. You didn’t have anything.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It had been raining for hours. The weather now is unpredictable.

A soft, relentless kind of downpour—the kind that turned the city quiet, like it was wrapped in a blanket of gray. The kind that made everything ache just a little more. Petrichor strong in the air.

You hadn’t expected the delivery to arrive so late. The text from the courier had come just as you were settling in, socks pulled high and a mug of tea steaming at your side. But the bedframe had finally come. Two weeks of sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and now it was here. A future piece of stability, currently boxed in soggy cardboard at the front door.

You pulled on your coat again and went to retrieve it.

It was heavier than you’d thought.

You wrestled it awkwardly down the narrow hallway, trying not to scrape the walls, your arms burning beneath the weight. Your breath fogged in the cool stairwell air, the box threatening to tip from your grip.

And then—his voice.

“Need a hand?”

You froze, the box slipping slightly. You looked up.

There he was again.

Bucky.

Standing at the top of the landing, hair a little damp from the rain, tiny curls formed at the end of each strand. Did he just get back? You didn't see him at the front door. His eyes caught the dull light in a way that made the whole stairwell feel smaller. His duffle bag slung over one shoulder again like it always was, as if he was never staying, always just arriving or leaving. Like he didn’t really live here, rather just paused here sometimes. Maybe the house belonged to the cat, and he was just paying rent to live in it.

You smiled, breathless. “What gave it away?”

He didn’t answer. Just took the box from you like it weighed nothing and started walking.

You followed, unlocking the door as he waited behind you. He stepped inside first, carrying the frame like it was just another thing he was used to lifting.

You weren’t sure what you expected—but the way he paused just inside your apartment surprised you.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked around.

The room was small but lived-in. Books stacked on the coffee table. Two mismatched mugs by the sink. A candle burned quietly near the window. There were little things everywhere—things that told stories. A photo from college. A crocheted blanket your mother made. A houseplant already starting to lean toward the light.

And something shifted in his face.

“Wow,” he said quietly.

You bit your lip. “Too much?”

His gaze landed on a tulip shaped light sitting on a table in the corner. Then on the throw blanket. Then on you.

“No,” he said. “It’s warm. Cozy.”

You relaxed. Just a little. “I like cozy.”

He helped you unpack the frame without being asked. Tools in one hand, quiet strength in the other. The gloved hands moved expertly as he held the pieces steady. You worked in tandem, falling into rhythm, your bodies moving easily in the tight space.

Huh, you never questioned why he always wears gloves, but you guessed it was just a personal styling choice. It did look good on him. Maybe he's a detective? You never asked what he does.

He didn’t talk much, but it didn’t feel like silence. More like... ease. Like he was someone who’d learned how to be quiet without making it feel cold.

When it was finally done, you flopped backward onto the mattress, sighing dramatically.

He smirked faintly, wiping his hands with a towel from your kitchen counter.

“You okay there?” he asked.

You grinned up at the ceiling. “Better now that I won’t be waking up on the floor with a sore neck.”

He knew that ache.

He nodded, stepping back toward the door, and you sat up quickly.

“Hey,” you said. “Stay for dinner?”

He paused, halfway through slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I made gochujang chicken,” you added. “And mango sticky rice for dessert. Kind of a weird combo, but—”

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

Your smile lingered longer than it should’ve.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The kitchen was small with barely enough room for one person to move comfortably, let alone two but it had good light during the day, and at night, it glowed soft under the warm bulb above the stove.

Tonight, it was filled with the faint crackle of oil in the pan, the scent of garlic and gochujang lifting gently into the air. The rain outside had slowed to a whisper, tapping faintly against the window like it, too, was listening in.

Bucky sat quietly at the little table tucked against the wall, his hands resting on the edge, fingers curled loosely. He didn’t say much, just watched. You could feel his gaze, steady but not heavy, following the slow movements of your hands as you stirred the sauce.

There was music playing from your vinyl player, something low, jazzy, soft with a little swing in it. The kind of music that filled space without demanding attention.

“I don’t usually cook for guests, I only cook to my own taste” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a crooked smile. “So if this turns out terrible, just lie to me.”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was small, but real. “Noted.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… familiar, in a way. Like you were both pretending this wasn’t the first time he’d been here for something like this. Like it could be normal. Like it already was.

To be true to yourself, you missed having human interaction other than the utter chaos at work. Him being here made you miss home, your friends, your family. His presence was a comfort but it brought you a fresh wave of emotions.

Dinner was simple, but there was something about the way he ate that made it feel like more. He didn’t rush. He took small bites, chewed slowly, set his utensils down between each one. Like he was cataloguing the taste of it. Like it was something he hadn’t had in a long time. Homecooked.

You took a sip of water and leaned back. “So,” you said, “what do you do?” An attempt at getting to know him better.

He looked up, just a flick of his eyes, like the question had pulled him from somewhere far away.

“Odd jobs. Freelance stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

He smirked faintly. “It’s all I got.”

You didn’t push. There was something in his tone that told you not to, not yet. So you pivoted.

“I work with kids,” you offered. “Preschool. Lots of glitter. Too many tiny sticky fingers. More snack-time drama than you’d think humanly possible.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

He gave a low chuckle. It was the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, like it had to travel a long way to reach the surface.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” you admitted. “But… they’re good kids. They say weird things. They care about stuff like dinosaurs and whether or not the moon has feelings.”

Another smile from him—faster this time, easier. Like you’d surprised him.

“I have a cat,” he said. Trying to keep the conversation going.

“I noticed on the first day I got here,” your face lit up with joy, “What’s the name?”

“Alpine. She’s a rescue.” The corner of his eyes softened as he looked at the spoon in his hand, a fond memory replayed in his mind you assumed.

“I should introduce you to her sometimes,” he continued, “I think she’s getting tired of me.” That earned a laugh from you.

You kept talking, the two of you sliding into a rhythm. You told him about your move, your hometown, how strange the city still felt sometimes. He didn’t say much about himself, but every now and then, something in his expression shifted, as if he recognized what you were describing, like he knew the feeling too well.

At one point, he leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the books on your shelf. His eyes lingered there.

“I know the feeling,” he said softly.

You looked up, fork paused halfway to your mouth. “What feeling?”

He shook his head once, slow. “Being new. Not really knowing where you’re supposed to fit. I was like that too when I first moved here.”

You didn’t say anything. But you saw him then—not just the way he looked, not just the tired blue eyes or the careful way he moved—but something deeper. The quiet gravity of someone who’d seen too much.

“Yeah…”

Later, he helped you wash the dishes. You stood side by side at the sink, hands brushing once, twice. Neither of you mentioned it.

When the last plate was on the rack, he dried his hands on a kitchen towel and looked toward the door.

“I should go,” he said, but not like he wanted to. No urgency in his voice.

You nodded, trying not to let your disappointment show. “Thanks again… for everything.”

He turned to you then, and there was something in his face, unspoken and unreadable, but it lingered just a moment before he nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

He stepped out into the hallway, quiet as ever. You watched the door close behind him and stayed there for a long moment, leaning lightly against the frame, fingers curled around the edge of it.

It was quiet again.

Still.

But the space around you felt different now, warmer somehow, even after he’d gone.

That night, you lay in your newly built bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft tick of the rain against the windows.

And you didn’t sleep much at all.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The hallway was dim in the early evening. That golden window of light had already passed, and now it sat in that quiet in-between where things turned grey and blue and the shadows started stretching long across the walls.

You were running late.

Typical.

Dinner plans with friends from back home had been on the calendar for weeks, and yet here you were, still checking your reflection in the mirror, still second-guessing your outfit. Not quite casual. Not quite dressy. You had finally thrown on something comfortable and a leather jacket, touched up your lip balm and grabbed your bag.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you slipped out of your apartment. A sharp breeze moved down the stairwell, stirring your jacket. You were halfway to locking your door when you nearly ran into someone.

Someone standing right outside 3B.

“Oh—! Sorry,” you blurted, stepping back.

The man turned, hand halfway raised like he’d been about to knock. He was tall, shoulders broad under a leather jacket, smile warm and easy in a way that disarmed you almost instantly.

“Didn’t realize Bucky had a neighbour,” he said.

You blinked. “I just moved in. Couple months ago.”

“Sam,” he offered, sticking out a hand.

You shook it, replied with your own. His grip was firm, and his energy was… well, different. Lighter. Like someone who knew exactly who he was, and didn’t mind sharing pieces of it with you.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” you said, smiling.

Before either of you could say more, the door to 3B opened.

Bucky stepped into the hallway, brows furrowed like he’d expected someone else—or no one at all. Alpine followed him, twisting between his legs.

His gaze found you first, held for a second too long. Then shifted.

Sam raised both eyebrows, grin slowly and knowing. “You didn’t tell me you had a neighbour now.”

Bucky looked vaguely irritated. “Didn’t come up.”

You tried not to smile. He looked… awkward, flustered even. It was endearing.

“I’m headed out,” you said, slipping your keys into your pocket. “Dinner with some friends. I’ll be back late.”

Bucky gave a small nod, one hand still braced on the doorframe. His eyes lingered. “Take care.”

“I will,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “See you guys later. Bye Alpine!”

You didn’t look back as you stepped past them. But you heard the pause in the air behind you—felt it more than heard it. The brief silence that follows after someone’s gone, but not quite.

And then—

Muffled, like they thought you were already too far to catch it.

“She’s cute,” Sam said, voice carrying just enough to reach you.

You paused at the top of the stairs, lips tugging up before you could stop them.

“Shut up, Sam,” came Bucky’s reply, gruff and low.

“You sound like a concerned boyfriend.”

“She lives alone,” Bucky muttered. “And I'm trying to be polite.”

Another beat.

Then, quieter still—like something pulled from a thought he didn’t want to say aloud.

“What about her?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

You stood there a moment longer, one hand resting on the stairwell rail. The sounds of the hallway faded behind you—door hinges, low voices, the soft thunk of it closing.

And as you made your way down the stairs, out into the city night, your pulse was a little lighter. Your steps just a little slower. Like maybe you weren’t in such a rush after all.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The office was too bright.

Not in a harsh way. It was more like artificial warmth, like someone had tried to make it feel safe with soft lighting and strategically placed throw pillows. There was a plant in the corner. A small diffuser humming quietly on the shelf. A clock ticked somewhere, steady and slow, marking time like it was waiting for something to break. Maybe that something was him. Bucky felt like he was suffocating sometimes in here.

Bucky stared at the floor. A single scuff in the carpet. He’d been looking at it for ten minutes.

Dr. Raynor leaned back in her chair, a pad in her lap that she wasn’t writing on. Nothing more to add by the end of their session. However, a question popped up. One he disliked.

“So,” she said at last, like the silence had finished breathing, “any developments in your personal life?”

Her voice was even. Measured. Not judging—just watching.

He said nothing.

This time, he didn’t actually resent the question as much.

But in his head, it was already happening.

The smell of lavender when he stepped into your apartment. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, unguarded. The faint sound of music playing while you stirred something on the stove. You humming under your breath as you do your laundry one day.

You didn’t notice him entering the room because you had your headphones on. He remembered pausing in the doorway, his laundry basket in his arms, Alpine in it. It took Alpine to meow once before he broke out of his reverie. As if the cat was saying to him, “Snap out of it. Don’t be a creep.”

You turned at the sound too. He remembered your quick raise of the brows before your lips formed into a sweet smile.

He almost smiled to himself. Then he remembered where he was.

“No one,” he said aloud.

He didn’t look up, but he could feel her expression shift. Not in disbelief exactly, but in recognition. The kind of pause that said, I know when someone’s lying, and I’m letting you lie anyway.

She didn’t push it.

Instead, she crossed one leg over the other and said, “People need people, Bucky. You can’t keep pretending otherwise.”

He didn’t respond.

But the words echoed long after he’d left the office. They followed him down the hall. Sat with him at red lights. Tugged at the corners of his memory while he sat at home and tried not to think too much.

He didn’t plan to knock the next morning.

He told himself he was just passing by your door. Just checking. No reason.

But there he was anyway, standing outside 3C, fist raised halfway before he even realized it. He knew your routine by heart.

You opened the door after one knock—surprised, hair pulled back as you were getting ready, the sleeves of your sweatshirt pushed to your elbows like you’d been in the middle of something. You blinked up at him.

He held up the spare helmet.

“Need a ride to work?”

You paused. Not in confusion. Just… processing. Your eyes softened.

A breath, then, “Sure.”

The morning air was crisp and clear after a night of fading rain. He waited downstairs, bike rumbling quietly as he leaned on it. You walked toward him with your bag slung over one shoulder and a look on your face like you couldn’t quite believe it was real.

He helped you with the helmet. Your fingers held onto his shoulder when you climbed on behind him.

Your arms wrapped around him awkwardly at first, like you weren’t sure where to hold. But then he took hold of your hands in his, guiding it to hold onto his waist. Your heart jumped in your chest, suddenly thankful that the cold air cooled your heating face.

He dropped you off in front of the preschool, early light spilling across the pavement. He didn’t say anything as you climbed off—just watched, quietly, like he was tucking the image away for later.

You turned back once. Smiled.

“Thanks again,” you said, breath visible in the morning air.

And then you disappeared inside, one step at a time.

He didn’t linger long. Just enough. Just until you were gone from view.

And you spent the entire day smiling like you couldn’t remember the last time the world felt that simple.

And outside, Bucky smiled to himself, before pulling away.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It had been drizzling since dawn, soft mist clinging to the air like breath on glass. Rain tapped against the fire escape, gentle and persistent, and clouds loomed heavy above Brooklyn.

You hadn’t planned to linger in the kitchen, but there was something comforting about the slow mornings of a weekend and the chill that made you wrap your cardigan tighter. Steam curled from your coffee mug as you padded toward the fire escape window, then—on impulse—opened it.

You didn’t expect him to already be sitting there.

Bucky looked over his shoulder, startled just enough to blink. He was in a hoodie today, dark gray and too big on him in the way that meant it was probably worn for comfort more than style. His hands were curled around a chipped old thermos, and his hair was pulled back loosely, it was longer now, some strands already escaping. He didn’t look like the guy who made you blush on the back of a motorcycle. He looked like a man who didn’t sleep well and needed a quiet morning.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He scooted to the side wordlessly, making room on the metal grate.

You sat beside him. The fire escape creaked but held, rain pooling slightly at your feet.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you added.

“You’re not.” He sipped. “It’s… nice. Not being alone out here.”

You smiled at that. Your fingers curled around the warm ceramic of your mug. For a while, neither of you said anything. The street below was quiet. The air smelled like concrete and clouds. His knee barely brushed yours, and neither of you moved away.

“You’re always up early,” you said eventually.

“Habit,” he said simply. “And you’re always up late. One the weekends.”

You chuckled. “Kindergarten paperwork is no joke. You’d think finger painting wouldn’t come with so many reports.”

He tilted his head. “Sounds taxing."

“It’s not. Just… lonely sometimes,” it came out of nowhere but it slipped out of your lips, “Moving to a new place is harder than I thought even if I had been here for like what? Six months now?”

He nodded like he understood. “Yeah. It takes time. But you’re doing good.”

You looked at him. “You think so?”

He met your eyes, and the honesty there made your breath hitch. “Yeah. I do.”

“I guess having a nice neighbour like you makes it bearable.”

People need people. That phrase crossed Bucky’s mind.

You needed someone, and that someone had been him. And it was hard for him to admit that he needed you. Maybe not yet.

For the past six months, you have been a constant in his life. Someone who fits into his roster without even meaning too. But he had to admit that it was easy with you.

Your presence wasn’t something that bothered him. It was warm, gentle, and soothing.

Sometimes, when he had to go away for a long time, he would ask you to take care of Alpine, to which you were more than happy to. After he got back, he would offer to cook for you at your place as a thank-you before picking Alpine up to go next door. But he always stayed longer into the night. You didn’t seem to mind him being there in your space.

He always noticed your blush though. It was captivating to him to have it replayed in his mind every now and then, how your face turns red whenever he compliments your looks or anything that you do.

The comfortable silence returned. Rain whispered around you.

You shifted, your arm brushing his. “Do you want some coffee? Mine’s sweeter than most people like.”

He held out his thermos, exchanging it for your mug. You sipped his black brew. He tasted yours.

You laughed. “Too sweet?”

His nose scrunched, and he grinned. “You trying to give me a sugar rush?”

“That’s what the kids say. Life’s better with a sugar rush.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of something you didn’t dare name yet, but welcomed the ever growing presence.

࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The storm rolled in without warning—thick, void-coloured clouds swallowing the horizon by mid-afternoon. You’d barely noticed it at first, too busy organizing preschool worksheets at the kitchen table, but then the wind picked up, rattling the windows with a sharp insistence. By evening, the sky cracked open.

Rain slammed down in sheets, drumming against the fire escape like a warning. You flicked on the living room light just in time to see it blink—once, twice—before the entire apartment was cloaked in silence.

The power was out.

You stood there for a long second, adjusting to the sudden darkness. The heater sighed its last breath. The fridge clicked off. The silence felt heavier than it should have.

With a quiet sigh, you reached for your phone and flicked on the flashlight, casting a cone of harsh white light against your familiar, cozy furniture. You padded barefoot to the kitchen, pulling open the drawer where you kept random odds and ends. Batteries, loose rubber bands, and—yes—a single tealight candle.

Not nearly enough.

You lit it anyway, crouched on your knees by the counter, watching the small flame flicker weakly. It wasn’t the darkness that bothered you so much. It was the stillness. It made the apartment feel unfamiliar. And the lack of sound filled your ears with a loud ringing.

Your eyes drifted to the front door.

The hallway would be dark too, but maybe—just maybe—he would have something. A candle. A flashlight. Anything.

You hesitated only a moment before opening the door and stepping out, the soft creak of the hinges muffled by the storm’s howl outside. The corridor was pitch black, illuminated only by your phone screen. You padded two steps to the next door and knocked gently.

The sound of footsteps reached you a few moments later—bare, slow. Then his voice low, steady.

“Coming.”

The door opened with a soft groan, revealing Bucky standing in the warm glow of candlelight. Alpine with him. He held the melting wax in his hand, the flame casting gentle shadows across his face. His hair looked slightly damp, curling near his temples like he’d only just come out of the shower. He wore a soft red henley, clinging to his frame in a way you tried not to notice, and a pair of well-worn gray sweats.

You blinked at him.

“Hey,” you said. “Power’s out.”

“I noticed,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He looked down at the candle in his hand, then back at you. A lighting cracked outside, “You okay?”

You held up your phone flashlight, giving a sheepish grin. “I’ve got this and one sad little tealight. That’s about it.”

Bucky nodded, then extended the candle toward you. “Here. Take this one.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. It was warm, comforting.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, but didn’t turn to leave.

After a moment, he stepped back from the door. “You can wait it out in here if you want. It might be better than sitting in the dark alone.”

You hesitated. You hadn’t expected the offer. But the thought of being in your quiet, dark apartment alone, while the storm thrashed outside, wasn’t exactly comforting either, as much as you love the rain.

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. Alpine can use more company too.” An excuse.

You stepped past him into his apartment, blinking as your eyes adjusted to the glow of three more candles scattered across the living room. The soft light warmed the space, flickering against the bare walls and reflecting off the polished vibranium of his arm, which he rested casually at his side. It was well into the year where some things about him were revealed.

You didn’t look at him differently when you first noticed it.

It had been on a random day. One of those quiet Sundays. You were over for your monthly duty of taking care of Alpine. He had asked you to come over first for lunch. Usually, he’d just knock on your door with everything ready to go—but today, he had time to kill.

You were playing with Alpine in the living room, dragging a mouse-on-a-string across the carpet while she pounced and skittered like a kitten despite her age. From the kitchen, the smell of garlic and something warm drifted through the apartment. It was the same layout as yours—same counters, same scuffed floors—but it felt different. Quieter. Sparser. Lived in, but not full.

That’s when you noticed it.

He’d rolled up his sleeves while chopping something, and the light caught on the curve of metal where flesh should’ve been. It wasn’t showy. Wasn’t something he was drawing attention to. It was just… there. His left arm. Sleek, burnished. Glinting where the sun snuck through the blinds.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch or shift to hide it. Just kept working, but truthfully, that day, he just didn’t notice it. It felt like it wasn’t a secret anymore.

And maybe it wasn’t. At least not with you.

You watched for a moment, quiet. Not out of shock. Not fear. Just curiosity.

“Cool arm,” you said casually, leaning back on your elbows while Alpine gnawed ferociously on her toy mouse.

That made him glance over.

You shrugged. “Not that I’m surprised. I mean—there are gods flying around and portals above cities every other month. A cybernetic arm barely cracks the top ten. Gives you kind of… an interesting backstory.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, “It’s vibranium.” eyes dropping back to the cutting board. But there was something softer about the way his shoulders eased.

“You didn’t ask,” he said after a moment.

“Didn’t need to.”

You stretched out beside the cat. “You’d tell me if you wanted to.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just finished chopping, slid the veggies into a pan, and reached for the seasoning with that same vibranium hand.

Comfortable. Unbothered.

Trusted.

And maybe that was the part that stayed with you more than anything else. Not the arm. Not the mystery. But the fact that he didn’t hide it from you.

Like maybe, for once, he didn’t feel like he had to.

Back to the thunderous night, you cross into his threshold.

It was minimal, but not empty. A mug of half-finished tea sat on the coffee table, steam curling from it slowly. An open book rested beside it, a pen on top.

You sank onto the edge of his couch, the spot familiar. “It’s… quieter in here.”

“Quieter than your place?” he asked, settling down across from you.

“No,” you smiled. “Just quieter than the last time I was here.”

“That was three days ago.”

“I know, but with no electricity it feels even more.”

He gave a low hum of acknowledgment, watching you with that curious, assessing gaze he always seemed to carry. It never felt invasive but just… observant.

“You’ve made yours cozy,” he said after a beat. “Warm. Like a real home.”

You tilted your head. “That surprises you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Most places don’t feel like anything. Yours does.”

The compliment settled over you gently, like a blanket.

You studied him for a moment, then braved the question that had been pressing at the back of your mind since that first evening on the stairs.

“What do you do, Bucky? The freelancing…”

His jaw tightened just slightly, the flame dancing in his eyes. He exhaled slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I help people,” he said finally. “It’s... different from what I used to do. But it matters.”

You could hear the weight in his voice, even if you didn’t know the full story.

You nodded. “You seem like someone who cares a lot.”

That made him look up. His gaze softened. “I try.”

There was a long stretch of quiet after that. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. The rain softened against the windows, thunder rumbling farther away now.

You glanced at him again, your heart beating a little faster. There was something about the way the candlelight painted his features, how the shadows curved along his jaw and softened the hard lines of his face.

But he didn’t look at you.

Not yet.

He was staring out the window instead, where the storm had settled into a steady rhythm. The kind that made everything feel farther away. Softer. Safer.

“Storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” you said quietly, voice barely above the hum of the rain.

He nodded, leaning back against the couch, arm resting over the backrest. You were close, but not quite touching.

“Do you mind if I stay here?” you asked.

He glanced at you then. “Not at all.”

Silence stretched out. Not awkward, just full of things neither of you had said yet.

You pulled the blanket higher over your knees, fidgeting with the corner. “You always this quiet?”

His mouth twitched, just a little. “Not always.”

You tilted your head. “Just with me?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not because of you.”

Your eyes lingered on him, tracing the edge of his silhouette in the low light. There was a gravity to him when he let himself relax. Like the room shifted around it. Around him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t do this a lot.”

“What’s this?”

“Sitting around. Talking. Letting someone in.”

You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you reached for the mug on the coffee table—lukewarm now, but comforting. You held it in both hands.

“I’m glad you did,” you said finally.

He was quiet again, and you thought maybe the moment had passed.

But then—

“I like your place,” he said, voice low. “It feels… lived in. Like it has a heartbeat.”

You smiled. “It’s just a lot of mismatched furniture and impulse buys.”

“That’s what I mean.” He looked at you. Really looked. “Feels like you.”

That made your breath catch a little. You weren’t used to being seen like that. Not just observed—but understood.

“Yours is quiet,” you said. “Not empty. Just… waiting.”

He blinked, surprised. “Waiting?”

You nodded, fingers still wrapped around your mug. “Like it's making room for something. Or someone. Like it’s still figuring out what it wants to be.”

He let out a soft exhale, almost a laugh, like you’d touched something he hadn’t realized was there. “You sound like you talk to your furniture.”

“Only the stubborn ones.”

He smiled again, more visible this time. The kind that made the candlelight feel warmer.

Outside, the storm didn’t let up. But in here, the silence turned companionable. Easy.

Eventually, you both leaned back on the couch, shoulders close.

What came next was a story.

One of his. Just a small one—about an old bookstore down the block that let him read for hours when he was new in the city. He told you about the smell of the paper, the owner who never asked questions, and the corner chair that creaked every time someone sat in it.

You told him about your favorite coffee shop. The one with the terrible playlists and the indoor tabby cat named Pluto. You said you liked it because they always remembered your name—even when you wished they wouldn’t.

And just like that, the minutes slipped by.

Not filled with declarations or grand gestures—but with slow, quiet things. With a kind of closeness that wasn’t looking to rush anywhere.

It would be later—after the power came back, after you both stayed up too late talking, after Alpine came to curl between your feet—that you had accidentally fallen asleep beside him. Your weight leaning on his side made him tense at first, but he relaxed once he reminded himself that it was just you. He let himself drift to sleep too, because to move, he would wake you up, but he didn’t want to.

࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It was late afternoon when he knocked — not in a rush, not with food, not even with Alpine. Just him.

You opened the door, confused for half a second because this wasn’t one of the usual drop-ins. His leather jacket was unzipped, gloves off, and his expression… unreadable in that familiar, Bucky Barnes kind of way. Thoughtful. Still. A little unresolved.

“Hey,” you said, stepping aside instinctively. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping inside. “Just got back from a session. Needed some air.”

There was something in the way he stood. A weight behind his eyes, like he’d been walking with it all day.

“Wanna come in?”

He nodded once, stepping into your apartment like it was a space he knew well. Which he did, by now after a year.

You made him tea. You always did. He never asked, but you always put honey in it because you’d noticed, early on, that he took his time drinking it otherwise.

You both sat down. The light through the window was warm and lazy, casting dappled shapes against the floor. A quiet breeze stirred the curtains. For a while, you just sat in the soft domestic stillness.

Then he spoke.

“I saw my therapist today.”

You glanced up. “Yeah?”

He nodded, staring into the tea he hadn’t touched yet. “She said that thing again.”

You waited.

“‘People need people,’” he murmured. “She says it every time. Like she’s trying to convince me.”

You smiled a little. “And? Is it working?”

He gave a small shrug, but it wasn’t indifferent but more like he wasn’t sure how to put it into words yet. You didn’t push. You just let the moment breathe. Giving him space.

After a while, he said, “Back then... I didn’t really believe that. I thought if I needed anyone, it meant I couldn’t survive on my own. And if I couldn’t survive on my own, I wasn’t safe. I wasn’t strong.”

You turned slightly, giving him your full attention. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring ahead, like tracing thoughts across invisible paper.

“I’ve had to rebuild myself more times than I can count,” he continued, voice low. “Sometimes I still don’t know who I am when I wake up. But this… this has been the most time I’ve spent just… existing without needing to watch my back.”

You were quiet. Listening.

“I didn’t expect that from Brooklyn,” he said with a soft breath of amusement. “Didn’t expect it from a neighbor who talks to cats like they’re tiny roommates.”

That made you chuckle. “She is a roommate.”

He smiled, briefly. Then it faded.

“It’s weird,” he said, staring down at his vibranium fingers. “I used to hide this arm like it was a warning label. People always saw it first. Like it already explained what I am without me speaking. But you didn’t even blink when I had it out that day.”

You shrugged, gently. “Didn’t seem like a big deal.”

He looked at you then — really looked. His eyes didn’t move away this time.

“Exactly,” he said. “You didn’t make it a big deal. You treated me like… I wasn’t a stranger. Just a guy with a cat and a weird arm.”

You grinned. “Hey. You’re also a pretty good cook.”

He gave a short, quiet laugh. “That too, apparently.”

The moment stretched. You could feel something shifting — not dramatic or sudden, just quiet and inevitable. Like a tide changing directions.

“I think…” he said slowly, fingers drumming once against his mug, “…maybe I get it now. What she meant. People needing people. It’s not about being weak.”

He paused, trying to steady something in himself.

“It’s about choosing to stay. About deciding that it’s worth it. That someone is worth it.”

He looked down, then back up. There was something naked in his voice when he said, “And maybe… I found my person. Without realizing it.”

You didn’t speak. Your throat was tight.

He glanced away again, suddenly unsure. “I’m not great at this. And I don’t want to screw it up. But if there’s a chance you feel the same… I’d like to try.”

“Try what?” you asked gently.

“Us,” he said. “For real. Not just neighbours who hang out with a cat and share tea. I want to take you out. Date you. Learn everything I don’t know yet.”

You blinked, and something inside you went very, very still. And then it warmed. The feeling spreading in your chest.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” you said softly.

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it all this time, “Sorry it took so long.”

You reached for his hand. Flesh, not metal. He let you take it, and held on.

“Don’t be. I was always here.”

Outside, the world moved on — cars passed, someone’s music filtered in through the walls, life hummed as it always did. But here, in the quiet of a tiny Brooklyn apartment warmed by a fading afternoon, something had settled.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a slow, steady understanding that anchored itself in his chest.

After all the noise, after all the years of pretending he didn’t need anyone—

He looked at you. The way you smiled at him like he wasn’t broken. The way you were just there, again and again, without asking him to be anything more than himself.

And in that moment, he realized what his therapist had meant.

That people need people.

And his… was you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #thunderbolts #marvel #mcu #the winter solider x reader #winter soldier #the winter soldier #tfatws #bucky x reader #bucky #james barnes

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beargyu313 · 1 month ago

Text

Blurred lines 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

۶ৎ Summary: You’ve always gotten along really really with Jake during uni, so it only made sense to share a flat with him post-grad. Now you’re roommates who have a playfully physical friendship but it’s starting to mean something.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Word Count: 10.9k, lowkey not my best work but, oh well

۶ৎ Tags: angst, smut, lawyer apprentice Jake, slice of life, shared domesticity,, smut tags: munch!Jake, jealousy, angry sex, heavy petting, pussy slapping, edging + denial,, soft dominance, possessiveness, use of blindfold, sex on the balcony

౨ৎ Content Warning: mdni, smut Extra: masterlist, taglist: @mrsjjongstby

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

You and Jake weren’t best friends exactly, you were more like orbiters who kept getting pulled into each other’s gravity. Same friend groups. Late-night library hangs. Group project partners who accidentally became each other’s go-to plus-one. You’d pass each other snacks during lectures and you might’ve "jokingly" sat on his lap a few times.

By the end of final year, it was just… normal to be around each other.

Fast forward to post-grad life looming. Your friend group start spiraling with “where is everyone living next year” stress.

You say “Ugh, I don’t want a random roommate. I just want someone chill.” Jake, half-asleep on the couch, goes “So… live with me then.” You blink. “You’re serious?” He shrugs. Casual, like always, “Yeah. We already practically do.”

And that’s it.

You both tour two flats, pick the one with huge windows, two bedrooms and a couch that sinks too deep, and sign a lease. It’s not even dramatic. It just makes sense.

You fight over rugs. He insists on a “muted navy palette.” You want color. He ends up secretly buying the yellow throw you liked.

On your first night together in the flat, you’re both sitting on the floor eating noodles out of the box.

“You nervous?”

“Only about what your snoring sounds like.”

He throws a pillow at you.

And after weeks of living together, you two fall into a rhythm. Jake leaves early in the morning for his part-time internship at a law firm. He was prepping to become a lawyer, so seeing him in suits, shirts and ties quickly became a regular occurrence. The first time you saw him all professional was when you had to help him with his tie.

It was kind of cute. He quietly shuffled into your room and gently woke you up. You remember how shy he was, a slight blush covering his cheeks. Still remember the way his hand rested on your waist as you worked on knotting his tie properly.

Since you’re a screenwriter, your mornings on the other hand are much slower. You shuffle to the kitchen in socks and a hoodie that might be his. Most days, you talk to yourself more than you talk to anyone else. Except Jake. Always Jake.

He’s usually gone by the time you fully wake up, but his presence lingers. A mug left in the sink. Cologne in the hallway. A post-it on the fridge that says, "Eat something real today. Instant noodles don’t count. – J"

Days you two spend apart, but evenings unanimously become a time just for you two. Sometimes you would go out for a walk, other days a party, but most evening would end with a shared dinner and watching series.

But not tonight. You had been looking forward to tonight for way too long. You had been eyeing one of your coworkers for months and finally he asked you out on a date. Sunghoon was the same age as you and Jake and while you didn’t really know him that well, there was something about him...

Which is why you spend over an hour picking your outfit, and then another hour doing your makeup. You’re just putting on your perfume when you hear a soft knock at the door.

Jake leans in, fresh from a shower — hair damp, grey tee hanging loose, one hand braced against the wood. His eyes catch your reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t smile.

“You going out with that guy tonight?”

Your mascara wand pauses. You glance at him through the mirror. “You mean Sunghoon?”

Jake shrugs. "Whatever his name is."

You turn slightly, narrowing your eyes. “Why?”

“Just asking,” he says casually.

There’s a beat of silence. The room smells like your perfume and the faint mint of his body wash. You go back to your lashes, but he doesn’t move.

Then, he steps closer, so close you can smell his body wash, and reaches past you like he’s fixing something on the counter. Instead, his fingers brush along your temple, then tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers a second longer than it needs to.

“You look prettier with your hair like this,” he murmurs, voice low.

You freeze. It’s nothing. It’s always nothing.

Except it isn’t.

You stare at him in the mirror. His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, a challenge tucked behind his calm demeanor. Your pulse stutters.

Then your phone buzzes on the counter.

You glance at it. A message from Sunghoon. hey… sorry. can’t make it tonight. something came up. rain check?

You deflate before you can stop yourself. Jake notices immediately.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Date’s off?”

You try to sound breezy. “Work emergency or something.”

Jake doesn’t gloat, but there’s something smug in the way he shifts back, arms folding across his chest.

“Guess that means movie night’s back on,” he says, already turning toward the living room. “Your pick. But nothing depressing.”

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him go.

It takes you a moment to move, and then you’re changing into shorts and a loose shirt. It would lowkey be a waste to take your makeup off after you just applied it, so you leave it on. No other reason.

When you reach the living room, Jake’s already half-sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place (he kind of does). The blinds are drawn, the fan hums softly in the corner, and Netflix’s horror menu flashes onscreen.

He looks up when he sees you, and his gaze lingers for a second longer than usual. On your legs. Your lips. Your eyes — still done up like you’re going somewhere better than this.

“Didn’t change much,” he says, smirking.

You throw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

He catches it, laughing. “I meant that as a compliment. You look…” He gestures vaguely. “Fancy. For a movie about bloodsucking sadists.”

You shrug, climbing onto the couch and tucking your feet under you. “Might as well let the vampires appreciate the effort.”

Jake’s eyes flick to your lips again, just for a beat. Then he’s clearing his throat, shifting to grab the remote. “Alright. No crying if it’s gory.”

You nudge his leg with your toe. “Please. I’ll protect you.”

Jake grins, all smug. “Oh yeah? Gonna fight off the undead for me?”

You nod solemnly. “With style.”

“Great,” he says, tossing the blanket over both of you. “Then I’m officially off-duty.”

You shift to get comfortable, letting your legs stretch across the couch. The blanket settles over you both. His thigh brushes yours. Your foot nudges his again, not quite by accident. He doesn’t move.

The movie starts — all flickering shadows and eerie violins — but your focus wavers. Jake smells like laundry detergent and that citrusy cologne he always wears. You feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you, calm and steady.

A few minutes in, another jump scare hits. You jolt. He snorts.

“Still feeling brave?” he teases.

You scowl at him, then shift closer, just to prove a point. Your knee nudges his hip. Your arm slides across his stomach.

“Shut up,” you mumble. Jake doesn’t say anything, but he lifts his arm and lets you curl against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before long, you’re draped half across his chest, cheek against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The room is dark except for the flicker of the screen. His fingers find your hair, brushing through it slowly, over and over.

It feels good. Too good. You let yourself sink into it for a few long breaths. Then you start to shift back. But Jake doesn’t let you. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers resting gently. “You always run when I touch you,” he murmurs.

You give a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Do not.”

But your voice is too soft to sound convincing. The movie drones on in the background but your mind's gone quiet. Jake’s still stroking your hair. Your eyes flicker to the muted blue light of your phone on the coffee table.

Sunghoon’s text still sits there. You don’t say anything, but your body gives you away, in the way your shoulders curve in, the weight of your breath.

Jake notices.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb grazing your jaw. “You okay?”

You nod. Pause. Then shake your head.

“I feel stupid,” you admit.

Jake shifts to face you more fully. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I even liked him that much.” You press your cheek against his chest, voice muffled. “I just wanted someone to like me that much.”

There’s a long pause. Jake doesn’t say anything right away, he just holds you tighter, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You know,” he says eventually, a teasing lilt creeping back into his tone, “I bet I’m a better kisser than that guy anyway.”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Oh yeah? So confident.”

Jake shrugs, mouth twitching. “I have a good resume.”

“Oh, do you?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

You don’t even know what makes you say it.

Maybe it’s the leftover sadness. Maybe it’s the way his thumb is brushing your cheek. Or the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re not just his roommate. Like you’re his everything.

But suddenly you’re leaning in, still half-laughing.

The kiss starts soft. Just lips. Barely moving. Just a pause. Just a breath. Then Jake tilts his head. His hand slides up to cup your jaw. His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth and—

He kisses you like he means it.

No teasing. No jokes.

You whimper. A quiet, involuntary sound you don’t even recognize as your own. And he pulls you closer in response.

You don’t even realize spreading your legs, straddling him from where he still lays down on the couch. Jake’s hands rest on your hip and when his tongue traces your lower lip. When you open your mouth in submission his grip on your hips tightens. You shudder, and then Jake starts guiding your hips. Back and forth, slowly. You let him.

But then, just as suddenly, you both pull back.

You’re both breathing hard. Your thighs are still locked around his hips. His hands still resting on your waist. The air between you feels charged but no one’s saying it.

So you clear your throat and go, voice light, “Okay. Yeah. You’ve… definitely got a good resume.”

Jake huffs a laugh, chest rising under your palms. “Told you.”

“But,” you add, trying to keep your voice teasing, even though your pulse is still sprinting, “I’d need references before hiring full-time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “References? Babe, I am the reference.”

You laugh, it’s shaky, breathless and slowly climb off his lap, adjusting the hem of your shirt like that’ll somehow undo the grinding you just did.

Jake shifts too, leaning back on the couch like nothing happened. Except for the pillow hat he places in his lap. And the way his gaze drops to your lips again, just for a second.

“So,” you say, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “Still wanna finish the movie, or was that your idea of a plot twist?”

Jake grins, low and slow. “Let’s see how it ends.”

You press play. But your body’s still humming. He throws his arm across the back of the couch, unbothered.

Neither of you says anything else.

But something’s changed.

And you both know it.

The next morning is weird. It’s one of those days where you can’t work from home so you wake up at the same time as Jake does. And when you step out of your room, wearing only an oversized shirt – that’s probably Jake’s – you pause.

Jake is at the kitchen table, coffee half-drunk and Kindle in hand. His hair is still damp from his shower. He’s wearing that crisp white shirt that always fits a little too well, sleeves already rolled to the elbows.

His eyes lift when he hears your bedroom door creak open, and then they drop, slowly tracing the length of your legs like they have every right to.

“Morning,” you mumble, throat suddenly dry. You don’t wait for him to answer before disappearing into the bathroom.

When you return, you’ve changed into something semi-professional and pulled your hair back. Jake’s putting on his watch by the door. His cologne hits you before his voice does.

“You good?” he asks casually, like you didn’t ride him on the couch fourteen hours ago.

“Peachy,” you say, grabbing your tote bag. Your voice is light. Neutral. A little too neutral.

The car ride is… quieter than usual. There’s no playlist. Just the sound of traffic and turn signals. Until Jake breaks the silence.

“So, Sunoo texted. He wants to do something this weekend,” Jake says, eyes still on the road.

“Oh?” you ask, eyes flicking toward him.

“Haunted house. The one near the old train station.” He glances at you. “You in?”

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Yeah, sure. Who else is coming?”

“Me, Sunoo, Jay, Heeseung. I think Yujin and Liz are joining, too.”

“Great,” you say. “Perfect for Yujin to scream into Jay’s arms.”

Jake chuckles at that. “Better than Sunoo clinging to my hoodie again.”

“You’re the designated safety blanket. You knew what you signed up for.”

Jake glances at you again. His voice drops just a touch, teasing. “You gonna cling to me too this time?”

You don’t answer right away. You let the question hang there, feel the weight of it settle between the bucket seats.

Then you say, “Only if the ghosts get handsy.”

Jake snorts, but you catch the faint smile tugging at his mouth. He taps the steering wheel lightly with his thumb.

“That’s my favorite shirt, by the way,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“This morning. You wore it last week too.” He pauses. “Looks better on you.”

You stare out the window, ears burning, pretending you don’t hear him. But your heart is a little too loud.

And suddenly, the idea of getting scared on purpose this weekend… doesn’t seem so bad.

Except when the weekend rolls around and the seven of you near the abandoned train station you don’t think you will have to pretend to be scared.

The air is colder here, even though it’s the middle of summer. Not even a breeze breaks through the stillness. Like the atmosphere has forgotten how to move. Everything is quiet in that unnatural, pressurized way that makes your ears buzz. Even the sky feels different. Dusky, despite the fact that it’s barely past sunset.

The old train depot looms ahead. All rusted beams and broken windows, the paint long since peeled away to reveal something grey and rotting underneath. Ivy curls up the corners like fingers trying to hold it shut or maybe hold something in.

Jake whistles low under his breath beside you. “Charming.”

“Nope,” Sunoo says immediately. “Absolutely not. This place is cursed. There’s, like… ghost laws being broken right now.”

Liz snorts. “What the hell are ‘ghost laws’?”

Sunoo ignores her. “Why is it so quiet? Why is the sky pink? Why does it smell like iron and regret—?”

“Stop reading Wattpad,” Jay mutters, though his own grip on the back of Yujin’s shirt is noticeably tight.

“I’m just saying,” Sunoo huffs, edging closer to Liz, “if we go missing, check the attic first. It’s always the attic.”

Heeseung says nothing, but he’s clearly uncomfortable, his hands are in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He gives the place one slow look and mutters, “Why do I feel like something’s watching us?”

Jake laughs under his breath. “Because something is watching us. The actors are probably already inside.”

You glance at him. He looks calm. Relaxed, even. But when you brush his hand with yours, he squeezes it lightly. Just once.

You don’t let go.

By the time you reach inside, you’re glued to his side. He lets you, fingers interlocked together and your other arm gripping his bicep. You think he flexes his muscle when you touch him, but don’t comment on it.

The haunted house (train?) is all black walls and red lighting, with old train sounds whistling through hidden speakers. The air smells like dry metal and artificial fog. Each hallway is tighter than the last, cramped and dark and full of sharp turns.

It doesn’t take long before you’re pressed against Jake, your face buried in his chest after a vampire-jumpscare pops out of a hidden wall.

“Jesus,” you whisper, trying to breathe.

He chuckles and holds you tighter. “They got you good, huh?”

“You flinched too!”

“Only because you screamed in my ear.”

Up ahead, Liz and Sunoo are doing a running commentary about which horror tropes they’re about to fulfill.

“Oh my god, we split up!” Liz shrieks. “This is how I die! I’m the comic relief!”

“I’m the comic relief!” Sunoo counters. “You’re the hot one who survives ‘cause of fan demand!”

Meanwhile, Jay is trying to walk calmly while Yujin clings to his arm with a suspiciously delighted smile. Heeseung’s behind them, dead silent, bambi eyes scanning every corner like he’s prepping for actual war.

But you and Jake… are in your own little bubble. Somewhere between adrenaline and instinct, you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just holding onto him. Sometimes his arm is around your shoulders. Sometimes your hand is in his hoodie pocket. You’re never apart.

At one point, someone turns around and says, “Wait… are you guys, like, together?”

You don’t have time to respond. A vampire lunges from the shadows just then, and you shriek again, arms looping around Jake’s waist.

Behind you, Sunoo gasps, “It’s giving main couple energy!”

You feel Jake’s chest rumble against yours with laughter. You don’t look up.

But later, when the group finally exits through the heavy fire door and spills into fresh night air — breathless, laughing, buzzing — you catch Jake looking at you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just raises an eyebrow like he’s in on a joke you haven’t caught yet. You should roll your eyes. You should brush it off. Instead, you stare back. For just a beat too long. Your pulse is still racing and you know it’s not just because of the fake blood or flashing lights.

The group piles into a tucked-away corner booth at a 24-hour Korean BBQ joint, still riding the adrenaline of half-screams and nervous laughter.

Sunoo is loudly recounting how a jump-scare made him nearly cry. Liz keeps teasing Heeseung for “flinching like a grandma.” Yujin’s arm is looped through Jay’s, who’s clearly enjoying the attention.

You squeeze into the bench between Jake and Heeseung, feeling the warmth of Jake’s thigh pressed casually against yours like it belongs there.

You’re halfway through wrapping some pork belly in lettuce when Heeseung nudges you lightly with his shoulder. “You held it together better than I thought,” he says, mouth tugging into a crooked grin.

You look up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You just… seemed like the type to scream.”

“You’re the one who kept swallowing his own scream,” Liz chimes in with a laugh. “Like, Heeseung, be honest. You were dying in there.”

The table erupts in laughter. Heeseung doesn’t even deny it, just grins, eyes sliding back to you. “Still. You were pretty cool.”

Jake goes quiet beside you. You don’t notice. But his hand rests heavier on the bench now, a fraction behind your back.

The table shifts into smaller conversations. You sip your drink, unaware of Jake’s eyes watching the way Heeseung leans in when you laugh. Or how Heeseung always seems to address you when telling a story.

Jake says nothing. But the ice cubes in his water clink sharp under his grip.

You both get home after dinner. You're still laughing a little, still a bit tipsy from the soju and beer. Jake tosses his hoodie on the back of the couch, stretches. “You good?” he asks, glancing at you.

You nod, toeing off your shoes. “You were kind of a human shield back there.”

Jake smirks. “What can I say. Built different.”

You swat at him as you pass, and when you pause in the hallway, he follows. In the kitchen, you're pouring water, and he steps behind you. He’s too close, not quite touching you but you can feel his breath flutter over your neck. Goosebumps appear on your skin.

You turn around to say something and — bump into him. You both freeze.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

You laugh. He smiles. Then he tugs you into a hug, arms wrapping low around your waist. You don’t even question it anymore. Your arms slide around his shoulders. His face buries into your neck. You hold there. A few beats too long.

Then his hands start to move. Thumbs brushing over the hem of your shirt. Fingertips ghosting up your spine. You should say something, but instead you start leaning. Hips shifting closer. Your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck.

You whisper, “You’re touchy tonight.”

Jake laughs, but it’s quieter now. “You didn’t mind seem to mind it in the train.”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t, still don’t.”

When you pull back, it’s just enough to see his face. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then away. Then back again. He doesn’t let go of your waist. If anything his grip feels firmer, grounding you in this kitchen into his arms. Like you belong in them.

You tilt your head. “What?”

Jake hesitates. Then shrugs, too casual. “Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, what is it?”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Just… you and Heeseung were talking a lot tonight.”

You blink. “So?”

He shrugs again, but it’s tighter this time. Like he regrets saying anything. “Didn’t realize you were into that.”

You stare at him, utterly confused. “Into what?”

Jake’s gaze finally meets yours head-on. “Guys who flirt like they’re trying not to get caught.”

Your lips part, startled. “What? He wasn’t— Jake. Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Then, quietly “Maybe.”

It’s quiet. So quiet you can hear the tick of the fridge behind you. Your fingers flex where they still rest on the back of his neck. You step in all the way now chest to chest.

And you say, softly “There’s nothing going on with me and Heeseung, we’re just friends.”

Jake’s jaw clenches. “Good.”

His hands slide up your sides. “Are we also just friends?”

You tilt your head. “I’m not sure what you mean, but you’re acting like you want to prove something.”

“I do,” he says. Then leans in. His lips find yours and it’s like a fuse short-circuits. The kiss starts hard. His hands gripping your waist, your thighs pressing closer, the edge of the counter digging into your back. Jake doesn’t ease into it this time. He kisses like he means it, like he's been waiting all night.

You gasp into his mouth. His tongue sweeps past your lips, and you moan before you can stop it.

His hands drop to your thighs, squeezing, and then he’s lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. You spread your legs and he steps between them without breaking the kiss.

One of his hands slides up your bare thigh under your shirt. His touch slow, teasing, stopping just below where you want him. The other cups your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

You tug at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing his mouth. Jake growls softly into the kiss low and pleased and murmurs against your lips “Still just friends?”

You shake your head, breathless. “Stop talking.”

But the specialness of the moment was ruined. As soon the words leave your lips Jake pulls back. He looks like a kicked puppy. A hot kicked puppy, with swollen lips and hair a mess. And it’d be hot if it weren’t for the look in his eyes.

Hurt.

Jake steps back completely. His hands fall from your waist like you burned him. “Right,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Just… talking too much again.”

You blink. “Jake—”

But he’s already turning away, moving down the hallway. Your chest tightens, but you don’t follow. What would you even say? That it didn’t mean anything? That it did? Instead, you stare at the counter where he just stood. Your thighs are still spread. The air still tastes like his kiss.

The silence stretches between your two rooms that night like a canyon.

And it continues into the next day. You hear the door shut closed after he leaves for work. He’d usually come and say bye, sometimes even kissing the top of your head.

You’re not sure what you’re feeling when he just leaves. A strange hollowness seems to follow you throughout the day. Like a dark shadow you can’t quite shake.

You sit on the pleather couch, just staring at your screen as if the script would write itself. But no matter how much you push, no words get typed out. Or even worse, they do, but suck.

Whenever you try to concentrate your thoughts betray you. The kiss replaying like a music video over and over again. You force yourself reread your script for the fifth time.

It sucks. You have a writers block.

You want to scream, deadline fast approaching but you just can’t write today. You slam the laptop closed just as the front door opens.

Jake comes home after work, loosening his tie. Looks at you — slumped on the couch, laptop closed, a half-eaten granola bar on the table.

“You’re still in the same spot as this morning.” He notes, but you don’t register the concern in his voice.

“Congrats. You can see.” You flatly deadpan at end with your nerves. It was everything, the kiss, your confusing feelings, the writer’s block. Nothing seems to be going your way today.

He sets his bag down carefully, steps over to the couch, and lowers himself beside you. His knee touches yours.

“Is this… because of what happened yesterday?” he asks, voice softer now. Cautious. Like he’s not sure if he’s stepping on a landmine or something delicate.

You blink at him. Then scoff quietly. “No.”

His eyes flicker.

“I mean—” You sigh, finally looking at him. “Maybe. I don’t know. Everything’s just… loud right now. In my head.”

He stays quiet. He hates not being sure of you. Hates the idea that maybe you regret it. Jake’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you yet. “Did I do something wrong?”

The question makes you soften. Just a little.

“No,” you say. “It’s not you. It’s this.” You gesture at the couch. The mess. The day. Your laptop. “I have a deadline tomorrow and I’ve written nothing. I’ve been sitting here for hours and everything I type feels like garbage.”

Jake breathes out. A small sound. His shoulders relax.

“Oh,” he says, almost relieved. Then he glances at you again — closer this time — eyes flickering to your mouth. “So it’s work.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just work.”

A beat passes.

“You should’ve texted me,” he says, voice casual. “I could’ve picked up something sweet on the way home.”

“I didn’t know you were taking care of me now,” you say, teasing, tired.

Jake’s expression softens in that unreadable, dangerous way he has. “Someone has to.”

Then he moves closer.

You don’t stop him. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. Your cheek finds the soft place between his jaw and collarbone. He smells like cologne and fabric softener and something warmer underneath, something like home.

“You’re so tense,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly over your arm.

You sigh again, melting without meaning to. The hug isn’t just comforting it’s grounding. Familiar. He rubs your back, and something in your chest eases. You sit like that for a while, your limbs tangled loosely.

Then Jake leans back just a little, just enough to see your face. His hand slides down your arm, brushes over your bare knee, thumb pressing into your thigh.

You glance at him, blinking.

He tilts his head. “Want me to distract you?”

You go still. “What?”

Jake’s hand doesn’t move, but his eyes are darker now. Slower. Studying you. Like he’s weighing your silence, like he’s making sure you understand him.

You do. All too well. And the worst part is you want to be distracted. You want to forget everything.

You swallow. “Jake…”

But you don’t say no.

Not when his hand slides higher. Not when he shifts to face you fully, his knee pressing between yours, lips brushing your cheek. Not when he whispers, “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

And when you breathe out, shaky and slow, that’s the only yes he needs. You allow him to guide you, lay flatly on the couch. And watch him.

You pupils are blown. His hands are slow at first, deliberate, almost reverent as they slide beneath the hem of your shorts. Jake swallows hard when you lift your hips for him, helping him pull them down your legs. His fingers tremble slightly as he sets them aside.

Your eyes are wide. Blown.

He hovers above you for a moment, one hand pressed against the couch cushion by your head. His eyes meet yours — and it’s not teasing, not smug. Just watchful. There’s a storm brewing beneath his gaze. A question, unspoken.

Still okay?

You nod, and your breath stutters. "Jake."

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your inner thigh, then another, higher. You flinch slightly at how tender it is. How intimate.

“Relax,” he murmurs again, voice low. His hands slide beneath your thighs and he shifts you forward. Closer to him. “Let me take care of you.”

You’re not sure if he’s talking about your stress, your block, your loneliness or himself. But when his mouth meets your lower lips he’s slow and devastating and you forget the question altogether.

He’s not rushed. Not greedy. He moves like someone making up for something, like this is a confession more than an act. A worship. Each flick of his tongue purposeful, his grip tightening when your thighs threaten to close around his head. He wants to be here. He needs to be here.

You gasp when Jake licks a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. He reaches for your thighs, setting them on his shoulders and then he digs in again.

He’s rougher this time, suckling on your clit. He moans, sucking with more passion when you grab his hair.

He let’s you rock his face on your pussy, squeezing your thighs.

And you… fall apart too easily. The slow build of pressure has been sitting inside your body all day, maybe longer. Weeks. The almost-kisses, the confusing touches, the way he looks at you like he wants to ruin you gently.

It all crests as his fingers dig into your hips and he murmurs against you, low and coaxing, “That’s it. Just like that.”

It’s almost too much. Not from stimulation but from the intimacy. From how seen you feel. You hear how wet you are, can feel Jake’s jaw work. And then – he adds fingers.

He slips his middle finger into you and your mind literally melts. Pleasure is all you can focus on right now, not caring about how loud you’re being or the way your hips keep humping his fingers deeper into you.

You tangle your fingers into his hair, back arching. “Jake—fuck—why are you—”

“Shh.” He hums into you, sending another wave through your body. “You needed this. That’s all.”

And when you finally come apart — shoulders tense, mouth parted, breath catching in your throat — Jake doesn’t stop. Lapping your juices up as if he’s a starving man. But it’s too much. You’re twitching, trying to pull back – but Jake has you locked in place.

He doesn’t let you go until you’re a whimpering and squirming mess, too sensitive, gasping his name like it’s a question.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, lips slick, eyes dark and unreadable.

You blink. “What the hell was that?”

Jake just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shifts forward so he’s hovering over you again, his eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back.

“You needed it,” he repeats, soft and serious. “That’s all.”

But you both know that’s not all. It’s not sex. But it’s not not, either. And neither of you have a single word for what this is now.

Instead of answering him, instead of letting yourself ruminate over what just happened, you pull him down into a kiss.

Jake seems surprised, gasping when your lips meet. But you don’t mind taking lead. You cup his face, legs wrapping around his waist as you kiss him as if your life depended on it.

He kisses you back, matching your urgency, your need. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the saltiness of it making you moan as you grind down against his thigh, chasing more.

He groans into your mouth, hands gripping your waist tighter.

“You’re—” a breathless peck to his lips, “such—” another kiss, “a good friend.”

The words slip out, stupid and soft, the kind of thing you didn’t really mean — or maybe meant differently in your head.

Jake freezes.

His mouth is still on yours, but he doesn’t kiss back this time. His brow creases, and after a beat, he pulls away. Resting his forehead against yours, his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to hold something in. His body is still hard against you, unmistakably turned on — but that fire dims as he slowly leans back.

“I need to shower,” he says quietly, voice low and clipped. “Watch a movie when I come back?”

You nod, feeling his absence instantly as he pulls away. Your chest aches not just from arousal but something else now. Regret? Confusion? You’re not sure. You didn’t mean it like that. Not like just a friend.

But the damage is done.

When he returns, fresh from the shower, his hair damp and curling at the ends, he wraps you in a blanket before joining you on the couch.

You expect warmth. Closeness.

Instead, the blanket settles like a barrier that’s soft, but solid. His arm curls around you from behind, sure, but there’s distance in the way he holds you now. A subtle restraint, like he’s afraid of touching too much.

Your chest twists.

You almost say something about earlier, about the kiss, about what you meant, but the words sit thick in your throat.

Because the truth is, you didn’t mean to call him a friend like that. Not in that moment. Not when you were half out of breath, high off his touch. But it was easier to label it safe than admit how much you were spiraling inside. How close you felt. How badly you wanted him to stay.

You fidget under the blanket. Jake doesn’t speak.

Your hand twitches like it wants to reach for his. It doesn’t.

And maybe this is what hurts more than anything — not the silence, not even the awkwardness. But the knowing. That one wrong word was enough to push you back behind this invisible line neither of you knows how to cross again.

So you let him hold you. Quiet. Still.

Not because you're fine with it, but because you're scared if you speak, the rest will tumble out. Everything you don’t know how to ask for. Everything you're afraid he doesn't want.

And maybe… just maybe, if you wait, this will pass. If you keep the quiet gentle, maybe you can find a way to fix it later. To talk when the air doesn’t feel so fragile. When it won’t sound like a confession.

So you press your face into the pillow, trying not to breathe too loud. Trying not to need too much.

Behind you, Jake shifts a little closer, just barely. His arm tightens for a second, like he almost forgets the wall between you.

But then it loosens again.

And neither of you says a word.

The next morning, Jake comes into your room just before leaving for work. He leans down. Presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Like it's nothing. Then he straightens, gives you a small smile that’s polite and distant and he disappears.

You lie there, frozen.

At first, you try to brush it off. Tell yourself this is what you wanted, right? Just friends. No pressure. No awkwardness. But that kiss stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. So you do the only thing that makes sense in the moment.

You start ignoring him back.

When he texts, you leave him on read. When he walks into the room, you don’t look up. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. But beneath the chill, the silence, the shoulder-turning — your heart aches. You’re not mad. Not really. You just don’t know how to say I didn’t mean it like that.

You miss him. And worse — you want him. Not just the way he touched you, but the way he looked at you. Like you weren’t just some girl, but someone he couldn’t stop wanting.

You crave that again.

So by the time Thursday rolls around, your pride is fraying, your patience thinning. You need a reaction. Any reaction.

Which is why you’re sitting on the couch in shorts that toe the line between indecent and illegal, a tank top clinging to you like it’s been shrunk in the wash — waiting.

Not because you think this’ll fix it. Not because you're confident. But because it's the only language you know how to speak right now.

The door clicks open.

Jake walks in.

You don’t turn your head. Not right away. You hear the jingle of keys. The sound of shoes being kicked off. A pause.

Then, finally, his voice — calm, clipped, guarded.

“Didn’t realize this was a lingerie party.”

You glance up slowly, eyes wide with innocence. “Oh?” you murmur. “This? Just comfy.”

And even though you smile, your heart's pounding in your chest. Because you're not teasing — you're reaching.

Jake drops his bag by the door, loosens his tie, and walks past you — like it’s nothing. But his eyes… his eyes say something else entirely.Lingering. Burning.

You push further.

“I was feeling a little hot,” you say casually, stretching your arms overhead. The hem of your tank rises with you.

He opens the fridge. Grabs water. Doesn’t look at you.

“You don’t say.”

You blink. So he’s going to act like he doesn’t care?

You rise. Pad toward the kitchen on bare feet. “You’ve been quiet,” you say, voice light. “Everything okay?”

Jake shrugs, drinks. “Busy week.”

He won’t meet your eyes.

You step closer. “Or is it the fact that you had your mouth on me, and now you’re acting like we’re just roommates again?”

That gets his attention.

Jake finally turns — cool gaze sweeping over you, lingering a second too long on the slope of your chest, the bare skin of your thighs. Then his mouth quirks. Not a smile — more like a warning.

“We are just roommates,” he says. “Friends. You said so yourself.”

You blink. “Right,” you say tightly. “So friends can do that? Friends can—”

You don’t finish. You’re flustered now, and Jake sees it. Smirks.

You move closer, fast, needing the upper hand. Bold. You press a hand to his chest, slide your fingers down to his waistband. Your other hand rests on his shoulder. You glance up at him, lashes low.

“You’re hard.”

Jake doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. “So are we taking turns stating the obvious now?”

Your breath catches.

His voice is calm. Controlled. Cold.

“You’re the one who wanted no label,” he continues, tone light but jaw tight. “So this? It doesn’t count. Just a reaction, right?”

You falter.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“But you’re not really looking for just reactions, are you?”

And then he walks past you. And now you’re confused.

You tried not letting it get to you, but insecurity starts to seep in. Was something wrong with you? You’re chilling in your room when your phone pings. It’s the groupchat.

🌞noo:

PARTY THIS FRIDAYYYY BY THE RIVER. pls someone else bring the aux tho. jake’s taste in music makes me want to bite drywall

Jake:

you’ve literally danced to my shit before????

🌞noo:

yeah because i’m hot and adaptable not bcs it was good

💋 Liz:

sunoo let jake have one win this week 😭

Jay:

where is this exactly?

Yujin:

next to the trail behind the docks. we used to go there for bonfires remember?

You respond, half-joking:

cute. will there be skinny-dipping or should i bring a towel

🦌 Hee:

you can borrow mine 👀

You do a double look as you read his reply. Your stomach swoops but before you can reply Jake’s responding.

Jake:

relax.

🦌 Hee:

lmao. you relax. what, scared she’ll get cold?

🦊 you:

i love it when the groupchat turns into a pissing contest <3

Jay:

anyway i’m bringing tequila. yujin said she’s making jello shots.

Yujin:

no i didn’t

Jay:

you will tho 😇

💋 Liz:

can we all agree on one thing?

🌞noo:

no drama

💋 Liz:

no hookups between friends

🦊 you:

girl be serious

Is what you type, but your mind is already wandering traitorously to a boy with black fluffy hair and a puppy persona.

It’s Friday. Jay picked you and Jake up and now here you were. Golden hour is kissing the riverbank. Music drifts lazily through bluetooth speakers. There's a cooler full of drinks half-submerged in the water. People are arriving in waves — towels, sandals, skin on display.

You're in a two-piece with a light cover-up that’s definitely more "slip" than "dress." You clock Jake the second he gets in Jay’s car. Black swim trunks. Messy hair. Oversized tee hanging off his shoulder. He meets your gaze once and looks away.

Heeseung’s the one who whistles when he sees you.

“You always gotta show up looking like a vacation?”

You snort. “And you always gotta flirt like it’s your job?”

He grins. “Not a job if I enjoy it.”

Jake’s nearby. Not close. Not far. Just watching with a drink in hand, jaw tight. Sunoo and Liz are already loudly arguing over who makes better playlists. Jay and Yunjin are sitting side by side but not touching, throwing little glances every few minutes.

But Jake?

He’s not talking much. Not laughing. He hasn’t really been spending any time with you over the past week. Not texting as much. And suddenly it matters more than it should.

You pretend you’re not flirting with Heeseung. Yes, you lean in when he jokes. Yes you laugh too loudly at something stupid he says. And maybe you’re watching Jake’s reactions when you do so.

And he sees it. He sees the way you touch Heeeung’s shoulder when he makes you laugh. Sees the way Heeseung’s eyes seem to linger too long on your top. And something in him snaps.

Just then you lean into Heeseung, Jake sees you saying something to him and then you’re leaving.

He follows you before Heeseung can.

The bass from outside the bathroom thumps through the tiled walls. You’re alone, fixing your lip gloss in the mirror, but your hands are shaking from nerves. You had a feeling he followed you.

The door creaks open. Jake steps in. Locks it.

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Bathroom’s taken,” you say, tone flat.

He doesn’t leave. Just watches you. “You and Heeseung having fun?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

Jake shrugs. “You’ve been laughing at all his jokes. Hanging off him like he’s your boyfriend.”

You spin around slowly, still leaning against the sink. “So what? You jealous?”

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising a little faster than normal.

“Should I be?”

You swallow. “I don’t know. Should you?”

Jake takes one step closer. Then another. He’s toe-to-toe with you now, his hand brushing your hip.

You don’t back down. “We’re just friends, remember? Isn’t that what we are?”

He exhales through his nose. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Then, without warning, he steps between you and the sink, arms braced on either side of you, caging you in.

You’re breathless.

“I was doing just fine,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes scanning your face, “telling myself we’re just friends.”

Your heart stutters. “What changed?”

Jake leans in, nose brushing yours. “You.”

You blink. “Because I flirted?”

“Because you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice sharpens, heated now. “Wearing that dress. Touching his arm. Laughing like that.”

“I was just being nice—”

“No, you were provoking me. And you wanted me to see it.”

Your stomach flips.

Jake’s hand slides to your hip, pulls you flush against him. You can feel him. Hard and restrained. His voice stays low and even, but it cuts through you.

“You wanted a reaction?” His hand slips under your cover-up, skims bare skin. “Now you’re going to deal with it.”

He presses you harder against the sink. His other hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. You half whimper half gasp, chest rising and falling deeply as you let him do with you whatever he pleases. After all, this was what you wanted.

“I’m not gonna say it,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Not yet. But I’ll show you.”

You gasp as he hooks your leg up on the sink, exposing you. You dress hikes up, bunching by your waist as your panties are put on display.

His hand slides between your thighs, brushes over the fabric clinging to you, wet and sticky.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, amused. “And you’re trying to act like you don’t care.”

You clench around nothing, lips parted.

He pulls your panties to the side but doesn’t give you what you want. Just strokes you slow, maddening. Teasing. Fingers never quite brushing over your clit. He plays with you like that until you react.

You whimper.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, fingers circling your hole.

“Jake…”

“Say it louder.” He commands, stopping his movement.

“Please—”

He gives your pussy a sharp slap. The sting oddly pleasurable. But the unexpectedness of it, makes you flinch.

Your eyes fly open. “What—?”

“You like begging?” he says, tone cool, eyes half-lidded. “I think you do.”

He sinks to his knees, pulls your hips forward on the counter. You scramble for grip. His mouth is hot and unrelenting — but he keeps you right on the edge. Tongue circling your clit, tugging, sucking on it but never in the way he knows you like.

Eventually he gives in, circling your clit with his tongue, before working with his jaw. Loud suckling sound can be heard mixed with your loud whimpers.

But every time you start to fall apart, he backs off.

By the third time you’re panting. Desperate. “Jake—!”

He looks up at you, lips wet. “Say you want me.”

“I want you.” You cry out, rocking your hips (or trying to) against any surface. You’re practically buzzing with the need to release, shaking in want.

“No. Say you want to be mine.”

You falter. The words feel too big.

He doesn’t push. Just pulls back slightly — and the emptiness is unbearable.

“Say it,” he says again, softer now. “Or I’ll stop.”

Your hands fist in his hair.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes flash with something akin to victory and hunger.

“That’s better.”

He stands, yanks your panties down, and pushes into you in one smooth thrust. You want to curse, the stretch almost too much. You feel too full and at the same time you want more.

Your moan is caught halfway in your throat. He kisses you like it’s punishment, like it’s worship. One hand on your throat. The other cradling the back of your head like you’re glass.

“You make me fucking insane,” he groans, hips snapping up into you, rougher now. “You want danger? You want someone to claim you?”

“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes.”

He fucks you like it’s a message. Like he’s carving his name into you. Hips relentlessly pushing into you.

You whimper, the rough pace Jake set making you cock drunk.

Jake notices, the hand around your throat sinks lower, covering youe tit as Jake leans down.

He kisses your neck softly, his hips snapping into you. He’s so close to you that he’s almost humping into you. Your body moving with his whenever he thrusts into you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling harshly and Jake bites you. Literally bites you. And then, he’s sucking a love bite on your skin. Right below your throat. For everyone to see.

After, when you’re trembling and dazed and the mirror’s fogged with heat, he doesn’t say a word. Just adjusts your cover-up gently, tucks your hair behind your ear, and kisses your forehead like you didn’t just break each other in a public bathroom.

The morning after the party you’re tired. Hungover. Emotionally tapped. You fumble through your kitchen, making tea like your body doesn’t ache with memory — like Jake didn’t fuck you in a bathroom last night so hard you still feel him in you.

He’s already sat behind the kitchen table, almost as if he was waiting for you to wake up. At first neither of you say anything.

Until you can’t take it anymore.

“What?” you ask with more bite than you intended.

Jake’s jaw is tight. “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms. “There’s nothing to—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t do that again.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Pretend it didn’t matter.”

Silence.

“You always do this,” Jake says, voice low. “Something happens, and you brush it off. You act like I’m imagining it.”

You open your mouth — and he shakes his head.

“You’re not confused. You’re scared.”

Your breath catches. You hate how right he is. He always sees you. Even when you don't want to be seen.

You try again. “Jake, we were drunk. The party—”

“I wasn’t drunk,” he says. “You know I wasn’t.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “Were you?”

You hesitate. Shake your head once.

He exhales, jaw flexing — then takes a step forward. “So just say it.”

You take a shaky step back. “Say what?”

“That you want me.”

Your back hits the wall. “Jake—”

He pins you with his eyes, chest rising and falling. “Say it.”

You can’t look at him. “Why? So you can say I told you so?”

“No,” he says quietly. “So I can finally touch you without wondering if you’ll run the second we’re done.”

You grab his shirt, fisting it near his stomach, and pull him in until your breath fans his lips. “I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

His hands lift slow, intentional, and cup your face like you're something breakable. His thumbs brush your cheeks. He tilts your chin up, studies you.

"Okay," he says, like a vow.

When he kisses you, it’s not hurried or hungry. It’s deep. His mouth moves over yours like he’s memorizing, reclaiming. And when he finally pulls back, you're breathless.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “How you sound. How you taste. How you fall apart.”

His hand slides under your shirt, resting over your stomach not rushing, just feeling.

“And I’m not gonna stop this time,” he says. “Not until you forget anyone else ever looked at you.”

You gasp when his fingers dip lower, but he still doesn’t move fast. He lingers. Draws circles on your thigh like he’s playing with patience, watching you twitch.

He likes it. The way you can’t stay still. The way your breath comes shorter now, even though he’s barely touched you.

“You’re squirmy,” he murmurs, amused. “Already?”

“Jake,” you whisper, nails digging into his arms.

His gaze flicks up, sharp and dark. “Use your words.”

“You want me?” Jake asks, voice quiet but laced with heat.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes wide.

He studies you, gaze steady. “Then prove it.”

Your heart skips. “I will. Jake—” you reach for him, desperate now, “I swear, anything.”

A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face.

“Yeah? Then let me try something,” he murmurs.

He produces a silk tie. The same one he wore this week. The same one that still smells faintly like cologne and heat and him. You hum in anticipation, you think he’s probably going to tell you to turn around and tie your wrists together. But you’re caught off guard when he speaks.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

You do. The tie ghosts across your cheek, a featherlight tease, before he slips it around your eyes and knots it behind your head — tight enough to hold, loose enough to keep you comfortable. Your breath catches as darkness wraps around you. It heightens everything. And everything is laced with Jake. It’s like you’re in a personal Jake-terrarium, his scent all around you, his hands ghosting over your arms, shoulders and back. He laces your fingers when you feel him against your ear, warm and close.

“You’re not gonna run this time?” His voice is low, close, threading against the shell of your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “I want this.”

“You want me,” he corrects. His fingers brush your jaw, tracing down your neck. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you repeat, voice needy.

Jake hums — satisfied, not smug. Then his hands take yours, and he guides you. Carefully. Silently. Every step feels electric. You don’t know where he’s taking you — until the air shifts, cooler now, tinged with the crisp morning air.

You’re on the balcony.

The city hums below. Too far to hear, close enough to feel. You’re hidden from view — probably. Not completely. It doesn’t matter.

Your hands rest on the railing, and Jake’s voice returns, low and calm behind you.

“Stay still.”

You do.

He steps in close, chest against your back, fingers slipping under your shirt, sliding it up, baring you to the sky.

“This okay?” he asks.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

“Words,” he reminds you, breath warm on your shoulder.

“Yes, Jake.”

The tie around your eyes tightens with your inhale. The air is cool, but Jake’s hands are fire.

He kneels behind you.

You feel his mouth first — soft, reverent — trailing kisses along the backs of your thighs, then up higher. You slightly bend over, hands gripping the balcony railing as if it’ your lifeline. And in a way it was. Because just one slip ad it could end badly – but you trust Jake. Trust him to take care of you.

His hands grip your hips. Gently at first. Then firmer. Possessive. And he holds you in place, watching as you try to rub your thighs together, but when his grip is too tight you switch to rocking your hips back and forward. it doesn’t give you any friction and that’s when Jake’s hands slide towards your butt, then under your butt, before he’s slippin one hand to your inner thighs.

But he doesn’t touch you there yet. He simply pushes his face into your clothed butt, nose pressing right where you need him. And then he says,

“You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You whimper. He chuckles — low, pleased.

Then his fingertips glide up inside of you and you gasp. He was gentle, yet powerful. You spread your legs further, bending down even more so your chest presses against the cold railing.

“You’re soaked,” he says as he keeps pushing two digits in and out of you in a scissoring motion. Your hips twitch. He presses you still with one hand, the other pulling at your lacy panties.

“Did you wear these for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe, wiggling your cunt over his hand.

“Did you want me to find you like this? Desperate. Squirming.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your pretty hole practically vibrating with the way you keep doing kegles.

His finger circles your clit — barely there. And you moan, knuckles white from how hard you’re holding onto the railing.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

You try. You fail.

He tsks under his breath and let’s go of the panties. They snap. The touch stinging. You immediately still completely. “Didn’t I say still?”

You gasp. “I’m sorry—”

Jake strokes deeper once, then pulls away. You whine at the loss.

He loves this. You can feel it in the way he exhales — slow, in control. You’re on fire. He’s the one holding the match. He stands up then, hugging you from behind. He presses his hips against you and you moan, rocking yourself back into him. Jake kisses your neck, and it’s all you can focus on.

But his hands are already pulling your panties down, he lightly pats you on your butt and you step aside a bit, letting them fully fall down. You don’t worry about someone seeing you two, you were too high up for pedestrians to see and your neighbors had the view obstructed by the railing. But still, you shiver once he bares you to the outside world.

But Jake doesn’t worry, he’s back on his knees as soon as your panties hit the ground. Then one finger slips back in. Then another. He keeps them deep as he pushes them in, and out. In a hook motion, reaching the most pleasurable spot inside of you. His whole palm is on your cunt, with his thumb teasing your clit in light, endless circles.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth against your ear now. “How perfect you are like this? Bare. Open. Mine.”

You whimper. “Jake—”

“Not yet.”

He pulls his fingers out. You nearly sob.

Then he brings them to your lips. “Open.”

You do. He pushes them past your mouth, slow and steady, watching as you suck him clean.

“Good girl,” he says.

You nearly come from those two words alone.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod frantically, tie still in place, heart pounding out of your ribs. Jake pushes and hold you into his desired position. Now you’re standing straight, looking as if you’re just looking over the city (if only it weren’t for the tie still tied around your head), and Jake is holding you from behind – as if he’s just hugging you.

Your head cocks to the side, and Jake nuzzles into it. His right hand disappears behind you and you can hear him shuffling behind you.

Then you feel it — his cock, thick and warm against your entrance.

“You sure you’re not gonna run again?” he murmurs, teasing the tip against you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Just—please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” you plead, grinding yourself against his dick. And Jake finally pushes his hard dick into you. You don’t think you’ve ever been stretched by a dick this good and you kind of stop breathing. The lack of oxygen and vision made the feeling of his dick ten times better.

And you know Jake feels it too. He groans as soon as his cockhead stuffs you, hips stilling and stuttering for a moment.

You whine, squeezing him in a silent command to give you more, more, more.

“More Jakey, please,” you whine, he tsks but complies. Slowly stuffing you full.

He doesn’t give either of you time to move before he’s thrusting into you. Slowly. So slowly you think you know how every vein looks, how every ridge looks and you still want more.

Jake fucks you with intent. Deep, deliberate strokes that claim you inch by inch. You’re crying out, gripping the railing, blindfolded and desperate. He fucks you like he’s memorizing every sound you make. Like this isn’t just sex it’s proof.

That you’re not going anywhere.

That you’re his.

And when he finally lets you fall apart, it’s to the sound of his voice behind you, whispering like a spell

“That’s it. Good girl. Let them hear how mine you are.”

Your body’s still trembling, silk tie slipping down your nose, the air cooling your skin. Jake doesn’t speak right away. He just holds you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder — then another, higher this time, near your neck.

You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast. Just like yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

You start to laugh, just a little. Maybe from adrenaline. Maybe because you don’t know what else to do.

Jake gently unties the blindfold, letting it fall away. He cups your jaw, turns you to face him, and really looks at you.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then realizing that might sound dismissive you add, “It was… good. Intense. But good.”

He studies you for a beat, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. You think he might tease you, say something cocky but instead, he kisses your forehead.

Then your temple.

Then your lips.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to protest.

Carries you in, literally. Like you weigh nothing. Like you’re something precious.

He runs a warm bath and adds eucalyptus salt like it’s routine. His hands are all over you — not sexually now, just present. Stroking your back as you sink into the water. Brushing damp hair from your face. Letting you lean into his chest when you finally relax.

You close your eyes. Not because you're tired. Because it’s easier than letting him see how much this is affecting you.

He still sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now, as if he knows you’re trying not to feel anything too real.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. But your fingers are clinging to his forearm.

Jake notices. Smiles a little.

“I always kiss your temple after,” he says casually, like it’s a fact. “Even before tonight.”

Your eyes snap open. “You do?”

He nods. “It’s where you melt the most.”

You scoff. “That’s not—” But you trail off. Because yeah. You probably do.

Once you’re dry, wrapped in a soft towel and oversized shirt that smells like him, he pulls you into bed. Doesn’t let go.

You lie there together, limbs tangled, and it should be awkward, but it’s not. Not until the words slip out of your mouth — too fast, like everything else with you lately.

“So… what now?”

Jake shifts to look at you. “Now I take you on a real date.”

You blink. “Even if we’re already fucking?”

“Especially if we’re already fucking.”

That makes you laugh. So does he. Your noses bump as you kiss again, slower this time. Lazy. Sweet.

Afterwards you head to a late lunch — the usual post-party ritual. Sunoo picked the spot: some cozy place with overpriced eggs and bottomless mimosas. Everyone’s a little sluggish, mildly hungover, and deeply curious.

You and Jake walk in together.

At first, no one clocks it.

But then you slide into the booth next to Jake. And his hand is still resting on the small of your back when you sit. You’re glowing. He looks way too pleased.

Sunoo is the first to notice.

His eyes narrow. “Wait…”

Jake doesn’t say anything. Just leans back, throws his arm casually behind you like it’s nothing like it’s normal and smirks.

Sunoo gasps.

“WAIT.”

Jay lifts an eyebrow over his coffee. “Here we go.”

“Is this—are you two—” Sunoo points between you like he’s solving a murder. “Did you finally do it?”

Liz drops her fork. “Finally?”

Yujin gasps, slapping Jay’s arm. “I told you something was up after the haunted house.”

Jay just sips his drink. “Yeah, but I figured we’d all be grandparents before they figured it out.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything at first. He just tilts his head, eyes flicking between the two of you. There’s a little smile tugging at his mouth — you think it’s fond, but you also see the tiniest flicker of something else. Surprise, maybe. Something more complicated. Still, he raises his glass like a toast.

“Well,” he says smoothly. “I guess Jake finally manned up.”

You look at him, curious, but Jake doesn’t flinch. “Someone had to,” he replies, calm and steady.

Sunoo clutches his chest. “So it’s real? Like real real?”

Jake nods. And then like it’s not a big deal at all he laces your fingers with his under the table.

You don’t pull away.

“Wait,” Liz says, eyes darting around. “Have you guys, like… had the talk?”

Jake looks at you. “Have we?”

You smile at him, that private kind of smile only he seems to get. “I think last night counted.”

Sunoo practically combusts.

“OH MY GOD THEY TOTALLY FUCKED.”

You slap your palm over your face. Jake just laughs, entirely unbothered. “Thanks for keeping it classy, Sunoo.”

Heeseung raises his brows. “Bathroom?”

Jay chokes on his drink.

“Not confirming or denying,” Jake says but he’s grinning now, actually grinning like he just won the lottery and isn’t even trying to hide it.

“You’re disgusting,” Yujin says through a laugh, but she’s clearly happy for you. “But like, in a cute way. I guess.”

“Disgustingly overdue,” Liz mutters. “Seriously, this has been months of tension. I deserve a gift basket.”

Sunoo nods, dead serious. “With candles. And at least one thank-you note.”

You roll your eyes but you’re still smiling.

And underneath the noise, the teasing, the laughter, Jake leans closer to your ear. Low enough that no one else hears.

“Mine,” he murmurs.

You look at him. “Yours.”

And for once, saying it feels easy.

#jake sim #sim jaeyun #enhypen jake #jake x reader #jake sim x reader #jake sim x you #jake x you #jake smut #kpop smut #enhypen smut #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #no doubt #jake scenarios #jake scenario #jake sim smut #sim jaeyun smut

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skyrigel · 1 year ago

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Simon who just can't say no to you.

It has been like this from the moment his eyes met yours, a very terrible Monday morning if he hadn't met you but now that you remembered, it's the most beautiful day of both of your lives.

“Is that seat taken ?” Simon looked up at the small morning roused and still sleep laden voice, you were as knackered as you sounded, probably runnin’ on black coffee and cuppa noodles.

“Yeah.” He wasn't even aware how quickly he said it, “Yes, ofcourse miss.”

He scooted his big thighs together, trying to make as much space as possible for you and as if some divine thought struck him, he looked up — cheeks tinting with red.

“Would ya’ like window ?”

“No, But thankyou for asking.” You answered, sitting next to him and making sure to leave some space because those legs were thick and definitely his big cock needed some room.

Fuck, look away —

“Ghost...” Another man climbed inside bus, his eyes trained on you and your partner who's apparently Ghost ?!?!

“Wot ?” He said roughly, his shoulders pressed against yours

“Nothin’ old man.” The other man smirked and sat next to a Grandma who knitted half a sweater.

“Your friend?” You asked.

“ A little...Simon.” He said, “Simon Riley.”

“Oh.” You smiled, feeling blush creep up your neck and cheeks.“I like Ghost better.” you would've booed if you weren't feeling so tingly and nervy.

“You would like Simon more.”

“I would like that.” You couldn't believe you were flirting on a Monday morning.

One month later

“Ghost...” John horribly snorted, sprawling on couch as Simon paid him no attention.

“Wot ?” He asked, giving you his pinky as you painted the last letter ‘Y’ over hot pink nail polish, completing your H-E-L-L-O K-I-T-T-Y nail art, every letter on each nail.

“Nothin’ old man.” John smirked as you clicked your tongue, beaming up at Simon.

“Done !” You blew air and flashed a grin as Simon brought his hand up to examine your work.

“Done Luvie.” He smiled, bumping your nose with ‘I’ on his nail.

And you also liked Simon better.

Grim Reaper! Simon

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requiemforthepoets · 2 months ago

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you say good morning, when its midnight ⟢ OP81 (part 3)

main masterlist | fic playlist | series masterlist

PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: use of y/n, photos are all taken from pinterest, no consistent face claims, fluff, humor-ish, kind of a slow burn fic, inaccurate information, time and date stamps are not relevant, and minor typographical errors

WORD COUNT: none

AUTHOR'S NOTE: part 3! i'm really happy that you like this socmed au for oscar! 🥺 i hope that i'll be able to deliver updates that are up to standards. I'll try to incorporate everything, since tumblr has a limit of 30 photos only per post. taglist for this series is open. enjoy!

hattiepiastri posted in their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, yourmom, and others

oscarpiastri take good care of her

hattiepiastri ?????????

hattiepiastri isn't it supposed to be the other way around?????

oscarpiastri we both know that she's too soft for the chaos you bring

hattiepiastri excuse you???? fyi, remind me or not, i'm always gonna be protecting her

oscarpiastri 👍🏻

nicolepiastri oh my goodness, look at her! she's all grown up. i still remember when you two used to dress up and she would braid your hair

hattiepiastri i shed a little tear when i saw her again in person after so many years

nicolepiastri tell her i said hi, that i miss seeing her around and that she looks beautiful

nicolepiastri i'm so happy that you two are together again!

hattiepiastri will do mum. she says hi back.

hattiepiastri we're now in our bestie singapore honeymoon

yourmom oh my heart! she really made that sign? thank you for posting this, hattie. i might be crying in the kitchen now! 🤣

hattiepiastri she was literally bouncing the moment she saw me!

yourmom please tell her to call me when she settles you in

yourmom and while you're there, please make sure that she eats actual food and not just noodles and bubble teas

hattiepiastri promise!

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

hattiepiastri

📍Haji Lane, Singapore

liked by yn.jpg, oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, and 879 others

tagged: yn.jpg

hattiepiastri week into the bestie singapore honeymoon 🤩

view all comments

yn.jpg look at us, maximizing our joint slay 😮‍💨💖

hattiepiastri indeed 🤩

nicolepiastri you both look so wonderful! enjoy and take good care of her

oscarpiastri like i said hattiepiastri

hattiepiastri no need to tag me???? bc i can literally see the reply???????

yn.jpg 🔒

liked by oscarpiastri, yourmom, yourbrother, nicolepiastri, hattiepiastri, and 256 others

tagged: hattiepiastri

yn.jpg all the love, from singapore ♡

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yourmom why is it that you never smile? but the photos look very stunning, and you are stunning!

yn.jpg 🥺🥺🥺🥺

hattiepiastri i stand by my photography skills, should've watermarked these 😔💔

yn.jpg exquisite photography skills indeed! been staring at how good it is 🥹🤚🏻

nicolepiastri so gorgeous!

yn.jpg auntie! thank you so much, i miss you!

yourbrother ok, gotta admit that this photo of you looks cool af. but i miss the gremlin that i used to chase around the house with a nerf gun. bring her back 💔

yn.jpg you and your dramatic ass! 😭

oscarpiastri you do look different

oscarpiastri in a good way. (sorry, clicked the enter button accidentally)

oscarpiastri the not-smiling thing suits you more than it should

hattiepiastri mate, u good?????

oscarpiastri what? am i not allowed to say that she looks nice?

yourbrother i will die on this hill

yn.jpg okay wow 😭 was not expecting a full family panel in the replies. love u all, but can u all pls calm down? 😭

nathanleong these were worth the wait 😮‍💨

yn.jpg 😂😂😂😂

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

hattiepiastri posted in their story!

liked by yn.jpg, oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, and 23 others

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

hattiepiastri

liked by yn.jpg, oscarpiastri, yourmom, nicolepiastri, and 457 others

tagged: yn.jpg

hattiepiastri singaporean nightlife. i'm in love 💖

taglist: @uuoozzii , @freyathehuntress , @littlemisskavities , @elieanana , @rexit-mo , @imagine-it-was-us , @satorinnie , @pessismisticpotato , @milkysoop , @random-movie , @supersanelyromantic , @greantii , @chirpchirp69 , @purplephantomwolf , @mimisweetz , @frogiemushr0om , @angxedxtz , @hevzo8 , @pandora108 , @ms-darcy23 , @sluttybitch , @proudshinsoukinnie , @pinklemonade34 , @gemi-boi , @elizamoe133 , @sideboobrry11 , @mrrayjay , @curlylando , @soleilgrec , @nothingjustaninchidentt , @suns3treading , @dramallama9 , @1-queenofpotatoes-1 , @suibianupyourass , @armystay89 , @verstappen-leclerc-inchident , @landossainz , @martygraciesversion381 , @larkkyoris

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solxamber · 4 months ago

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Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

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Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You��re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he’s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and—pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting—familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x you #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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sebsxphia · 2 months ago

Note

thinking about bob (reynolds) thinking he doesn't deserve a blowjob :(( he just wants you to feel good and thank you for loving him!!! then one day you convince him, and he can't help but protest, even as your lips are wrapping around him and his hand is winding into your hair :(( my pookieeeeeeee

the pleasure dilemma.

robert reynolds x reader.

￫ summary: you convince robert reynolds that it’s okay to receive pleasure.

￫ word count: 2K.

￫ warnings: blowjobs, deep throating, smut and fluff.

￫ authors notes: this is my first time writing for robert reynolds! i hope i’ve done him justice 🥹 my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

He was always so caring and considerate. You gave him warmth and comfort. In return, he gave you sweet little acts of service to show you how truly grateful he was that you were kind and patient with him.

He would make your food, even if he had little energy that day. A pot of instant noodles was presented with love. He would buy you small craft sets for whatever hobby you were into. He would wait up all evening if he knew you were coming back late, so that he could listen to what you had to say.

But most of all, he practically demanded to be comfortably nestled between your thighs, his warm mouth on your cunt and pushing you to the brink of overstimulation every time.

You loved exploring each other's sexuality together, but the one thing he always denied you was giving him head.

“What is it, Bob, hm?” You asked him tenderly as you sat on his lap at the edge of his bed. You hooked your finger under his chin, causing him to look at you. “Is it that you’ve never had one before? Are you nervous?”

“No—” He half heartedly laughed. “I have… I just don’t feel like I deserve it, y’ know? You do so much for me, and I want to show you how much I love and appreciate you.” His large palms were on your waist, holding you against him as you sat on his lap. He pulled you in tighter; that underlying force that bellowed inside of him was ready to flip you over and spread your thighs before him.

“Bob…” You let out a giggle as he returned to kissing your neck to distract you. “You do so much for me!” You protested back at him, but it fell on deaf ears as he pressed kisses down your neck and shoulders.

Your fingers found their way through his soft curls and tugged a little as his lips sucked on your tender flesh.

“Bob!” You protested again with laughter. You lifted his face to meet yours, and he wore a smug smile due to his attempt at distracting you. “Tell me. Why?”

His eyes shifted from yours to stare at the ground, and his fingers played with the hem of your t-shirt.

“It’s fucking stupid.” He mumbled out.

“I can promise you, it won’t be.” You reassured him with a soft smile and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his warm ear.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden, or be a hassle, or be annoying—”

“A blowjob is annoying to you?” You raised your eyebrows at him with a smirk.

“No!” Bob laughed and brushed it off. “It’s not that. I don’t think I deserve it because you do so much for me, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to, and then I don’t want you to stop being so kind to me because—”

A flurry of words left his mouth in a panicked rush, and you could see how his chest was beginning to rise and fall faster with each breath.

“Bob. Bob.” You stopped him mid-rambling and directed his worried gaze back to yours. “You do deserve it. I want to give you a blowjob, and I will always, always love you and want to care for you, my sweetheart.”

He didn’t say anything in return; he just nodded. You pressed down harder on his lap and slowly began moving your hips across his clothed cock. He drew his bottom lip in between his teeth and hummed.

“Please let me, Bob?” You lilted with a sweet and pleading tone.

“Okay.” He swallowed thickly, but a rosy flush crept up his neck and blossomed on his cheeks.

Truth be told, Bob had played out this exact scenario countless times when he was alone in the shower. His cock hardened beneath you as he pictured how pretty you would look on your knees and took his cock to the hilt.

You pressed your lips to his and kissed him slowly. Your hands found their way back into his curls and pulled gently, causing him to groan against your mouth.

You continued to move your hips against his lap, and you mumbled against him. “Remember, you can tell me to stop anytime, baby.”

He hummed in agreement and squeezed his palms tighter against your hips, feeling the last draw of your ass over his cock before you shifted off him and knelt between his thighs.

His hands naturally found their way into your hair as you ran yours up and down his clothed thighs. You littered teasing kisses over the fabric, but when you pressed firmer kisses to his growing bulge, he let out a loud moan.

Your fingers messily found the waistband of his sweats and pulled them down and off, followed by his underwear. You let out a whimper when you saw how achingly hard Bob was already. His cock was pressing against his torso, which was littered with the soft and messy curls of his pubic hair.

You had seen his cock plenty of times, but knowing that Bob was baring himself to you like this for you to give him pleasure, caused a surge of pleasure to rip through your stomach. Your cunt twitched momentarily, and you ached to be filled with him.

You were holding back from burying his cock in your mouth to the hilt so quickly.

You placed your hands on his bare thighs and gently squeezed at them, trailing kisses along his warm flesh. He shuddered and let out a whimper. You wrapped your hand around his shaft. It was hot under the touch, and it throbbed as you firmly palmed at it. Your lips met his tip with a soft kiss, and another whimper escaped him.

“Are you sure, baby?” He was questioning you with his words, but his body reacted entirely differently. His hands were winding tighter into your hair and tugging at your scalp. It was a subconscious twitch to pull you down onto his cock and chase that feeling he so desperately craved.

“I’m positive, baby.” You convinced him between a flurry of kisses to his shaft.

Your lips wrapped around his tip, and you sank lower down his shaft. He bucked his hips forward, and a longing groan left his lips, his secret pleasure daydream now becoming a wild reality.

You moved your tongue along the base of his cock, and a more resounding groan tore from his throat.

“Fuck!” Hearing him curse your name above caused your stomach to twist, and arousal seep through your underwear.

His fingers entangled deeper into your hair as you sank lower. You moved your head along his shaft at a rhythmic pace, with your tongue drawing long strokes against his base. Your palms spread across his thighs to steady yourself, with the aid of Bob’s hand messily in your hair to guide you.

Your body bounced rhythmically in time, and with a deep swallow, you took his cock to the hilt, burying your nose into the base of his curls. His swollen tip hit the back of your throat, and he choked out a groan, startled by the sudden movement. His sweet noises of contentment turned into breathy whimpers as your warm mouth took him whole. You mercilessly continued to push his tip to the back of his throat, and a curse of your name tore from his throat.

“Shit! Oh! Oh my fuckin’ God. You feel so fucking good, my sweet girl.” He stumbled over his words with breathy moans.

You pulled back momentarily, and his eyes fell on the string of saliva connecting his tip to your bottom lip. You ran your thumb across your lips, collecting the saliva into your mouth with a smirk. He cursed again.

You took his length back into your warm mouth, but this time, removed your hand from his thigh and gently cupped at his swollen balls.

“Oh… Oh…” He gasped with relief.

You drew yourself off his cock to ask, “Does that feel nice?”

“Yeah… Please… Keep going.” He was asking politely, but his voice had a heavy sense of demand. You were firmly reminded of the weight of his powers that rumbled and coursed through his veins.

You placed your mouth back around his cock, and your hand massaged his balls. You kept a continuous pace, sliding your lips up and around his cock, and slowly added a firm pressure to the grasp on his balls. He continued to let out a string of hurried curses of your name, groaning every time his pulsing tip hit the back of your throat.

You gently bounced on your knees against the carpet. You were pathetically humping the air in an attempt to gain any friction against your clit that was throbbing against your underwear.

“Let me look at you, please, baby.” He murmured. One of his hands left your head to cup at your jaw and tilt your gaze upwards. Tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes from the continuous deep throating. A sheen of salvia was drooling down your chin, and your cheeks felt hot.

Bob had envisioned this moment countless times, but nothing compared to the pretty sight below him.

Your eyes directly met his. His gaze bore into yours, and you saw the shimmery, golden speckles flutter around his pupils.

It caused a shudder to spread down your spine.

“I’d like to experience this more often, please. You look so pretty for me.” He breathed out with shaky breaths but with a sure smile.

He was always so damned polite.

You did your best attempt at a smile but hummed in agreement. The vibrations sent around his cock caused him to stutter out another moan, and you took that as your sign to continue your ministrations.

You repeated the same rhythmic actions, and Bob couldn’t hold on for much longer. His hips were starting to buck impossibly closer to your face, and the grip on your hair grew tighter.

“I think… M’ gonna…” He blurted it out so suddenly that his taste in your mouth caught you off guard. “Don’t stop… Please! Oh fuck!” He groaned out with shaky breaths as he spilt into your mouth, and his head rolled backwards.

You continued to pulse your mouth around his twitching cock, causing him to whine as his thighs trembled beneath you. Another flurry of curses left his lips, pushing him further into overstimulation.

You licked along the base of his sticky shaft twice more before removing your mouth completely.

You gazed up at him and watched how the golden sparkles thrummed around his pupils before dissolving completely.

His cock was sheened with a mix of his cum and your saliva. A rosy flush was blossoming across his cheeks, and a pleasure-induced smile spread on his face.

He was such a beautiful sight to behold.

You wiped your thumb over your bottom lip, collecting the final droplets of his spend into your mouth.

You placed yourself back on his lap, and your hands found his hair again. As you placed a kiss on his lips, he let out a muffled groan as he tasted himself.

Bob pulled back from the kiss and let out a gasp when he felt your arousal seeping through your underwear and coating his softening cock.

“Have you been this wet the entire time, baby?!”

You hid your face in the crook of his neck. “Yeah.” You mumbled as you mouthed at his flesh.

“Can I give you head now, please?” He politely asked with a playful tone. You pulled back and nodded eagerly.

“You can, but I’m giving you another blowjob late—” You let out a yelp, followed by bubbles of laughter as Bob used his underlying force to pick you up so effortlessly and lay you out on the bed.

He grinned as he towered above you and drew his hands up your ankles to part your thighs. “Fine by me, my sweet girl.”

taglist: @floydsmuse @beachbabey @tallrock35 @unmistakablyunknown @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @becks-things @peachystenbrough @lewmagoo @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @rhettmotel @mustaaarrd @beautifulandvoid @auroralightsthesky

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sweetstrawberryys · 3 months ago

Text

"That Damn Pillow"

Summary: After a long deployment, John comes home to find his very pregnant wife buried in a fortress of pregnancy pillows. He’s determined to win her back… from Jeff the pillow.

Rating: Flirty, soft domestic fluff with a little heat.

Masterlist

---

You hadn’t meant to build a fortress.

It started with just one pregnancy pillow. Then a second — one of those full-body U-shaped ones. Then a wedge. Then a tiny squishy one for your knees.

By the time John was due home, your side of the bed looked like it had been annexed by a soft, pastel army of ergonomic support.

You were curled up in the middle, eight months pregnant and barely able to roll over, when you heard the door unlock.

Click.

Boots.

Heavy ones.

Then that voice.

“Darling?” he called, slightly gravelly from the road, “Or have the pillows eaten you alive?”

You grinned and yelled back, “If you value your life, bring snacks!”

He chuckled and stepped into the bedroom — and immediately stopped dead in the doorway.

“What the bloody hell is this?” he asked, one brow raised, hands on his hips.

“My fortress of emotional and lumbar support,” you said, eyes innocent. “I don’t need a man. I have a wedge pillow named Jeff now.”

“Jeff?” he snorted, tossing his bag down. “I’ve been gone for three months and I get replaced by a bloody foam noodle?”

You patted the giant U-shaped pillow around you. “This one is Charles. He supports my hips. Unlike some people who leave for weeks.”

Price climbed onto the bed, carefully navigating the sea of pillows. You watched as he knelt beside you, brushing hair from your face with a soft look in his eyes.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your lips. Then your forehead. Then… your belly.

“Missed you too,” you said, running fingers through his hair. “Even if I do sleep better with Jeff.”

“Oh, that’s it,” he growled playfully, trying to tug the pillow out from under you.

You shrieked with laughter. “He aligns my spine, John!”

“I’ll align your spine,” he muttered against your neck, voice dropping. “Missed touching you, love. Missed this belly.”

“Don’t sweet-talk my bump and expect forgiveness.”

“I’m not sweet-talking,” he said, sliding his hand over your side. “I’m begging.”

You smirked. “Beg harder, Daddy.”

His eyes darkened. “Move Jeff. Now.”

“Never. He’s soft and he doesn’t judge my swollen ankles.”

John nipped at your ear. “Jeff’s about to be discharged from this house.”

A little later…

The pillows were on the floor.

Your shirt was rucked up.

Price was rubbing your belly, whispering, “Can’t believe how big you’ve gotten. You’re glowing.”

“You’re just trying to get back in my good graces.”

“Is it working?”

“…A little.”

“Enough for one more kiss?”

You grinned. “Only if you apologize to Jeff.”

Price rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell.”

#call of duty #cod fanfic #cod x you #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #captain john price #john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x y/n

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lay-z · 3 months ago

Text

sugar plum promises | 1

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x CURVY!FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; some physical descriptions of Reader; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers; hurt/comfort; eventual smut [Please mind the warnings for each part!]

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB × | [ SPP MASTERLIST ]

It’s Saturday, his first day off base since returning from a three month long deployment just the day before yesterday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly like no one ever has before while he’s minding his business and checking out the new flavours of instant Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you suddenly address him directly.

“Big lad like you needs a proper meal,” you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. “In my humble opinion.” You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, immediately checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a “Have a good day, love,” and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling in this moment as his body decides to act on autopilot, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, perhaps this time, Simon’s going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping that maybe, you’ll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

He follows you discreetly through the supermarket like a man on a never-ending mission, silently stalking like a cat in a mouse chase down the aisles. His eyes are locked on you like a heat-seeking missile, noting every move you make, watching how every step sways your curves in the right fashion, nearly causing him to run into a display rack at his momentary distraction.

He nearly growls when some random bloke blocks his path to you and to ask you a question on top of that. He doesn’t quite manage to pick up the words, but it’s enough for him to clench his jaw and tighten his grip on the abused instant noodles cup. A deep huff escapes from behind his balaclava, and he resumes his discreet surveillance as soon as the man saunters his merry way.

Simon watches as you throw a pack of biscuits into the cart, your body turned away from him, your back facing him while you lean over. His eyes land on your round, firm rear like a magnet drawn to the iron. He can almost see the way your muscles move under the jeans fabric—

His thoughts are rudely interrupted when an elderly woman approaches the same shelf, and he has to step into the next aisle and pretend to browse, stomach twisting as he loses visuals on you.

As the woman moves her squeaky cart on wheels down the lane, his eyes flicker nervously before he catches sight of you again, chest heaving with a sigh of relief as he sees you browsing the frozen goods section, and his fingers twitch around the plastic cup, itching to touch you, to grab your hips and grind himself against—he shakes his head with a low grunt, trying to rid himself of that thought. He's already painfully hard enough.

It’s wrong, Simon knows that. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t use his skills to basically stalk you for making a nice, yet throwaway remark in his direction, but he somehow can’t keep his eyes off your body, his gaze glued to your every move—until you obviously pick up on the surveillance.

You do notice him. He’s like a looming shadow sneaking after your own, and for a moment, you wonder if you should’ve just kept your mouth shut for once when you’d spotted him initially.

He’s built like a bloody tank, wearing a balaclava and matching gloves with a skeleton pattern. What the bloody hell were you thinking?

All bark, no bite. That’s what you were thinking, and Wonder if he’s as tough as he looks or if he crumbles like a fresh scone with a few buttery words—like many other “scary dog privilege” men before him.

Slowing your steps, you eventually come to a stop, heart thudding as you glance over your shoulder, only to see him a few feet away, staring right back at you in a way that’s as adorable as it is eerie.

Simon’s feet freeze on the spot, his gaze locking with yours across the freezer cabinets, eyes wide. He didn’t expect to be discovered so easily, and he stands there like a deer caught in the headlights of a Humvee with an RPG attached to it—that he hopes will shoot him on sight.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the fabric of the balaclava, his mind racing for an excuse, a reason, though he comes up with nothing. The seconds feel like hours as the two of you stare at each other, before he finally blurts out:

“I...” His voice is hoarse, a low grumble that betrays his own surprise.

Oh. You almost laugh out loud at the sight before you, though you manage to suppress it, lips pursing in amusement instead.

No bark, no bite, actually.

He looks like an awkward little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the secret candy drawer in the living room.

“Yes, you?” you ask teasingly, wanting him to continue, to stammer and try to come up with a proper yet easily punishable lie. Raising an eyebrow, you turn towards him fully, keeping one hand on the shopping cart while your other rests on the curve of your hip casually.

“Well?”

Simon’s brain short-circuits as he desperately tries to come up with a plausible excuse, but all his mind supplies is a loop of caught, caught, caught like a broken record while he merely stands there like a fish washed out on the shore. He clears his throat awkwardly and straightens up, attempting to look innocent.

“I... I was just... uh...” he stammers, his voice wavering as the words refuse to come out. He mentally curses his lack of social skills, the years of isolation making him stumble like some twonk.

“Just doing some shopping,” he eventually mutters gruffly, his eyes flitting away from your gaze for a moment before darting back, unable to resist another look. There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment.

You nod slowly. “Doing some shopping,” you repeat, amusement glinting in your eyes as you glance down at the single cup of instant Ramen he’s still clutching in his hands like a lifebuoy. “Right.”

You notice how utterly still he is; no shuffling, no fidgeting, broad chest barely moving as he breathes, dark eyes flickering the slightest bit whenever your gaze catches his.

He’s a different breed of man, that one, you muse.

Clicking your tongue, you shift on your feet. “You call that shopping?” You nod your chin at his hands. “Like I said, you need to be fed a proper meal, love. Is your wife out of town or something?”

Simon bristles at your comment, his shoulders tensing as your words hit a nerve, a bit too close to home. He glances down at the cup of Ramen in his hands, feeling a mixture of shame and stubbornness.

The truth is that he’s so bloody touch–and attention-starved that your simple words, your simple presence, make him feel flustered, his frayed nerves now on edge.

“I don't have a wife,” he mutters, words edged with a hint of bitterness. He knows he’s being judged, but there’s a baser, hidden part of him that simply revels in the attention, in the fact that someone as classy and obviously put-together as you, has noticed him at all.

“And I can feed myself just fine.” He adds dryly, raising the cup defiantly as if to prove a point.

You swallow another pleased smile as he confirms what you've expected while the word brat burns on the tip of your tongue at this display of attitude.

Glancing back at your full shopping cart, you lick your lips briefly in thought, pondering and weighing the risks before looking back at him. He hasn’t moved an inch, simply keeps observing like you’re the odd ball here.

Pulling on the shopping cart, you slowly start walking backwards towards him, approaching like someone would a strange street dog.

“Tell you what,” you say as soon as you’re an appropriate distance away from him, and it’s then that you notice how tall and broad he truly this is up close. “If you help me carry these groceries to my car, I’ll cook you a proper dinner tonight.”

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and bewildered by your audacity. He simply stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, grappling with the unexpected situation. You’re trying to coax him with a treat like one would do with an animal to gain its trust, and Simon is furious about the tiny part inside his brain that’s thrashing to jump on this opportunity.

“You... You’re serious,” he finally manages to sputter, his brain struggling to process that you, that a woman like you, a stranger, is actually proposing this to someone like him.

“Why would you do that?” His eyes narrow in suspicion, though beneath the hardness of his expression, there’s a hint of curiosity, a hint of longing for a chance at this offered piece of normalcy.

Sensing his—understandable—apprehension, you give a small shrug in return, finally offering him a tentative yet genuine smile.

“Because you look like you could use it, love.”

You let your eyes roam once more, looking him up and down from boot to mask, heart giving a curious flutter as your gaze locks with his; tawny eyes so dark, you know you could get lost in them if he lets you in.

Then you reach into your purse slung over your shoulder and you notice how his broad shoulders tense and how his fingers flex as if he’s bracing himself for an attack.

As your hand disappears into your purse, Simon’s defensive instincts kick in automatically, his muscles coiling tightly in anticipation. His sharp senses on high alert, he blinks, slightly taken aback but not surprised by his own reaction, though he can’t help it; years of experience and survival training already hard-wired into his responses.

But he relaxes incrementally, when he sees you withdrawing your hand—now holding a purple ball pen and small note pad, and the sudden burst of adrenaline fades to a steady thrum in his veins as fast as it came.

“I...” he begins, but the words feel caught in his throat, his mind suddenly blank.

Covering his little slip-up with your own feigned nonchalance, you start scribbling away on the first blank page of your notepad before ripping it out and holding it out for him to take, thus offering a different treat—secretly hoping he’ll like this one.

“My name,” you explain, deciding that it might not be as self-explanatory as it would be for any other man you’ve previously met, “and my phone number.”

When he eventually takes the slip of paper with due care, his eyes keep flickering between your hand and face as if still expecting you to pull a gun on him, until you take a polite step backwards.

“Call or text me for that meal if you change your mind,” you add confidently.

Simon’s gaze follows your hand warily, taking the note from you with a slow, measured movement, his gloved fingers feeling uncharacteristically clumsy and uncoordinated as he grabs it. He stares at the slip of paper in his hand for a moment, brows furrowing behind his balaclava as he takes in the sight of your phone number and name written in neat, cursive handwriting, reading the words slowly in an almost mechanical manner, committing them to memory as a precaution.

His fingers twitch involuntarily, and for a wild, fleeting moment, he wants to raise the paper to his nose and inhale the faint scent of your perfume that clings onto the paper. And then you take a step backward, giving him space, and he takes an unconscious step forward, like a puppet on a string, not wanting to put that space between you again while his eyes stay glued to yours with a touch of desperation.

You’re leaving the ball in his corner and he doesn’t know how what to think, how to act.

As you adjust the straps of your purse on your shoulder, you drink in his subtle reaction with a mixture of sympathy and glee.

“Alright then?”

Simon watches in awe as you readjust your purse like it’s the most interesting action he’s ever seen, and when he opens his mouth to respond, his thoughts tumble over each other like leaves in a breeze. A simple yeah or a sure would’ve been the logical answers, but none of this is logical to him right now.

“You’re not worried,” he observes, the words nearly sounding accusatory, “about having a stranger over for dinner?”

He almost wants to call you daft, reckless; giving a man like him your number and name, offering your kindness up so easily. Can’t you tell what kind of man he is? Don’t you know what he can do with the intel you’ve already provided him with so willingly?

Simon wants to reach out and shake you, but his fingers are trembling and his cock is still throbbing, still semi-hard in his pants—and he can’t quite tell which is worse.

There’s a long pause between you as you regard his question with a light crease between your eyebrows, and you catch yourself wondering again what this poor man could’ve possibly been through for him to be this bloody suspicious.

From your experience, almost every other man would’ve jumped on this opportunity already, presented on a silver plate. You’ve been flirting with him since you spotted him entering the supermarket. However, you can only admit to yourself that his cautious reactions are merely heightening your curiosity and the urge to unravel this beast of a man completely.

“Most people start out as strangers,” you answer eventually, gauging his next reaction carefully, “and usually one takes the initiative to get to know the other if they’re interested, you know?” You flash him a disarming smile. “This is me taking that initiative here, mister.”

He takes a step forward, invading your personal space, and the height difference between you two becomes more painfully (arousingly) clear. Simon towers over you, his body vibrating with suppressed tension while he looks down at you with a stare that usually has his rookies quiver in their boots—not you, though.

“And what if I’m not interested?” he responds too bluntly and not as playful as he intended to, his voice lowered, nearly growling at you. He’s picked up on how other men talk to women at pubs, has eavesdropped and heard how Soap and Gaz talk to the birds they end up taking back to the barracks, and yet he can’t quite get his own tone right.

He certainly doesn’t like the fact that you’re making his heart race, that you’ve piqued his curiosity without even trying. It feels unfamiliar, dangerous, and somehow, he finds himself craving more of it in the same heartbeat.

Tilting your head owlishly, you regard him with a half-puzzled, half-amused look.

“Then I'll go on my merry way, love,” you reply with a breathy chuckle that obviously leaves him feeling even more lost judging how his eyes widen. “And then we move on after having a basic human interaction at a supermarket. Life’s beautiful, innit?”

Something about the way you talk, with the casual pet name, ‘love’, thrown in every second sentence, or the way your laugh makes his skin prickle in some foreign, exciting way, drives him mad with primal want and the unfamiliar urge to keep you here with him, keep you talking.

But he also feels like a damn fool in this moment, and on top of that, his face feels so hot under his balaclava, too. You’re not reacting the way he expects you to, not at all, and it’s throwing him off-guard.

He clears his throat again. “You’ll just... move on,” he repeats incredulously, like it pains him to say the words. “Just like that.”

You shrug, flashing another smile. “I mean... yes. What else is there to do? I’m not running after a man who’s not interested in me. I’m too old for games like that.”

Simon’s eyes narrow again. The thought of you giving up so easily, leaving, not even giving him a second thought—it pisses him off, for some reason, because it’s making him desperate. How the bloody hell does Garrick make it sound so easy and suave every time?

“How old are you?” The words burst out without him meaning to, his tone still gruff and defensive.

You snort softly. He’s so bratty, so rude, it’s almost endearing for a man looking like him, and it pokes your curiosity, causing the urge to take care of him to blossom even more hotly behind your ribcage as you drink up the tension in his body and fatigue clinging behind his wary, bottomless gaze.

“Old enough to know what I want, love.” It’s a curt response that has the desired effect judging by the way his jaw ticks under his odd mask. You smile again as you put the pen and notepad back into your purse, turning halfway around to your shopping cart to signal your departure.

“Anyway... my ice cream is melting, so I’ll be heading to the cashier. Thanks for the chat. You have a good day now.”

Just like that.

Simon is reeling internally as you prepare to leave, and he can’t help but admire the subtle power you wield with the way you carry yourself and the nonchalance you display so bloody effortlessly. Suddenly, he is torn between letting you go and the fierce need for you to not walk away. His chest tightens and his fingers twitch, and he suddenly feels like a child lost in this bloody supermarket, scared of being abandoned again.

However, he swallows the plea festering on the tip of his tongue, the words asking you to wait, stay, and talk more. No, Simon falls back, clutching the bloody Ramen cup in one hand as he stares after you while you simply move on like you said you would, as if you didn’t just throw him off balance completely with this whole interaction.

When his other hand balls into a tight fist, he hears the crumpling of paper, and when he glances down at his open palm, his heart nearly drops with relief.

You’ve given him your number. He’s never gotten a girl’s number in his life.

It was real. It is real. Everything that just happened is real, and he wasn’t simply daydreaming it up this time.

His fingers close around that scrap of paper like a life line, his mind racing once more with possibilities, the scenarios, the what-ifs.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cw mommy kink #cod x reader #cod ghost #simon riley x you #cod #cod x you #cod smut #simon riley smut #ghost x you

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monzabee · 3 months ago

Text

woah, baby! - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: spencer regrets his words about not wanting kids. how can he not when he sees you with a baby?

Pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: spencer doesn’t want a baby (or does he?), talks about schizophrenia, kissing, babies, talks about pregnancy

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

In retrospect, he should’ve known his words would eventually come back to bite him in the ass. Especially because they hadn’t been spoken in anger or frustration. No, Spencer had said it casually over takeout and an old documentary playing in the background.

“I just don’t think I want kids,” he’d said, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean, I just don’t think it would be fair to them, with our line of work and all. You know?”

You’d gone quiet then, your smile faltering for just a second before you recovered. You didn’t argue. You didn’t press. You just nodded, picked at your noodles, and changed the subject. “People around us will have kids,” you had said to him later, “you’re more important to me.”

And he’d believed you. Or at least, he’d convinced himself you meant it. Because you were always understanding, always willing to compromise. Spencer had taken that quiet acceptance and tucked it away, like an old piece of paper, pretending it didn’t ache to think about having kids with you.

It’s not that he doesn't want kids per se, because he does. He really, really does—and with you. But he’d spent so long convincing himself that it isn't a good idea, that it wouldn’t be safe, that he wouldn't be good enough, and there was a risk he would pass on the gene for schizophrenia. But all of that—the logic, the statistics, the what-ifs—starts to crumble the moment he saw you with a baby in your arms.

It had been an impromptu visit to JJ’s. A rare weekend with no case, no jet, just brunch on her back patio while Henry played in the yard. You’d offered to help with Michael, who was fussing, and within seconds you had him nestled against your shoulder, bouncing gently and humming something soft under your breath. Spencer had looked up from his plate, and everything in him stops.

But now, you weren't just holding JJ’s baby—you were glowing. Calm and natural and heartbreakingly beautiful as you whisper silly things to make him giggle. He sees your eyes soften when the baby grabs your finger, the way your lips curls into a secret little smile meant just for him. And that’s when something shifts. Like a dam inside his chest, like every carefully constructed wall of rationality and fear finally gave in to something far more powerful—want.

Not abstract or theoretical, not someday or maybe.

But real and immediate. Now.

It’s completely irrational, and irresponsible, and Spencer knows this. But the only thing he wants to do right now is to take you home and—well, to put it crudely, put a baby inside you—in the most gentlemanly way possible, of course. He doesn’t do it right away though, of course not! And he doesn’t say anything when Will asks him whether he’s fine, no. Not while you’re cradling Michael and smiling like that, like you were meant for it. He just watches you, heart thudding with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. He thinks about the future—the possible future where the two of you have a baby of your own.

He thinks about the scattered toys around the apartment, and lazy mornings where you all pile into bed together, your child nestled between the two of you, giggling as Spencer pretends to be asleep just so he can feel the weight of their tiny body crawling over him, demanding attention. He imagines late nights, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, warming up bottles while you rock the baby against your chest in one of his old FBI hoodies. He pictures your shared smiles when they take their first steps, say their first words, when their sleepy eyes blink up at him like he’s their whole world.

He thinks about it, and he thinks about it a lot. But he stays silent, knowing that once the words are out, there’s no taking them back. And for something this big—this life-altering—he needs to be sure. Not just that he wants it, but that you still do, too. That somewhere deep down, after all this time, after his half-hearted deflections and logic-laced excuses, you’re still holding onto that quiet hope.

So, he waits.

Waits until you are in the safe confine of your home. You're humming as you put away the leftovers from earlier, and Spencer leans against the doorframe, watching you with the kind of reverence that aches. It hits him again, the thought that this is what he wants every day, forever, with you.

He walks toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid that moving too fast might make the fragile thing blooming inside him shatter. You glance up at him and smile. It’s so easy, so effortless, and he wonders if you even know what you do to him.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, a little unsure.

You raise an eyebrow, catching the slight change in his tone. “Hey. You okay?” Spencer nods, but then shakes his head, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. “Is it your stomach? I told you to stay away from the dairy, Spence, you never listen to me—”

“I want kids,” he blurts, voice higher-pitched than intended, sharp enough to cut right through your sentence.

You freeze, a Tupperware lid still in your hand, eyes wide as you turn to face him. “Huh?”

“I—” He exhales shakily. “I know it sounds sudden. And maybe it is. But it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about today after seeing you with Micheal and I just thought about kids. Our kids.”

You blink, still not moving. “Kids. Like—plural?”

“I mean, I’d start with one,” he says, a little breathless, a touch desperate. “Just one. Though I guess twins do run in your family, so that means at least a fifteen percent chance of multiples, but that’s not the point—” He stops himself, clearly spiraling into statistics out of nerves, and drags a shaky hand through his hair. “What I mean is, yes. Plural. If you want. I just… I want this with you.”

The Tupperware clatters onto the counter as you slowly set it down, turning to face him fully. “Spence, you told me you didn’t want kids, remember?”

“I know,” he says, voice thick now, eyes wide with something raw. “And I meant it—at the time. Or I thought I did. I was scared. Scared of passing things on, of not being good enough, of loving them so much it would undo me. But you…” He takes a step closer. “You make it make sense. You make it feel possible and safe... right.” You swallow hard. It’s a lot. All of it. The past, the memory of that night he so casually shut the door on this dream. The quiet ache of acceptance that came afterward. And now—this. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he continues quickly, seeing the conflict flicker in your eyes. “This isn’t me asking you to decide right now, or even soon. I just needed to be honest. I needed you to know.” He stops a foot away from you, eyes searching yours. “Do you still want that? With me?”

The silence stretches for a moment. And then you reach for him, wordless, threading your fingers through his and placing his hand gently over your heart. “I always wanted that with you,” you whisper, and he releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Spencer leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Okay,” he breathes, soft and reverent. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, a little breathless and a little teary. “Let’s do it. Let’s have a baby.”

Spencer exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. After a beat, he mumbles into your skin, “I still think it was the dairy, though.”

You snort. “Spencer.”

“What? I’m just saying, correlation isn’t causation.” His voice pitches higher as he tries to defend himself, making you smile into his shoulder.

You sigh in faux-exasperation. “God help our future child.”

“I’m a very fun fact at parties.” You laugh, as he grins, holding you tighter. Then, suddenly he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes soft but filled with something raw and hopeful. His hand cups your cheek, brushing his thumb over your skin like he’s trying to memorize every detail of you.

“What?” You ask, laughing softly.

“I love you,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “I just—really, really love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips, but it’s a smile full of so much more than just happiness.

It’s full of everything you’ve both been through, everything that’s led you to this moment, and everything that’s to come. And somehow, you think it’s perfect.

#monzabee #requests open #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x y/n #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff

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tsuy4n · 25 days ago

Text

The Artist Who Lives for the Plot

Warning/s: Fem!Reader, Mild language/swearing, still chaotic, Verbal bullying disguised as flirting, petty drama, reader still very much suffering (comically), One (1) rusty bike lock, Unwilling reverse harem, Reader is done with them all (not really)

[A/n]: I'm so sorry for taking long! ;; next part will be out later, in a few hours or something so dw and please enjoyyy <3

Part 1, Part 2, >Part 3<, Masterlist

Day 4: Part II (evening)

You were clocking out late. Again.

The hallway buzzed with flickering lights, stage dust still clinging to your sleeves, sketchbook tucked under one arm. Your legs ached. Your brain even more.

By now, you'd memorized every crack in the tiles, every flicker of that busted vending machine light. You just wanted to get home, finish your panels, and maybe eat something that wasn't cup noodles. Bare minimum.

Then you stepped outside—and felt it.

Someone was watching you.

"Leaving work without saying goodbye? That hurts, y'know."

It was Abby, leaning against the lamppost like it owed him rent, and possibly his reflection rights.

You gave him a flat look. "I say goodbye to people I like."

He clutched his chest like you'd just stabbed him and insulted his jawline. "Ouch. And here I thought we had a vibe."

He didn't move, though. Just smirked like rejection was part of his workout routine while he watched you walk past him.

God, he even looked like he expected the streetlights to highlight his cheekbones.

And just when you thought that was it—

"[Y/n]~!" Romance appeared next, jogging lightly from the alley like he just happened to be there. His hair was perfect. His shirt was open just enough.

Coincidence? Please.

You sighed. "No."

He blinked, unfazed, smile still perfect. "You don’t even know what I was gonna ask."

"Still no."

He pouted like a rejected Disney prince caught mid-promposal, hand dramatically over his heart. "But I was going to say your outfit brings out your defiance today. Very... stabbing energy. I approve."

He fell into step behind you, the faint sound of cologne and confidence trailing after.

You raised a brow but continued on with walking. You didn't slow down, didn’t even look at them.

But inside?

Well.

Not that you’d ever admit it, especially not out loud. You could practically see the chaos it would unleash. They’d weaponize it. Swarm you. Probably choreograph a musical number about it.

Besides, the energy they gave off? Narcissists. The whole lot.

You’d said it once, loudly, and immediately regretted it when Abby started handing out autographed selfies as "emotional support" earlier.

You learned your lesson.

As you sighed about the happenings that had wormed their way into your supposed normal life, Baby appeared.

'Persistent.' You thought with furrowed brows as you walked.

Baby didn't announce himself. Just slinked into view beside you like a raccoon in designer knitwear, matching your pace with the quiet menace of someone who could charm a child and hex a CEO.

You didn’t even look at him. "Back off."

He blinked, all faux innocence. "This is a public sidewalk."

You glared at him. "So's a trash can."

"Harsh." He huffed, arms crossing in front of his chest like a scolded cat. Under his breath, he started muttering, something about revenge, something about tomorrow. Maybe glitter traps.

Maybe making you sweep the studio twice just so he could "supervise" from the beanbag chair like a tiny, unbothered boss.

You didn't ask. You weren't about to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you lifted your chin like a battle-worn queen, walking faster now, sketchbook still under your arm like a weapon.

Whatever he does—whatever any of them do—you're ready.

As you continued your walk yet again, like some adventurer activating random NPC monologues, you saw him.

Mystery.

He stepped forward just to wave his hand. No words. Just a...gesture.

You blinked, a little confused, but still replied. "...See you tomorrow."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before he fell back. And that made your lips curve up. Just a little.

Okay, fine. He is cute.

Again, not that you'd say it out loud. God forbid one of them heard.

Unlike a certain someone who thought sarcasm was flirting and eyeliner made him invincible, all of them were idiots. Chaos wrapped in expensive cologne and questionable decision-making.

You were used to chaos. It almost made you uneasy when they weren't around.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the reason you never fully shoved them away.

They were annoying. Distracting. Unreasonably sparkly for your eyes... but they were also kind of—ugh—endearing. In a loser, try-hard, "we're definitely failing this mission but still doing finger hearts" kind of way.

You wouldn't say it to their faces. You had panels to finish. Rent to pay. A story back home that didn’t involve dodging demon-idols like you were in some cursed rom-com.

But you could spare five minutes. Maybe ten. Just long enough to pretend you weren't starting to care.

And finally...him.

Of course all five of them would show up right when you were trying to leave.

You didn't even flinch when Jinu appeared like some smug apparition, waving lazily before falling into step beside you like he belonged there.

You rolled your eyes.

There he went again, playing gentleman like he hadn't let that door close in your face this morning, or called your mattress a 'commoner bed.'

You didn't notice it at first, too busy sulking about his nerve and how this man probably dried his tears with designer cologne samples, but his smile twitched. Just slightly.

Then he looked at you, really looked. Like the words had tripped some kind of wire in his head. Soul.

His gaze lingered, curious now. Calculating, and a touch of amusement. Was that just a throwaway line? A sarcastic jab?

Or were you hinting?

You kept walking, completely unbothered. Maybe a little smug. Like someone who knew exactly what you said and didn’t care if it landed.

Jinu chuckled under his breath, more to himself than anything. "Careful." He murmured. "You say things like that, someone might actually come for it."

You thought of a comeback, something about how they're welcome to try, especially when you don't make enough for rent, but then you noticed: he was still walking with you.

You gave him a slow, suspicious glance. "You planning to follow me all the way to the bus stop or what?"

He grinned like this was the most casual thing in the world. "What, and miss this charming walk?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're not slick. You're just tall and well-lit."

"Guilty."

You didn't give him the satisfaction of laughing. Instead, you kept walking—shoulders tense, jaw set, and absolutely determined to ignore how he still hadn’t left.

But eventually, near the next corner, Jinu slowed his steps.

"Guess this is where I peel off." He said lightly, head tipping toward the alleyway. "Don't miss me too much."

You didn’t answer. Just waved him off without looking, or maybe practically shooed him.

Jinu watched you for a beat longer than necessary. Not just out of amusement anymore. There was something else now.

He turned, heading toward the alley, cool as ever. Or at least, trying to be.

...Only to immediately trip over a loose crate someone had left by the wall.

It wasn't dramatic. Just a sharp thud of a foot hitting wood, followed by a clumsy half-step and a quiet curse as he caught himself against the brick.

You stopped walking.

Jinu cleared his throat like he hadn't just almost fallen flat on his handsome face. "That was a—strategic pivot."

You heard him say those words from behind. That was definitely a crate collision. A soft scuffle. Some kind of grunt. The universal sound of "I meant to do that" followed by several seconds of oh no I didn’t.

You raised a brown then turned.

There he was—Jinu, Mister I-seduce-with-my-voice, straightening like nothing happened, hand casually braced against the wall like he wasn’t one misstep away from shattering his cool factor into a million tragic pieces.

You blinked again, then snorted. "Seriously?"

He met your gaze with the stubborn pride of a man who would never admit to tripping, even if you had video footage, witness testimonies, and a soundtrack of slapstick violin.

"I was surveying the ground." He said, completely deadpan.

You stared a beat longer. And then your lips twitched.

A breath of laughter escaped. Real and unexpected. You didn’t even mean for it to come out. "The leader of dorks…"

Jinu froze.

Not because of what he heard but because of what he saw.

That was the first time he'd seen you smile like that. Not a smirk. Not a tired, caffeine-deprived grimace. But a proper smile. Real, and unfiltered. Like something broke through your sarcasm firewall for a second and said surprise! humanity.

And worst part—it looked good on you.

Like, really good.

There was a moment. A weird, annoying moment where the world briefly went soft-focus and his heart gave the most inconvenient little thud like it was auditioning for your approval. How rude. How treacherous.

And most definitely embarrassing.

He glanced away quickly, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeve. "Watch your step." He muttered, clearly referring to himself and clearly pretending he meant it as deep, wise advice.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. "See you tomorrow, Mister-switch."

He recovered just enough to throw the parting shot over his shoulder.

"Not if I see you first."

"Pff—sure." You snorted, shaking your head as you waved him off with a lazy little flick of your fingers. The smile stuck, annoyingly enough.

You weren't about to admit it, but… that may or may not have lifted your mood.

A little. Maybe.

"Keke...heh.."

Whatever. He still tripped.

Jinu stared and watched. He didn't moved right away, not until you disappeared around the corner.

And even then, he stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the empty space where your laugh had just been.

What the hell was that.

That was not part of the plan. That was not part of any plan. He was supposed to be cold, composed, vaguely threatening. Not… swooning like a man in a budget romance drama who just got saved from emotional death by a smile and a half-sarcastic insult.

He ducked into the alley, checked his surroundings, and stepped into shadow.

And just like that, he vanished.

But his pride? That stayed behind. On the sidewalk. Next to the stupid crate.

Jinu didn't disappear, not completely, because he stayed nearby.

And right now, he's perched atop a building across the street, crouched like a gargoyle with his silky hair flowing with the wind.

Dramatic, pointless, and... completely unnecessary. But fitting.

He watched you walk, still heading for the bus stop where fewer people lingered at this hour. Good.

Then it happened—a ripple. A flicker in the air. Like a tear splitting through the atmosphere itself.

He didn't move.

Just watched, every muscle in his body strung tight as the demon stepped out, slinking toward you like shadow given teeth.

You noticed.

But there was no scream. No dramatic gasp. Just a shift in your weight, the widening of your eyes—like your brain said "run" and your body said "fight."

And somehow, you did both.

It wasn't graceful. No summoned weapons. No elegant energy flares like the kind Huntrix used. You didn't even look magical. You looked cornered. Tired, and maybe even furious...?

And somehow still fast enough to dodge that first strike.

You grabbed the nearest object. A bike lock.

Was it even yours? Who knew. It looked like it had been abandoned on a pile of crates, maybe stolen, maybe cursed, maybe both.

But you gripped it anyway, rusted chain and all, and swung like you meant to knock the demon back into whatever budget horror film it crawled out of.

It screeched, stumbling, and you didn’t stop.

You kicked like you'd seen it in a street brawl scene, elbowed like you remembered from a how-to diagram, and maybe even threw in a spin from that one anime you half-watched while doing laundry.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't trained. But it worked.

Self-defense. Pure, frantic instinct. The kind of grit born from late-night walks and too many true crime podcasts.

The demon hissed again before clawing at air and vanishing through the rift, which snapped shut with a warped hum. A few people glanced over—confused, too slow to make sense of anything.

You stood there, panting. Shaken, but clearly alive.

Then you looked down at the bike lock in your hand—ew. It was rusting, dented, and possibly biologically hazardous.

You squinted at it like it betrayed you mid-fight. "Great. If that thing doesn’t kill me, the tetanus will."

You glanced once over your shoulder, half-expecting the freak in the weird getup to come sprinting back with backup. But the alley was empty.

Gone. Just like that.

You furrowed your brows. 'What, did they just... run off? Through a manhole? That a cosplay villain or a track star?'

Either way, you weren't about to stick around to find out.

"Hope you get tetanus." You muttered toward the empty street—petty, winded, but absolutely victorious.

And then, without another thought, you bolted.

"...?"

Jinu didn't move. Didn't breathe for a second.

He hadn't seen everything, not the little details such as the tremor in your fingers or the disbelief in your eyes just that he saw enough.

You fought. And won.

With a rusted bike lock you picked out of trash like a last-minute boss fight drop.

He blinked once. Slowly.

Are you with Huntrix? Or just stupidly brave?

Were those moves actual technique? Or did you piece them together from Netflix, caffeine, and rage?

His eyes followed where the rift had closed. Then drifted back down to where you'd stood, where the bike lock had clattered to the ground after you'd taken off, forgotten.

He stared at it like it might answer for you, like it was some kind of cursed artifact.

A long beat passed.

Jinu's golden eyes narrowed as he went into deep thought, analyzing every possible detail—your stance, your grip, the swing of the bike lock. He mentally replayed it all, frame by frame.

The way you reacted, the seconds between noticing the threat and responding. The moment your body chose to fight.

You shouldn't have been able to do that. Not like that. Not with that.

Not against something like that.

And yet… you did.

He knew people could fight back under pressure. He'd seen it—adrenaline, desperation, muscle memory, bad luck wrapped in wild luck. Some humans were tough, some were clever, some were just too stubborn to go down.

Maybe you were one of those.

But still. The timing. The way you moved. The flash of your eyes like you knew what you were up against.

It didn't sit right.

He stayed silent, still as shadow on the rooftop, eyes tracking your form until it vanished into the dark. Confused. Curious. Conflicted.

And maybe just a little concerned. Not because he thought you were weak.

But because what if you weren't?

Day 5: Weapons of Mass Distraction

The rehearsal room was chaos.

Not the kind of chaos that looked productive—no, this was pure, unfiltered boyband entropy. Someone was messing with the Bluetooth speaker.

Romance was mid-vocal warmup and had already changed outfits twice. Abby was stretching in front of a mirror like it owed him money. Baby sat upside down on the couch for no reason other than to judge them from a physically impossible angle.

Jinu watched it all unfold with the calm exasperation of a man trying very hard not to commit murder.

"We debut in two days." He said, not for the first time.

Romance hummed a high note in response.

Jinu’s eye twitched. "I'm serious. If we don't stick to rehearsal—"

"She was here earlier." Baby said suddenly, flipping upright with the eerie grace of a cat sensing prey.

Everyone paused.

Romance perked up immediately. "Was she?" He turned, checking his reflection in the window like he could replay the moment. "What was she wearing?"

"Coffee-stained hoodie. Same one from yesterday," Baby replied, thinking back to the memory. "Same tired expression. Same fashion crimes."

He muttered the last part like an afterthought, a little too quiet. "Same unexplainable charm."

Abby let out a low whistle, not paying attention to whatever Baby said under his breath. "Damn. You clocked her like a sniper."

Romance arched a brow. "Didn't know you cared that much."

"I don't. I just have eyes." Baby scoffed, already regretting everything. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone, he added, "It's called observation."

Jinu looked skyward, as if begging for patience or divine smiting.

"Guys." Jinu snapped, his voice sharp as he found their nonsense tiring. "Focus."

His eyes were narrowed, cold, and the way his fingers tapped rhythmically against his arm screamed barely restrained irritation.

"We're not here to flirt. Or play games. Or trail after her like lost puppies." He paused, the corner of his lips twitching out of frustration. "This is starting to look pathetic."

He let out a sigh before he went on. "We've spent more time this week tracking a staff girl with questionable sleeping habits and a caffeine dependency than actually rehearsing."

Romance raised a hand. "What if it's dignified pining?"

Jinu didn't even blink, didn't bother to put on a reaction. "You don't pine. You pose."

"And accessorize." Romance added under his breath.

He was ignored.

Jinu continued, his voice low, clipped and controlled. "You've all forgotten the bigger picture. We're not here for her."

His gaze flicked toward the large mirror, like they held answers no one else could see.

"We stick to the mission. Observe. Wait. Don’t draw attention." Then after a breath, he added, "Especially not from her."

"She has great hands." Abby muttered while rubbing the back of his neck. "Caught her sketching earlier. Thought she was talking to herself, but I swear I heard her say my traps were 'villain-coded.'"

He paused, then shrugged with a smug grin as he checked his reflection. "Not sure what that means, but I looked it up. It's... kinda flattering?"

Romance, who was now flipping through his phone without looking up, snorted. "Maybe she meant you look like the kind of guy who dies halfway through a revenge arc."

Baby deadpanned. "Or maybe she was drawing how to kill you. Probably all of us."

"She'd make it look aesthetic." Jinu said dryly. For someone who'd just finished scolding them all, he'd joined in a little too easily. "Title it something like, ‘How to Un-alive Five Men and Still Make Rent.'"

A beat of silence followed before they all stared.

Jinu blinked, realization creeping in half a second too late.

"...Anyway." He muttered as he redirected his glare at the floor. "Stick to the mission."

"No one's stopping you from checking her sketchbook." Abby fired back, folding his arms. "Oh wait— none of you've been able to."

Silence.

"Yet you didn't peek either." Romance said, side-eyeing him. "For all we know, there's a full-blown assassination storyboard in there. Panel one: you smiling. Panel two: you, beheaded."

Abby looked mildly offended. "She wouldn't."

The room paused. Silent.

Baby blinked then raised a brow. "You mean… betray us? Like, actively?"

Jinu gave him a flat look. "Well, she's weird. Suspicious. Might be working for Huntrix. Or maybe just high on espresso and vengeance."

"She looked sincere." Abby insisted, folding his arms. "Besides, have you seen how she reacts when we flirt? She flinches like we're trying to sell her cursed NFTs. No way someone that consistent is faking it."

Romance hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know... that could be part of the act. Like reverse psychology. Or trauma."

"Or," Baby cut in flatly, his eyes scanning the room before jabbing a thumb at his own face, "She's made of steel. Be real—what kind of person is immune to this?"

He gestured vaguely to all of himself, like the sheer audacity of anyone not falling at his feet was a cosmic insult.

Romance didn’t even blink. "Maybe someone with taste."

Abby cracked his neck. "Or someone with working eyes."

Baby glared at the two demons as they high-fived like villains congratulating each other on a heist. (This is why his best friend is Mystery. At least he doesn’t talk.)

Jinu exhaled sharply through his nose. "She's been guarding that sketchbook like it’s a vault. We still don’t know what’s in it."

Romance didn't even flinch. "Oh, please. If anyone's getting offed first, it's you. She probably draws you as the comedic relief that dies to raise the stakes."

Abby let out a loud snort. "So I'm what, the sexy second to go? Damn. At least give me a dramatic death."

Despite the chaos, Mystery remains silent.

But from where he stood, partially shadowed, his eyes lingered on the window like he could still see her walking away. He’d barely moved the entire conversation.

"She smiled." He said suddenly. He blurted out the thought.

The room turned toward him.

"What?" Jinu asked, caught off guard.

Mystery didn’t elaborate much. Just, "When she handed me coffee this morning. First time."

Silence. And not the chill kind.

Jinu blinked once. Slowly.

Because somewhere, behind the stern leader programming and near-death debut stress, his brain short-circuited into a half-second flashback.

That smile from last night. The one you gave him after calling him a dork. He remembered how it hit him like a slap and a hug at the same time.

And now Mystery got one too?

His eyes narrowed a fraction. Not at Mystery, but at... the air. The corner of the wall. Himself. Anyone nearby. Like he was trying to detect a glitch in the matrix.

Did you show a better smile? Was it longer? Voluntary?

He didn't like how fast that question formed. Or how it stayed.

Romance cracked the tension first, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. "She’s warming up to us! Knew it."

"No. She's warming up to him." Baby said flatly, like the words left a bad taste in his mouth.

He didn't even look at Mystery—just stared ahead, bored, unblinking, and vaguely betrayed.

"I hand her bunny-shaped paperclips. Re-labeled prop storage. Helped her haul five boxes of tangled extension cords." He tapped his lollipop against his thigh, expression unreadable. "Mystery breathes near a coffee machine and suddenly he's soulmate-coded?"

He popped the lollipop back into his mouth like punctuation, sharp and sweet and just a little bitter.

"Wild."

"...Or she's playing us." Jinu spoke after giving Baby a weird look. "This isn't a game. We're two days from debut. If she's with them, if she's here to derail us—"

"Then she's doing a terrible job." Abby cut in. "She's barely talked to us unless cornered, and the last time Baby asked for help, she nearly smacked him with a prop sword."

"She also called Romance's jawline 'shonen protagonist-tier.'" Baby added reluctantly, brow slightly furrowed. The words tasted foreign, like something pulled from a fandom wiki he hadn't read.

"She did?" Romance perked up immediately, standing to inspect his reflection in the window. "You think she meant that in a good way?"

There was a pause.

"...What's a shonen?" Abby asked.

"Anime thing... I think." Baby muttered, eyes narrowing slightly like accessing internal memory logs. He made a mental note to look it up later.

If it turned out to be an insult, he was absolutely going to rub it in later.

Romance tilted his head, squinting at his jawline like it might answer for him.

"Whatever it is, sounds like I'm the main character." He shifted slightly in the light, nodding to himself. "You think she'd like this lighting?"

Abby made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh.

He couldn't. The demon. The way you fought it. Not cleanly. Not like Huntrix would've. But raw. Real. Maybe even desperate.

...And that laugh—small, stupid, bright in all the wrong ways, still echoed in his head like a bug in the system.

He'd folded in ten seconds. And now here he was, glitching like a confused NPC while Mystery got his own moment delivered with caffeine and a post-it.

He swallowed the thought.

Then exhaled through his nose—sharp, like punctuation to the noise in his head.

"I saw [Y/n] last night."

Four heads snapped toward him.

Romance blinked. "Okay— what?"

"You mean when we all saw her?" Abby said, brows lifting. "Because I definitely remember the part where she told me she says goodbye only to people she likes."

"Right, and I saw her smile at Mystery like he personally handcrafted the sun." Baby scoffed, tone dry as dust.

Then he muttered, "So unless she proposed with a bouquet of sharpies and despair, shut up."

Jinu's eyes swept across them like a fed-up homeroom teacher counting how many brain cells had left the room. He didn’t sigh, or even yell.

He just said, "After."

Like a parent delivering the final warning before turning the car around.

He didn’t wait for anyone to respond as he continued. "She fought a demon."

Silence fell like someone had hit mute on the universe. Even the Bluetooth speaker gave up.

Romance's playful veneer evaporated. "Are you serious?"

"There was no spiritual energy." Jinu said, eyes turning sharp. "Just instinct... and street-level survival."

A pause. Then, with a flicker of something almost like disbelief, maybe even amusement, he added, "...She used a bike lock."

There was a beat of silence. Then—

"A what now?" Abby asked, blinking.

"A bike lock." Jinu repeated, tone dry. "Rusted. Looked like it had been sitting in garbage for a decade."

Romance slowly lowered the coffee he wasn’t drinking. "Please tell me she didn’t strangle it with the power of sanitation violations."

Baby looked, genuinely impressed. "No spiritual energy. No weapons. Just a tetanus booster and blind rage. I respect it."

"You said she fought it off?" Mystery asked quietly.

Jinu nodded once. "Kicks. Elbows. She moved like someone trying to stay alive...not win a fight."

"Street survival." Abby muttered, now actually considering it. "She's done this before?"

"Or she got lucky." Jinu said again, quieter. "Too lucky."

Romance sighed and leaned back into the cushions. "So what I'm hearing is: she's not only artsy and mysterious—she's now also feral and terrifying. Great. Add that to the list."

Baby raised a brow. "You mean the list titled 'Reasons She'll Never Like You Back'?"

"That list's a scroll." Abby added with a little laugh.

Romance didn't even argue. Just sipped his empty mug with tragic dignity.

Jinu, meanwhile, was still.

"We still don't know what she is," He said tightly with a sigh and shake of his head.

Silence took over the group, though only a few seconds.

Abby calmly spoke with a raised brow, "You didn't think maybe that was important to bring up before we spiraled about cursed NFTs and sketchbook espionage?"

"I was waiting for the right moment." Jinu muttered, defensive but flat.

"The right moment was twenty minutes ago." Baby deadpanned, voice flat as a ruler.

Mystery, from where he leaned, gave a slow nod of agreement.

Jinu didn't respond. Not to that. Not to any of it.

Because the worst part? He wasn't sure who he was protecting anymore.

You, or himself.

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #saja boys x reader #reverse harem #female reader #reader insert

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