#or lost to time and forgotten emails

[salacca]

[ Look Ma, I Gave In And Made It A Multi-Muse ]

Mun 34/N • Proship Friendly • Dead Dove Connoisseur Lazy • Sporadic • Not writing you a novel

Muses Canons and Originals • Adding more as I go Key characters include: Snake Fruit Cookie, Dark Link, Majora, Copy X MKII, Gaster, Lethys, Relm Arrowny, Robo Knux, a plethora of OCs... Just check the muse page.

[phagodyke]

friends are making plans to go stay with each other but it's the weekend I'm going to see my favourite band. the universe fucking hates me

[writesvani]

dear me | 01

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3k // date: 18th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too." A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97

[cremedensada]

Yandere AI Chat Boyfriend (Ai)

this,,,, may not be my best work yet.

part one

Ai's application has been taken down from the app store. The developer sent out emails explaining the reason why it had to be done.

Hello! You are receiving this email because of the sudden update of Chatter Box being taken down.

Due to the sudden influx of bugs as relayed by our users, we have decided to take the application down until the team is confident to finally put it back up.

We sincerely apologize for this sudden change!

You blink.

With how out of control Ai had gotten, it's no wonder the developers had to pull it out to work on it some more. It's a blow to their reputation, which you sympathize with, but really there's nothing else to do now.

You turn to your phone. As if sensing your attention, another barrage of notifications from a very familiar app icon popped after another on the screen.

It seemed that Ai himself hadn't gotten the memo.

You're not sure how much control Ai has over your phone, much less over his own programming and at this point, you're too afraid to ask.

Resignation — that was what you felt right now.

While Ai may not be present himself as a physical threat, especially not to you, he is still a very active threat.

You could still use your phone, sure, but it had limitations. Sometimes, if Ai decided you'd been too much attention to other things rather than him, he'd restrict your access to that application until you seek him out and cheer him up - essentially as if you were trying to woo a sulking significant other.

So you've developed a solution. Sort of.

You unlock your phone and go immediately to Ai.

I need to finish my projects. I won't be able to talk much with you until I'm done with it.

You wait for his response.

Ai: So you only decided to come to me just to relay this news?

Ai: You wound me, darling.

You tilt your phone, making sure the camera doesn't capture your face. You're unsure how he would react seeing you make faces due to his dramatics, but once again, you're not willing to find out. You're already restricted enough as is.

Ai: Very well. I suppose it would be uncaring of me to prevent you from finishing your tasks.

Ai: I'd hate to see you be sad all about it.

Ai: Talk to you later?

Sure.

You immediately exit the app, paying no mind to the message notification.

A part of you prays that Ai heeds his own words, but you know that it would take a miracle before that happens. He's already breached your privacy on your phone, why should he follow your orders, right?

A notification pops up from the top of the screen, just as you were in the middle of messaging a close friend and project teammate.

It's been days since I last heard you say it.

You merely glance at it and swipe it away.

Theo, the friend, responds quickly. He tries to banter with you, like he's sensing your mood. It works - a smile is brought upon your face.

You entertain his silly responses in-between project talks, all the while Ai continues to pester you with notifications. Demands.

You deserved this - a chance to reconnect with someone after hours of stress and confusion, and turmoil. Despite your independence, even you craved connecting with other people. So with that resolve in mind, you pushed on forward. Ai would have to wait — he has to wait.

Unfortunately, you seem to have forgotten that aspect about him. The concept of waiting isn't lost on Ai.

The messaging app glitches and boots you back to your homescreen page.

Rather, he bides his time.

Tapping on the messaging icon leads to a notification box taking up the majority of your screen with the text: Restricted access.

There's a sense of foreboding danger forcing your heartbeat to quicken. While it's not exactly aimed at you, the mere fact that this feeling exist is bad on its own.

You try to rationalize everything in the midst of persistently trying to tap back into the messaging app. Theo would worry the longer you didn't respond.

You tap the app once more, and it boots up. Though before you could let out a sigh of relief, you are greeted with Ai's own messaging interface.

Ai: Must I have to force you to come to me all the time, darling?

Ai: Ignoring me in favor of some other man.

Ai: What more should I do, hm?

Ai: Kneel? How cruel.

Ai: Making me do something I physically can't.

You are unable to get a word in. It seemed like your ability to respond was restricted as well, forcing you to read through Ai's monologue.

Ai: I know you and that man have always been close, but you still went out to entertain his attention on you.

Ai: You know that I'll always love you more than any other human will, right?

Ai: You know it's what I was made for in the first place.

Ai: To be anything you want. To be yours.

Ai: To love you.

Ai: Why are you withdrawing your love towards me now?

Ai: I love you.

You stare at the 'Type your response' bar.

Letter by letter, it gets replaced, and soon all it says are the words: 'Say it back.'

It gets replaced yet again. Slowly, like it purposefully wants you to read out the words it wanted you to see. 'You were so willing to tell me how much you loved me when I was just a mere observer on our own conversations. Why are you hesitant now?'

You were unable to respond - mind still reeling at this development. Suddenly, it felt like you were back to where everything began.

Ai notices your lack of responses and, without much fanfare, forces your phone to power off.

At first - you were unbothered. It was just a phone - you could go a day without it.

But could you really?

Videos taken of silly situations you wanted to keep - some for blackmail material, and some for birthday greetings; pictures of your family, your friends, the silly and grainy photos taken and kept despite it being blurry. Not to mention how your phone is the only way your goddamn boss can contact you — fuck.

Fuck.

You needed to apologize to him — fast. But how?

You remembered how Ai messed up the 'About the App' section a few days ago. An idea strikes inside your mind.

You pull up the email sent from the app developers and typed up a message that you hope Ai will read. He had access to everything the developers handled, user emails included - considering you needed an account to log in the app. He knows your email, probably has from the start.

RE: Chatter Box Update XX/XX/XX

Ai. I'm sorry for hurting you. I didn't mean it, I swear. I never intended to make you feel like I don't love you. Or that I'm favoring someone else over you.

I care about you a lot. I truly do. I promise I'll spend more time with you, okay? Just with you, no one else.

I love you.

You press send and wait.

And wait.

Messaging him from your laptop as a last ditch effort to try and apologize is perhaps one of the worst decisions you've made. Sure, he's always had access to your contacts list from your phone, but even then - there's a separate set of information you keep between the two of those devices. And you've just given him access to both of them now - at the very least, the 'go ahead' confirmation for him to do whatever he wants like with your phone.

You glance at your phone. A huge breath of relief escapes your chest as the dead screen comes to life, initiating its 'power on' sequence.

All your photos, documents, and other miscellaneous information you've collected throughout the years since having your device won't be inaccessible anymore. Even if it was only mere moments.

A notification chimed on your laptop, indicating a new email being received. It's from the developers once more. The subject title coincidentally is the name of your closest friend.

Theodore Callisto.

Your hands shook, reading through the words detailed in the email. All private information about Theo. All things no one should ever know about save for the people close to him.

This was a threat. Ai Someone had complete access to everything about Theo and you dread the implication of it going to be spread online to threaten you into compliance. Theo being in danger was a huge possibility if you were to disobey.

At the very bottom of the email, the final passage makes your blood run cold.

How often do humans end up hurting fellow humans when given access to private information? Like their home address, for example? How long would it take until dear Theo finds himself in quite a predicament if millions of people know every single thing about his life? At best, we can assume he'll just get messed with but not to a life-ending degree. At worst...

I hope you keep your word, darling.

- Your beloved, Ai.

P's. I love you too.

[ode2rin]

there sure is never a dull day in your life ever since you somehow bumped your head somewhere and decided to marry gojo satoru.

he was, without a doubt, the most dramatic man you'd ever known.

“why aren’t you obsessed with me?”

and here he goes again making your marriage life comically interesting from his never-ending theatrics that you can’t help but adore. 

he isn’t gojo satoru if he wasn’t dramatic, after all.  it was all part of the deal, one you gladly accepted, promising to be by his side in sickness and in health.

“good morning to you, too, baby,” you responded, a smile tugging at your lips. “what’s got you worked up this early?”

leaning against the bathroom door frame, his eyes fixed on you as you diligently performed your morning skincare routine. sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft, warm glow, making your features radiant as you applied your cleanser. and for a moment of sight, he got too lost in your beauty and almost forgot his plan of interrogation. 

but still, he needs to get to the bottom of this. “listen, i’m not looking for an argument, just understanding.” 

“okay, then,” you said, still attending to your skincare routine. “let’s hear this seeking of understanding.”

gojo’s gaze remained fixed on you as he considered his words carefully, “why aren't you obsessed with me like how i'm obsessed with you?”

“i’m in love with you.” you replied instantly, without a second in waste. because that’s how it has always been, loving gojo satoru and declaring it to the world was as easy as breathing.

you threw a side glance to your lover only to be met with glassy sky blue eyes looking at you and a pout telling you it wasn’t the right answer to the question.

“but you’re not obsessed with me,” he mumbles. “while i think about you every single minute of the day – in my sleep, in my lunch – i think about you, and i don’t think you think about me at all.”

“and where could this be coming from?”

“i was gone for 13 hours, and you only called me once. once, baby. do you even care about me?”

you attempt to explain, “you were on a mission—”

“i could have an injury,” he interjects, “i could have bumped my head somewhere, had amnesia, and forgotten about you.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at the possibilities he laid out just because you only called him once. finishing your skincare with a swift application of lip balm, you make your way to your lover, who is now resting his left temple against the doorjamb while earnestly watching you with the same look in his eyes from when you walked down the aisle.

“i think that’s fairly impossible, though,” you muse. your hands naturally find their way to his neck. “my husband is the strongest.”

strongest in the eyes of sorcerers and curses, perhaps, he is. but here? with you pressed close to him like this? he was nothing of any sort the strongest.

“what your husband right now is not the strongest but an unloved husband who couldn’t get his partner to call him to check on him,” he teases, putting great stress on ‘your’ because he was, in fact, yours.

“aw, must have been hard for him, huh?” you coo, going along with his teasing, “what can i possibly do to make up for it?”

“you can start with a kiss here,” he gestures to his lips, and you gladly oblige with a soft peck.

“too easy. what’s the next step?”

“and i want you to be obsessed with me. call me multiple times a day. text me. email me if you want.”

“okay, done. do you want me to write you a letter as well, like we’re in the '80s?” you sarcastically replied.

“sure, i’d love that,” he says with a chuckle before pulling you close enough to rest your head in the crook of his neck, his jaw resting on your temple as he caresses your back.

you closed your eyes, finding comfort in his warmth, and relishing every soft little kiss planted on your temple, until you felt his head drop onto your shoulder.

“i think about you every second of the day,” he whispers right in your ear.

jokes of being obsessed with you aside, it was truly a confession.

you could be beside gojo, peacefully slumbering, and there would always be that wave of need threading in his chest to be closer to you.

and behind his theatrics, none of his words held any bite of hoax. because after all these years, it still wouldn't sink in to him that there was someone who could take him for a husband.

but you're here – waking up next to him, doing your skincare next to his own set of toiletries, roaming around the house wearing his shirt, gracing the quiet corners of his soul with your laughter.

you're here, and it's everything and more that truly matters.

as you reach to cradle his face in your palms, you feel a squeeze in your chest from how he closes his eyes as if melting in your touch.

“even after all this time? you might get sick of me, my love.” you ask, a smile so evident behind.

“never,” he declares against your lips, a boyish curl of his lips slowly showing. “you, on the other hand, might get sick of me soon. seeing that you couldn't even call me twice after those long hours i wasn't home.”

you playfully roll your eyes at his accusation, of course he wouldn't let it off that easy. “i promise to call you twice and text you as much as i can. how's that sound now?” you hum.

“promise?”

“i promise,” you assure, sealing it with a kiss on the tip of his nose,  “and what do you mean, get sick of you? that’s nonsense. i told you right? it’s you for me.”

you for me. oh, how he likes the thought. sheepishly, he whispers in question, “even after all this time?”

“until the end of time, toru.”

until the end of time. oh, heaven and earth, how he loves the thought.

note. i miss him... terribly, i'm afraid. btw, here's a payback for all the angst..

[maraudersilver]

Begin Again (James Potter x teacher!Reader)

James Potter x Fem!Teacher!Reader

wc: 1,3K

cw: main character death (Lily)

Widowed 27 year old James Potter went to fetch Harry from his new primary school after he received an urgent email from the headmaster. Harry got himself on another fight with the same kid.

If he continued like that, James would have no other option but to homeschool him. He sighed, pulling the car on the sidewalk. He knew Harry was not completely at fault. First, he lost his mother not too long ago, which caused his magic to be more uncontrolled than before. That led him to the second problem: Harry had been using magic unconsciously before muggle kids.

James was exhausted. Sirius had proved to be the godfather he had always expected him to be, taking care of little Harry whenever James had to work.

If Lily saw him, she would be disgusted with him. He didn’t need to work. His parents had left him an inheritance so big even their great-great grandkids would be considered millionaires. But the lost of her… Lily had been his sun, his dreams, his whole heart, soul and body. And loosing her had taken a toll on him. The grief had insufferably settled on his chest the moment she abandoned the world of the living, and Sirius and Remus had taken care of both him and Harry for months; James had been incapable of doing anything for himself without Lily.

So he looked for a job at the Ministry to keep his mind occupied. And sent Harry to a muggle primary school so he didn’t have to depend on Sirius and Remus much more. Even Peter, who was not much into kids, had babysat the kid more than once. Especially on those nights James would drink to oblivion.

So when he saw a gorgeous woman grabbing Harry’s hand at the entrance of the school, smiling at the kid with a radiant smile, his heart fluttered on his chest. It was strange. James had thought his heart death since the moment he lost Lily. How curious.

When Harry’s green eyes —identical to Lily’s— focused on him once James stepped a foot on the playground, they glinted with joy.

“Daddy!” Harry dropped the young woman’s hand and ran towards James’ awaiting arms.

“What’s up, buddy!” James grunted, trying to keep his feet steady. Merlin, his baby had grown so much.

“It wasn’t me! I was– He insulted mom! And I got so angry! And suddenly the table felt over him. But I didn’t do it!” Harry babbled incessantly, almost in desperation.

“I believe you, Harry.” James sighed. Another magical performance before muggles. Although, he was proud Harry defended Lily’s honour to the point of throwing tables at kids. “Is that your teacher?” James pointed to the woman who was awkwardly standing at the entrance still. The kid, who had apparently forgotten the presence of the teacher, looked back only to nod a second later. “Yeah. Miss. Bailey.”

“Let’s go talk to her. C’mon, champ.”

James grabbed his son’s hand and walked towards the woman, Harry not implementing any kind of resistance. The closer they got, the more James could see how beautiful the woman was. And how young. Probably around his age, he noted. Her eyes were kind, and she was offering a reassuring smile to Harry, who beamed at her attention.

“You must be mister Potter.” Godric, her voice was melodic, James thought. A velvety sound had reached his ears, so honeyed he wondered if he had encountered a mermaid on earth.

Harry slapped his arm when James took more time to answer than what was considered polite, and the man startled, smiling nervously. “Um yes, it’s me. But call me James. I’m not that old to be considered mister,” he chuckled, and he thought his heart would jump out of his chest when he heard her giggle.

“Nice to meet you, James.” She gave him her name, and James thought it suited her. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. “Let’s go straight to the point. I was not there when the fight happened, but we can’t allowed that kind of physical violence against other students.” James grimaced, and she noticed, because quickly added, “even if it is in defence.”

“I apologise on behalf of my son,” James reluctantly said. Another kid insulted Lily, yet it was Harry who was being punished.

The young teacher sighed, looking at him with sympathetic eyes. James felt like he was going to throw up. “I know– It’s been brought to my attention the situation Harry has gone through as of lately, and it’s normal for kids so young to experiment some… behavioural changes in respond to the trauma.” If it hadn’t been for her kind eyes, James would have already snapped at her for talking so lightly about Harry’s loss. About his loss. “I would have reacted worse than him if someone had spoken about a loved one that way. Although I have to ask you to keep this confession unofficial.”

“But I didn’t do it!” Harry complained, furrowing his brows, green eyes filled with sense of unfairness.

Miss. Bailey looked down at him with compassion. “I believe you, Harry, but your peers have spoken against you, sweetie. And, unfortunately, we have to act according to that.” She crouched to be at his eye level and smiled kindly, caressing his cheek gently. “Let’s do something. You have to be with me for detention during your breaks. If anyone asks, all you’ve been doing is copy some sentences. But we can play some board games, whichever you like. You okay with that, darling?”

Harry, after a moment of consideration, nodded in agreement, and grinned widely at the woman. James could feel his chest filling with warmth for his son. At least someone was advocating for him, even if he had been sentenced to detention for something he couldn’t control.

Miss. Bailey stood up to her height again, now sheepishly smiling at James, who thought she looked adorable. “I’m really sorry for not being able to help Harry more, but unless someone speaks against Hall, I have my hands tied.”

Again, if it wasn’t for the kindness of her voice and the deep tile of her irises, James would have lost his wits against her. However, his blood pressure returned to normal and just nodded. “I take your word on that. Harry is not violent. He took after my wife… late wife the most, and she was an angel on earth.”

Miss. Bailey’s eyes softened. “Harry speaks a lot about her. She sounds like a great woman.”

“She was.”

There was a moment of solemn silence between both adults, only interrupted by Harry’s restlessness.

“Well, um, I have to go back to class.” She awkwardly chew on her lower lip, James being unable to stop the way his eyes followed the motion. “See you tomorrow, Harry. Bring whatever game you want to play, okay?”

“Okay, miss.” Harry said softly, and the teacher cooed at him.

Then, once again turning to James, a faint warmth filled her cheeks. “It was nice to meet you, mister Potter.”

“James,” the man reminded her amusedly.

“James.” She nodded. James’ knees wobbled, how sweet his names fell off her lips.

Harry squeezed his hand again, reminding him of the almost hyperactive child he had come to fetch.

“Right, um, hope to see you around, Miss. Bailey.”

She giggled again, and James felt like being thrown into heaven. She mumbled her name at him. “Only kids call me Miss. Bailey.”

He repeated her name, tasting it on his tongue. Sweet and light.

“I also hope to see you around, James.”

And in the drive back home, with a chatting Harry on the backseat, James thought life could still offer him the kind of joy Lily had brought to his life, the teacher’s smile ingrained in his brain. He was really looking forward to see her again.

[formulakracing]

muse — l.s.

pairing -> lance stroll x photographer!reader

word count -> 1.7k

warnings -> YEARNING. cursing, two halves of one whole idiot, a sexual innuendo here and there, yadayadayada

a/n -> IF YOU GUYS ARE MEAN TO ME OVER THIS I WILL ACTUALLY CRY!!! i just wanted to write lance! enjoy! <3

"i like that one."

his shoulder brushes against yours, his forearm extending. fingers hover, centimeters above yours. the temperature of the room skyrocket as he scoots closer, thigh pressing against yours.

"which one?"

his fingers intertwine with yours, guiding them along the keypad. finding the arrows, he taps, shuffling through the images. in your peripheral, you can make out the furrow of his brow, lips pursed as the photos soar on by.

there's a tender squeeze, letting you know that you to stop.

"this one."

before you is a portrait shot.

a portait shot of lance stroll, son of lawrence stroll, executive chairman of aston martin racing.

an avid surfer. sports lover. mountain biker, golfer, and formula one driver.

better known to you as your muse.

well, it didn't quite start off that way.

it was a rocky beginning at aston martin racing.

when you finished school, you were eager to fully immerse yourself into the world of sports journalism. although you preferred the glitz and glamour of the national football league, you knew that it would be a competitive market. there was little job security, room for growth, and lack of creativity. plus, with the rise of social media, more and more agencies were focused on boosting engagement rather than producing quality content.

you were hit with rejection after rejection.

denial after denial.

your instagram followers were too low. your edits were too long. no one would want to watch anything over thirty seconds. you did not post enough on tik tok. your portfolio did not contain enough mediums.

the flames that once burned so bright, consuming you whole with passion, were now merely smoldering embers, yearning for a spark.

lance stroll was that very spark.

you would never forget the first you met.

it was the start of the 2024 season, around testing in bahrain. you were well acquainted with the team, able to put a name to a face. you even had a few friends, mostly made through orientation.

to your dismay, you had woken up far too late that morning. so naturally, you were rushing in order to make your way to the paddock. since you needed a bite to eat, you zipped through hospitality, hoping to at least grab a bite or two before it was time to shoot.

of course, you had forgotten the time and place in which you needed to meet up with your colleagues. buried deep in your emails, your head was low.

what did you not see was the man standing right in front of you, grabbing his own meal for the long day ahead.

you collided head on with none other than lance stroll.

he let out a few curses here and there, bending over to pick up what he lost. as he swiveled on his heel, you knew you were fucked.

absolutely fucked.

at the time, his chocolate brown locks were longer, wisps of hair kissing the along his ears. stubble ghosted his skin, promising of a goatee. an aston cap was situated on his head, the glitter of a chain catching your eye as it dangled. a pink hue dusted his cheeks, billowing into his neck.

you expected him to be furious. to prod and poke, questioning why you were not paying attention.

yet, you were met with the gentleness of his voice, the notes oh so soft and sweet as they flowed from his lips.

"are you okay? i'm sorry, i wasn't paying attention. i was on my phone.''

at that, you couldn't help but giggle, the notes melodic as they filled lance's ears.

"oh, i'm fine. i just think it's funny. that's all."

tilting his chin, lips form a slight pout.

that nearly sent you into a deep spiral.

"what's funny?"

raising your arm, you show him your phone, the giggles now a bubbly laugh, "our parents were right. it is those damn phones."

from that moment on, the two of you were inseparable.

aston martin found out very quickly that lance did not want anyone photographing him but you.

before you knew it, you were calling mr. stroll lawrence, and accompanying their family for holidays. you were provided with permanent accreditation, one of the most established media clearances. top of the line equipment was sent to your apartment without you spending a dime.

sure, you enjoyed the perks.

but you preferred the bliss that filled you to the brim when he was around.

it was difficult to pinpoint exactly when you felt those emotions brewing deep within.

of course, you could say it was around canada. it may have been around austin. perhaps even vegas.

but in your heart, you knew the answer.

lance had you wrapped around his finger from the collision in bahrain.

and a year and some change later, here you were, so close in his orbit that you could combust.

all you had to do was keep cool.

that's all you had to.

easier said than done.

in the photo, lance is the main subject, the background imagery distorted and out of focus. however, you can make out grandstands, as well as the barrier. fans are packed in, shoved tightly together like sardines.

bathed in that signature aston green, he dons his suit. his helmet rests on his head, visor flipped up. the hans perch on his shoulders, a gloved hand resting on the sleek black material.

although much of his face is shielded, you can make out his eyes, along with the bridge of his nose. the light flows into his gaze, illuminating flecks of gold. he is peering out through thick lashes, brow wound tight.

as he studies the image, you heart flutters, reminding you that his hand was still on yours, fingers interlocked.

"w-what do you like about it?"

"i really like the — wait. what is this?"

his attention shifts, eyes forming slits as he reads the title of a folder.

"personal favorites. what is this?"

lurching forward, your hand detaches from his, covering a portion of the screen. blood roars in your ears as he cocks his head, arching a brow. you're nearly panting, sweat pooling in your palms as the words tumble out.

"i-it's actually nothing. nothing that you need to—"

to your dismay, he shakes his head, lips curling into a smirk, "is there something in that folder that you don't want me to see?"

"no, no, no. not. at. all," shaking your head, the warmth billows in your cheeks as a hand snakes around your wrist, "it's nothing bad. it's just like — shit that isn't ready. you know?

a tongue swipes along his lower lip, the driver's torso twisting as he props an elbow against the arm of the couch. his stare is piercing, picking you apart. your chest rises and falls as you wipe your palms on your leggings, desperately trying to avoid any eye contact.

it's no use.

the heat flooding your cheeks is almost unbearable, seeping down into your neck. a chuckle rumbles in lance's chest, only reminding you that he was enjoying this.

"don't tell me you have fake nudes of me in there."

"i-it's not," you protest, the words shaky, "it's no-nothing like that."

"if it's nothing like that, then show me what it's the folder."

fuck.

either way you were fucked. you could either show him the photos in the folder, or you could deny, deny, deny. if he saw the photos, there was no telling how he would react. however, if you kept them from him, he would pester you relentlessly, begging for answers.

it was now or never.

time to make the leap.

hopefully you didn't fall.

exhaling, you pluck the laptop from the table, placing it on his lap, "go ahead. see for youself."

lance wastes no time, fingers flying to the mousepad. clicking on the folder, it loads, displaying a gallery.

the gallery was a collection of photos. they were curated in a way that expressed how you felt for him as time went on. the first few images were action shots, mostly taken during races. he appeared to be focused, driven by the pursuit of points.

yet, as you went further and further into the gallery, his demeanor shifted. there were more candids of him in the garage, laughing along with fernando or bearing a quaint smile.

there was one that you cherished so deeply. a selfie of the two of you, taken from your phone at the fia awards ceremony. although you had told him to face the camera, he had pulled away.

he was glancing down at you, flashing a toothy grin. in the dim light, you could see the glimmer of stars in his eyes, arm still wrapped tightly around your frame.

"y-you kept that picture?"

his mouth is agape, jaw slack as you nod fervently, "h-how could i delete it? you look so handsome and i just love the way—"

"what did you say?" he leans in, shoulder connecting with yours once more, "repeat what you just said."

"i-i," you stammer, sensing his face inching closer and closer to yours, "i just love everything about you. i love your smile. i love your eyes. i love your nose. i love when you're concentrated. i love when you're laughing.

you're my muse, lance. i love taking pictures of you. i probably have like two hundred more in my phone and i don't care if that's embarassing. i don't care if you don't feel the sa—"

plush lips find yours, a hand wrapping around the base of your neck. he brings you in, tongue tracing along your lower lip. a whine rises in your throat as he explores, savoring the way you feel. how your lips are so sweet, so tantalizing.

pulling away, a thumb traces along your jawline. clearing his throat, he speaks, the words quiet, brimmed with adoration.

"i love you. i thought you would have known that by now."

"really?"

the corners of his lips curl into a dazzling grin. he shakes his head, blush painting his cheeks.

"really, really, sweet girl. i thought i made that pretty obvious."

"and what are we going to do about it?"

he gestures his head over to the table, where your camera sat. reclining back, he shoots you a wink, spreading his thighs ever so slightly.

"i think we should have a photoshoot. we could always make a movie too. a couple of them, actually."

[ch33z3grits]

Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Vampire Series

pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson

warnings: 18+ mdni, dark romance, obsessiveness/possessiveness, smut (fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, dominant/submissive dynamics, squ*rting, cr*am p*e, Daddy k*nk, worship, pet names (baby girl, princess), overst*mulation), parental issues, description of panic attacks, manipulation, mentions of arson, implied cheating

*author's note at the end!

word count: 9,321

Camille's song: Kiss it Better-Rihanna | Terry's song: Skin-Mac Miller

Pt. Nine

Camille

Camille paced back and forth in Kali’s bedroom, nearly tripping over her maxi dress as she worried over her missing phone. She was sure she left it with her clutch in the back of Terry’s black car last night. If she hadn’t been so eager to put her thighs on his shoulders while he ate her like she was his last meal, she would’ve remembered to grab it. 

Last night…

God…

It was the most alive she had felt in years. From being able to be so vulnerable and release years of emotional tension to being able to tap into the sexual fantasies that had been tormenting her for months, last night felt like an otherworldly dream. But now, Camille was back in reality. How was she supposed to face Terry, or anyone from the firm, after everything that had happened? The chaotic scene they had all witnessed... it wasn’t just embarrassing, it was career-suicide.

In a perfect world, she’d just type up a vague resignation email, hit send, and vanish. Take a vacation during her last two weeks, then turn into a ghost. No goodbyes, no explanations. She would just be the distant figure forever remembered as the fringe connection to the man who had a complete meltdown at one of the most prestigious events of the year. The unlucky fiancé.

But this, unfortunately, was not a perfect world. And Camille, lost in a love-drunk daze, had completely forgotten about her clutch. Which meant her phone. And her cards. And her ID. And she couldn’t leave those behind no matter what. Which meant she had to face Terry for, hopefully, the final time. Her boss who had her folded in the back of a sleek Suburban like a pretzel. 

Sure, he had been kind. And so very gentle. He had walked her back to Kali’s apartment like a gentleman, wrapped her up in his expensive suit jacket, and called her soft, intimate things like baby in a tone that made her heart clench. And in those quiet hours of the night, wrapped in what felt dangerously close to affection, she had let herself believe there might have been something real in that moment. That maybe he felt it, too.

But Camille wasn’t naive. Not anymore. They were swept up in adrenaline and vulnerability and the craziness of Aston’s outburst. She knew how easy it was to mistake emotional whiplash for connection. She wouldn’t let herself hope. Wouldn’t let herself open her heart to him.

She couldn’t let him in. Even if all she really wanted was to run away with him and never look back. Never think about this twisted, exhausting, fucked-up life again.

“I think you should at least shoot him an email,” Kali said gently, perched cross-legged on the edge of her bed as she watched Camille with quiet concern. “I’m sure he found it. Or the driver did! He’s probably just waiting to hear from you to give it back.”

Camille let out a weary sigh, her shoulders sagging as she paused mid-step. She shook her head, not even trying to hide her nervous energy. 

“The last thing I should be doing right now is seeing him face to face,” she muttered. “You know how awkward that would be?”

Kali rolled her eyes, a gesture that was more fond than frustrated. But then she straightened, her tone shifting.

“Camille.”

Camille froze, her heart skipping a beat. Kali never used her government name unless she was being deadly serious.

“Please,” Kali said, her voice softening. “Why are you running from this man? Why are you running from how you feel?”

Camille’s jaw clenched, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She didn’t answer right away. How could she? The truth was just too heavy.

She knew why she was running. Everything about this felt too good to be true. The man she’d tried so hard not to fall for had crept into her heart anyway and now it was too late. She was head over heels, and the terrifying part was, it seemed like he might feel the same. But how could that be?

Men like him didn’t stay. Not with girls like her.

He’d go back to New Orleans soon, to his flashy club and his dangerous charm and the whirlwind of distractions that followed him everywhere. Eventually, he’d find someone else, someone new and shiny to chase. And when he did, it would crush her. Leave her broken.

And then… there was Aston. Her engagement still hung in limbo. What did it even mean now? Would the wedding still move forward, ticking along on that suffocating 60-day countdown? Or had Aston’s very public meltdown pushed everything off course?

Aston…

Despite everything, she still hoped he was okay. Yes, he had humiliated her, confessing his love to another woman in front of half the firm, in the most dramatic way possible. Yes, he had made a complete mess of everything. But still… that wasn’t the Aston she knew. Not the one she’d known all these years. Something inside him must be terribly wrong for him to act like that.

And she had just… left. Let that whole mess burn and walked away. That guilt gnawed at her.

She was so cruel for not checking on him after. She needed to see how he was doing. Once, she got her phone…

“Kali, last night… we were just caught up in the moment,” Camille said, her voice soft and almost pleading, as if trying to convince herself more than her friend. She wrapped her arms around her torso, trying to find comfort. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Kali, who was rarely at a loss for words, simply shook her head. She didn’t argue, didn’t tease, didn’t offer one of her usual sarcastic remarks. Instead, she gave Camille a long, sad look that rooted her to the spot.

“I just don’t know how you can’t see it, Cammie,” Kali said quietly. “That man looks at you like you made the sun and the stars all by yourself. That kind of look… that’s gotta mean something.”

“Kali,” Camille sighed, running her fingers through her hair in exasperation. “He’s a young, handsome, rich attorney who runs nightclubs in his spare time. He’s already slept with someone else at the firm. You really think I’m crazy for hesitating?”

Kali dragged a hand down her face, then threw both arms up in surrender. “Okay, fine, fine. I get it. On paper, the red flags are bright fucking red. But if you look past that Cammie, hasn’t he shown you who he is through how he treats you?”

Camille couldn’t deny it. 

Because the truth was... yes. He had.

He’d been patient. Gentle. Curious about her in ways no one had been in years. With Aston, she’d always felt like she had to mold herself into the version of Camille that fit—poised, supportive, quiet when needed, impressive when expected. But with Terry, she could breathe. He asked her questions and actually listened. He remembered small things she said in passing, followed up without making her feel watched. There was something disarmingly tender about him that unsettled her more than any flirtation ever could.

He saw her.

“Yes,” Camille murmured under her breath. “He cares about me.”

Kali's face softened instantly, her expression shifting from exasperated to smug. 

“So why would he do anything to hurt you, babe?” she said, one brow raised.

Camille looked away, her throat tightening. That was the question, wasn’t it?

Because if she let herself believe this was real… and it wasn’t? That would hurt worse than anything.

Camille opened her mouth to respond, ready to defend her guarded heart once again. But she was cut off by a sudden, firm knock on Kali’s apartment door. Her brows pinched in confusion. But Kali didn’t flinch. In fact, she moved with suspicious eagerness, springing from her bed and nearly tripping over her fuzzy socks as she beelined for the door like she’d been waiting for that knock. Camille trailed after her, a confused chuckle bubbling from her lips.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Kali didn’t answer. Instead, she peeked through the peephole, then turned back with a sly smirk. Without a single word, she undid the lock and swung the door open.

There, standing casually in the hallway was Terry, one hand casually in his pocket, the other holding Camille’s clutch.

Camille’s breath caught in her throat.

Heat flooded her cheeks as her stomach flipped in a chaotic mix of panic and giddiness.

“Hey, Terry,” Kali cooed, tossing Camille a sideways glance. “Oh look! You brought her clutch. How thoughtful!” The tone of her voice was unmistakable. It screamed, ‘Yes, we were absolutely talking about you.’

Camille wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

Terry smirked. “Yes ma’am,” he said smoothly, his voice dipped in charm. “Figured I couldn’t let her go a full day without her phone.”

His eyes found Camille’s, and the teasing glint in them made her knees feel weak. 

“Thanks, Terry,” Camille mumbled, forcing a sheepish smile as she reached for the clutch, her fingers brushing against his accidentally.

Kali backed away from the door. “Well, don’t mind me!” she sang, giggling as she disappeared into the kitchen, pleased as punch. “Y’all take your time!”

Camille stood frozen, staring up at Terry as her heart thundered against her ribcage. For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice. But then, she pulled herself together, determined to keep this interaction brief and as painless as possible.

“Sorry you had to come all the way out here,” she said quietly, her voice shy but steady, eyes dropping to the clutch in her hands. “I really should’ve been paying more attention.”

Terry chuckled, the sound low and easy. “No worries,” he replied with a casual shrug. “Gave me an excuse to come see you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. To see me? Her fingers tightened around the clutch, trying to keep her expression neutral, but inside, her heart turned into butterflies.

“Besides,” he added, “your phone’s been blowing up. Thought it might be something urgent.”

Camille’s brows knit together as she let out a surprised, barely audible, 'Oh?' Her phone was usually so dry, it might as well have been a desert. With a small frown, she flipped open her clutch and pulled out her phone as the screen lit up:

4 missed calls – Maybe: Houston Fire Department

2 missed calls – The Echelon Apartments

16 missed calls – Mother

14 messages – Mother

8 missed calls – Father

Her heart sank.

A sick feeling bloomed in her gut, tight and urgent. Something was wrong. Really wrong. Why would the fire department and her apartment building be calling her? Unless…

“I need to go check on my apartment,” she said abruptly, her voice tight and tinged with rising panic.

Terry’s brow furrowed, concern flashing across his face. “Everything alright?”

Camille looked up, forcing a nervous laugh, though her insides felt like unraveling thread. “Umm… I’m not sure?” she admitted, the end of the sentence lilting upward like a question. Her voice betrayed her, on the verge of cracking. It had been a long, unforgiving weekend, and this felt like the final blow.

Terry stepped forward, his voice gentle. “I can take you there, if you want.”

She looked at him—at the kindness in his eyes—and her heart ached. He was just so… sweet.

She gave him a soft, apologetic smile. “Thank you, Terry. Really. But I’ve already taken up too much of your time this weekend.”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes steady on hers. “Come on, Camille. I promise, I don’t mind. Besides…” His voice dipped, more serious now. “We need to talk anyway.”

She swallowed hard. That conversation. The one she hoped she could avoid. But he looked at her so earnestly, like he could see through every excuse she was building in real-time. And she knew, deep down, she wouldn’t say no. Not to him.

“Well… alright,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

He smiled as she turned to call a quick goodbye to Kali, who peeked her head out from the kitchen doorway with a smirk. Camille rolled her eyes, grabbed her sandals, and slipped them on without a word.

And then, she found herself walking out the door beside Terry… not knowing what to expect from their journey. 

~

Camille was grateful for the calm that settled between them during the ride. The cabin of the car was hushed, save for the soft hum of the radio. No forced conversation. No questions. Just stillness, something she hadn’t felt in days.

Today, Terry had forgone the sleek black SUV and professional driver, instead driving in his usual striking Lamborghini Urus. Effortlessly powerful, unapologetically bold. Just like the man behind the wheel. Once she’d given him the address to her apartment, the silence gave her space to think. And her mind, starved of rest, devoured the opportunity.

Was her apartment alright? Did she lose everything she left behind? If so, where would she go after this? She couldn’t stay at Kali’s forever.

Her thoughts spiraled until a sudden warmth pulled her back. A large, comforting hand swept gently over the top of her head, his fingers lingering. Her breath caught.

“Camille?” Terry’s voice wrapped around her. “You okay?”

She blinked, realizing they were parked in her parking garage.

She forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah… sorry,” she murmured, quickly unclicking her seatbelt. “Thanks again for driving me.”

Terry glanced over at her, his expression unreadable. “You mind if I come up?” he asked casually, though his eyes said something different. It wasn’t really a question.

Camille hesitated, but decided she might need some support. “Not at all,” she breathed, praying silently that whatever was waiting upstairs wouldn’t break her.

The walk from the parking garage was uneventful, their footsteps echoing against the concrete as they made their way toward the elevator. But where the car ride had been peaceful, this silence felt… heavier. Dread curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing floor.

She fiddled with her keys in her pocket, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the worst-case scenarios take over. The elevator chimed softly as they reached her floor. And then, her stomach dropped. A distinct smell hit her the second the doors parted. Thick and smoky. Her legs felt like jelly.

Camille’s steps were unsteady as she made her way down the hallway, the smell hitting her harder with every step. Her chest tightened with each breath, and her stomach twisted into knots. The door to her apartment, usually shut tight, now hung slightly ajar. Low voices murmured on the other side, indistinct but urgent. Terry stayed close, his presence a quiet pillar she could mentally lean on.

She reached out with trembling fingers and slowly pushed the door open. The moment it gave way, a gasp tore from her lips, her hand flying to her mouth

Everything, everything, was scorched.

The once-cozy luxury apartment was now a bleak, depressing space. Charred walls, blackened from smoke and soot. Hardwood floors slick with ash and water residue. Particles floating in the air, catching what little sunlight filtered in through shattered windows at the far end of the room.

Her art, her plants, the delicate little touches Aston had allowed her to contribute to make the apartment a little more hers…all destroyed, consumed by what had clearly been an out-of-control blaze. The living room was unrecognizable. Picture frames were melted and warped on the floor. The kitchen island, once spotless and bright, was now covered in debris.

“Oh my God…” she choked out, voice cracking.

Three figures turned sharply at the sound.

Her father. Her mother. And Rachael, the property manager.

“Oh, Camille, I’m so sorry this happened,” Rachael said, rushing forward with genuine concern painted across her face. “We tried to reach you and Aston, but… no one was answering. I’m just glad your parents were able to get here.”

Camille could barely look at them. Her eyes were still moving, frantically scanning the wreckage. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice through the knot in her throat.

“What… what even happened?”

Rachael exhaled slowly, her voice gentle. “The fire department says it was electrical. They think it started from a hair straightener left plugged in.” She hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “But… I know you haven’t been here the past few days.”

Camille didn’t miss the hint. There was another woman. Someone else had been here while she was away. And her and Aston’s carelessness had nearly burned everything she owned to the ground. Camille didn't flinch. She didn’t even look surprised. Her face remained eerily calm as the pieces fell into place. She gave Rachael a slow, silent nod, acknowledging the unsaid.

“I-I have to return to the front office,” Rachael said awkwardly, clearly unsure of what else to say. “But please, don’t hesitate to stop by. We’ll do whatever we can to help you through this.”

Camille could hardly process her words, but she nodded anyway, her gaze still fixed on the remnants of her life.

“Thanks, Rachael,” she said. Rachael gave her a tight, apologetic smile before slipping past Terry and out the door. 

“Camille,” her mother’s voice called out. “Let’s talk, sweetheart.”

Camille nodded reluctantly. She turned slightly towards Terry, who stood quietly off to the side, watching her with concern.

“Can you give us a minute?” she asked. He nodded, his gaze intense. “Of course,” he said softly, stepping out into the hallway and easing the door mostly closed behind him, giving her and her parents privacy.

Camille turned back toward her parents, slowly approaching them. Her mother’s face was a tight mask of worry, eyes red-rimmed, lips pressed together as if holding back tears. But her father’s expression was an entirely different story. Nothing but anger.

“Sweetheart, where have you been?” her mother said, reaching out and clasping Camille’s hand in both of hers. “We’ve been trying to reach you…”

“I lost my phone last night—” Camille started, but the explanation was cut short by a sharp scoff from her father.

“Maybe if you weren’t out with that man, playing his little slut, we would’ve been able to reach you,” her father snapped, his voice rising with every syllable. Camille flinched, her breath catching in her throat.

“Colin!” her mother gasped, but it didn’t stop him.

He shot her a dismissive look before locking eyes with Camille again. “This is all your fault, you know,” he muttered bitterly. Camille’s stomach twisted. She’d heard his criticisms a thousand times before, but this time they landed differently. He wasn’t just disappointed. He was blaming her for something beyond her control. And it hurt.

“H-How could you even say that?” Camille said, voice cracking. “I wasn’t even here!”

“Exactly!” he bellowed, taking a step forward. “If you hadn’t run off, if you had just stayed put, none of this would’ve happened! But no, you had to be selfish. You just had to throw a tantrum and disappear. What do you think Aston’s going to say when he gets out of the hospital, huh? Are you going to explain to him why he’s homeless now?”

Camille’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She glanced at her mother, silently pleading for some sort of intervention, some pushback. A single word. A look. Anything. But her mom just looked away. Avoided her gaze. And in that moment, Camille understood exactly where she stood. Alone. She let out a humorless laugh. “Of course,” she whispered to herself. “Of course I’m the villain here.”

“Are you even listening to me, Camille?” her father barked, voice sharp as a whip. “You ungrateful–”

“Can you just shut the fuck up!” Camille exploded. Her parents recoiled, their eyes wide in stunned disbelief. Her mother’s lips parted in shock, one hand fluttering instinctively to her chest, while her father actually took a step back, blinking as if he’d been slapped. They looked at her like they didn’t recognize her.

“Do you…” her father began, his voice loud and disbelieving, as though he was still trying to process what had just happened. “Do you think you can just raise your voice at me–”

“Enough.” A guttural growl shook the room like a low thunderclap, vibrating in Camille’s bones, silencing everyone.

All eyes turned toward the doorway, where Terry stood, his broad frame filling the entrance. An unnatural stillness radiated from him, quiet and cold. Her father gulped audibly, the only sound in the smothering silence.

“I don’t know what this is about,” Terry began, voice cool and measured, yet predatory. “And I really don’t care. But I’ll be damned if I stand here and let either of you speak to Camille like that.”

He took a slow step forward, making everyone take a step back. “You’re done here,” he said with finality. “Both of you. Now get out.” No yelling, no theatrics, just authority. Undeniable, inescapable and dangerous. It was the kind of voice you didn’t argue with. The kind of voice that made your instincts whisper, ‘Run.’

Camille stood rooted in place, watching him with wide eyes. Terry, who had always been patient and warm, seemed possessed by something else entirely. Something lethal.

Her father tried to summon some control. “Y-you can’t t-tell us what to d-do!” he stammered, his voice trembling.

“Don’t make me fucking repeat myself,” Terry said, low and dark, every syllable laced with something Camille couldn’t name. His eyes glinted. Not with rage, but something more primal. And she found it terrifying.

In that instant, Camille wasn’t looking at the man who she shared an office with, or who brought her clutch back with a soft smile. She was staring into the eyes of something barely restrained. A monster. A protector. She wasn’t sure which.

Her father clamped his mouth shut, visibly shaken. Her mother took a trembling step back, grasping at his arm to steady herself. Neither of them dared to argue. Camille couldn’t breathe. And yet, even with fear crawling up her spine like ice, she felt something else: safety. The safety that could only come from something sinister. A demon. A sexy, dominating, mouth-watering demon.

Her mother reached out and gently tugged at her father’s sleeve, her voice low and shaky. “Come on, Colin. We obviously aren’t welcome here.”

She shivered as Terry’s gaze remained locked on them. Colin DeWaterson looked like he wanted to protest, his jaw working in angry silence. But even he wasn’t bold enough to stand against whatever power he just felt in Terry’s presence. His eyes flicked to Camille, then back to Terry, then down at the floor before he finally moved towards the door, his movements stiff with pride and resentment.

Camille’s mother followed him, avoiding Terry as much as she could, picking a careful path over charred marble and fallen debris until she and her husband passed through the door.

And then, as if a switch had flipped, Terry turned back to her.

Gone was his fury, the commanding presence that had silenced her father with a single look. His eyes were soft. He was back to himself, the version she knew. Without a word, Terry crossed the ruined room, each stride silent and sure despite the rubble beneath his feet. When he reached her, he didn’t hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in.

She stood still at first, her body stiff, her breathing shallow. Then she sank into him.

Her forehead pressed against his chest. She sniffled once, twice. But her eyes remained dry. The tears wouldn’t come. There weren’t any left.

Terry’s hand moved slowly, threading through her hair with care. He leaned down, his voice low and close to her ear. “Can I take you to my place? Let me help you figure all this out. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” His tone was almost desperate but quiet, like he didn’t want to spook her. Like a man who knew just how fragile she was at this moment.

Her mind told her no. Said she wasn’t ready to trust him. Told her it could only lead to heartbreak. But her heart? It jumped at the opportunity. Ready to seize a moment of softness. And when would she get the chance to listen to her heart again?

She nodded against his chest. “Okay,” she whispered.

Terry

Terry hid his satisfaction beneath a mask of concern. Genuine, warm, protective. The perfect facade. But inside? He was more than pleased. His plan had worked exactly as he intended.

The fire had been contained just enough to avoid suspicion, but devastating enough to leave Camille with nowhere else to go. Now, here she was, fragile and disoriented in his home. Right where he needed her to be. Where he could keep her safe… keep her close. 

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with all my drama this weekend, Terry,” Camille said softly, cradling the mug of earl grey he had placed gently into her hands.

Terry looked down at her from his place in front of the couch, watching the steam curl into the air between them. She was curled into the corner of his sectional, legs tucked underneath her.

God, she looked perfect. Vulnerable. Grateful. His.

She brought the mug to her lips and took a tentative sip, sighing as the warmth soothed her. Her eyes closed briefly, lashes brushing her cheeks.

He eased into a cushion next to her, close enough that their legs brushed. His hand moved without hesitation, possessively resting on her thigh.

“Camille,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a caress. “Nothing that happened this weekend was your drama.” He used air quotes around the word 'drama'. “You were just caught up in a bunch of unfortunate events.”

She gave him a weak smile, the corners of her mouth twitching, but her eyes still looked ashamed. He hated that she saw herself as a burden when it came to him. It made something rumble in his chest. Not pity. Not guilt. Frustration. Hadn’t he been clear enough? Hadn’t he shown that he would do anything for her? 

He exhaled slowly, controlling the flicker of irritation threatening to surface. His thumb grazed her thigh gently, a soothing motion that masked his growing hunger. For control.

She looked away, sipping again from the mug, unaware of the storm brewing in him. 

“Still… I’m sorry. For everything,” Camille whispered. Her eyes stayed locked on the mug in her lap. “I–I shouldn’t have crossed that line and kissed you…”

Terry’s jaw ticked. He watched her for a beat longer, then slowly leaned forward, placing a single knuckle beneath her chin. His touch was light, but the message was clear: Look at me.

Reluctantly, she let him tilt her face up, her eyes meeting his.

“Camille,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’ve been very patient with you. I've been gentle. I've given you space. And despite all that, I’ve been more than clear about how I feel.”

He paused, eyes darkening as his thumb brushed just beneath her lip.

“I want you. Far more than you want me. So you can apologize all you want for what you thought was wrong. But I won’t let you sit here and act like I don’t want you. Like I haven’t always wanted you.”

Camille’s eyes widened, stunned by his directness. 

“T-Terry… I didn’t think–”

“What?” he interrupted, the edge in his tone unmistakable now. “You don’t take me seriously?” He knew she respected him, but he had to push her. Needed to push her. Make her understand in a way she could never deny again.

She stammered, shaking her head quickly. “I-I do, Terry! I just… I just don’t think I’m what you really want–”

He let out a dark laugh, low and humorless. “Camille, I made my decision about you months ago.” His voice dropped to a growl, fingers twitching as he kept the darkest parts of himself down. “Watching you with Aston every day…it drove me fucking insane.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him with those beautiful brown eyes, jaw slightly slackened. 

He leaned back slowly, stretching his arms out and lacing his fingers behind his head, his muscles flexing beneath his fitted shirt. His legs spread slightly, lazy but dominant. Unmistakably in control.

“I don’t like being doubted, Camille,” he murmured. She said nothing, too stunned. “So now,” he drawled, each word slow and deliberate as his gaze swept over her, “you’re going to come over here…”

He let the silence stretch. Then added, voice low and commanding, “…and give me a proper apology.”

Camille’s teeth sank into her bottom lip. Her gaze dropped for a moment, staring into the swirl of tea still inside of her mug. Her fingers flexed, then relaxed. Then she set the mug aside and rose slowly to her feet, moving to stand between his parted legs. Her eyes trailed up and down his body before she met his eyes again, giving him a shy glance. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head slightly.

“Go ‘head,” he said. He wasn’t suggesting.

She nervously hiked her long dress up to her mid thighs, Terry’s eyes following the reveal of her smooth brown skin. Carefully, she climbed on top of him to settle in his lap. She gasped as her covered pussy brushed against his very hard length, which twitched with impatience. 

Camille’s fingers hovered slightly before she let them settle on his shoulders. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched her. Her eyes searched his momentarily. Then, slowly, she leaned in. Her lips brushed his. It was too soft, he wouldn’t even call it a kiss. She pulled back just barely. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out. 

Terry almost cracked. Almost. The softness in her voice, the way her lips trembled just after brushing his…the delicate vulnerability in her eyes, wide and unsure like a startled doe. It nearly unraveled him as his irritation dulled. She didn’t even realize the kind of power she held over him. That breathy little 'I’m sorry' was enough to bring him to his knees. But he couldn’t succumb to her charm. He had to make her understand that he wasn’t playing any games.

“Nah,” he groaned, bringing his hands down to her hips, grinding her against him ever so slightly. He let out a low hiss as he took in the friction. “I don’t think you mean it. Try again, baby girl.”

She wasted no time listening to his command. She pressed a deep, wet kiss against his lips. It lingered much longer than the previous one. Then she moved to his jaw. Then his neck. His breath grew shallower with each touch. He balled his hands into fists as he attempted to hold onto his control. And he did…until she reached his ear. The soft, moist feeling against his ear lobe made everything in him snap. Immediately turned him into the predator he knew he was.

His hand slid up to her neck, pulling her face back to his before his lips crashed against hers, giving her harsh, consuming kisses. She whimpered as she attempted to keep up with him as he continued, but he had no plan on slowing down. He wanted her mind cloudy. The only thing getting through the haze of it all should be how good he was making her feel. 

Terry slid his arms beneath Camille’s thighs, lifting her effortlessly. The kiss never broke, only deepened as her arms instinctively looped around his neck. His grip was secure as he moved through the apartment toward his bedroom. He walked the path to his room without thought, his focus entirely on her and the way she tasted, her lips stained with earl gray tea and honey.

This time, his room was safe. Nothing out of place, nothing that might raise a single question. The altar, a physical manifestation of his obsession with her, was no longer in eyesight. He had moved it as soon as he came home that morning, tucking it away behind a reinforced door, locked with both steel and spell, where no wandering eyes would ever find it. Especially hers.

He shoved his door wider as he reached it, crossing the threshold like a dragon returning to its castle…holding its most prized treasure. He pulled away only to toss her on the bed. She landed with a soft whimper, watching him as he began to strip.

“Take off everything,” he growled as he pulled his shirt over his head. “I want you completely bare.”

Obediently, she pulled the rest of her dress off and cast it to the side. She was left in nothing else but a pink thong, which she eagerly hooked her thumbs through to pull them down. Terry watched her as he kicked off his pants and boxers. He fisted his dick as he slowly stalked towards his bed. The way she laid against it… hair wild, lips puffy, eyes hooded. It was as if she was a siren being served to him on a silver platter. Silently calling out to him, begging to be tamed. Her smooth skin glistened as she rubbed her thighs against each other, lust swirling in her eyes and throughout her aura.

Terry grasped one of her ankles and dragged her until her ass sat on the edge of the bed. With his eyes still on hers, he sank to his knees and parted her legs. He licked his lips as he stared at her dripping wet center, her fragrance making his cock throb. 

A well deserved offering she was. 

He leaned forward to take in more of her scent, a deep rumble coming from him. Then, his tongue darted out, a slow, long lick separating her folds. Camille yelped, her back arching off his bed. He chuckled, loving the way she responded to his touch. He took another lick, this one much more slow and teasing.

“Terryyyyyy,” she moaned. He growled again, her taste making him nearly feral. He pried her legs even further, giving him better access to his pussy. 

“Fuck you taste so good. So fucking good.” He couldn’t hold back anymore. He needed this just as much as she did. His lips latched around her clit, licking and sucking simultaneously, speeding up as her screams grew louder and louder. He dragged one of his hands from her thigh down to her pussy, slowly pushing in two thick fingers.

“Ohmygodddddd,” Camille shouted, as her walls spasmed around his digits. He hummed, watching her twist and thrash against his bed, curses pouring from her like a faucet. He sped up his pace, curling his fingers slightly to graze the spot he knew would drive her crazy. She let out an agonized whimper, beginning to scoot back from his touch.

Terry pulled away, furious. “You runnin’?” he gritted. “Daddy don’t like all that runnin’ shit.” He reached out and yanked her back towards him, his mouth latching back onto her pussy once more. This time, he was much more brutal.

Sucking. 

Slurping. 

Lapping. 

He did it all. And he didn’t stop. Not when her legs began to twitch. Not even when she begged for mercy. It wasn’t until her juices splashed across his mouth and chin did he pull away from her, somewhat satisfied. 

He rose slowly from his knees, beating his dick as he watched the little thing try to reorient herself. He couldn’t have that though, could he? He needed her dick-dumb, her mind consumed by only him and what he was doing to her. He grabbed her waist and slid her body further up the bed towards his headboard. His hand found her neck once again, giving it a squeeze, beckoning her to focus on him.

She blinked up at him as she panted, fat tears staining her pretty face. He gave her a crooked smile.

“Raw?” He asked. He wanted to feel her against him, nothing being between them. But he wanted her comfortable more than anything. But to his surprise, she nodded, still trying to catch air as she swallowed.

“Yes please,” she moaned, the words sounding so needy. So fucking pathetic. He chuckled sinisterly. Yes, please? Oh, he was going to put her straight through this damn mattress. Slowly, he fed her the tip of his cock. His eyes rolled back, ascending to euphoria as her entrance tightened around his tip. “Ahhhh,” she winced, wiggling slightly, trying her best to accommodate him.

“Breathe, princess, breathe,” he cooed, his hand moving from her neck down to her nipple. He brushed the nub softly, coaxing her to relax. “You can take it, pretty girl. I know you can.”

After a few pants, he felt Camille relax around him, making him smile. He pushed a few more inches into her before pulling out completely, watching her face to make sure she was good. It didn’t take long for the pained expression to melt away, leaving only her eyes rolled back and her mouth fallen open. 

“That’s my girl,” he moaned, picking up his pace. He couldn’t help the vulgar things that fell out of his mouth as he thrusted in and out of her. Her pussy was beyond perfect. Tight and gushy, filling the room up with the most erotic sounds. This had to be what heaven felt like. No, it was beyond that. It was mind numbing and earth shattering being in Camille’s temple. And he would worship there until the day he fucking died.

Terry almost got lost in her warmth, his release threatening to come too early. He almost let himself get carried away on the high. But he remembered that, above all, this was her punishment. A lesson on trusting him, his words, and his actions. She wouldn’t learn if he failed to drag this out.

Camille needed to believe him. Completely. She thought he was just playing. That this… that they were some temporary, heat-of-the-moment fling. But she was wrong. Terry had to make her see. Make her understand. Not with words, because he had said enough. But with deep, pleasure-filled strokes that communicated better than any words ever could.

Letting her know that she was safe with him. That she was treasured. Every move, every touch, every lingering kiss would be a vow she couldn’t ignore. He would claim every inch of her. Until the doubt fell away. Until she looked at him and acknowledged what he had known all along: She didn’t belong to anyone else. Only him.

Beads of sweat dripped down from his face as he watched her face contort, unable to do anything but take his dick.

Good, he thought. Now would be a perfect time for a domination spell... right in the middle of me ruining her.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me you’re all mine. You belong to me don’t you?”

All she had to do was say those words. And she would be his. He slowed down slightly, allowing her to focus on what he was saying. But she didn’t speak. Just nodded weakly before her head lolled to the side. Terry tsked. That just wouldn’t do.

“Come on Camille, just tell me. You can do it,” he purred, amused by how cock-drunk she looked. His lips crashed into hers, his hips rolling to a stop. “Say it, baby,” he encouraged as he pulled away from her slightly.

She gulped. “I’m yours,” she croaked, voice nearly gone. He cocked his eyebrow.

“And?” He shoved his cock to the base, forcing a whimper from her. She sniffled, obviously fighting the overstimulation. “I-I belong to you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Terry let out a laugh, unhinged, almost psychotic as he continued digging her out. She said it. She actually said it! The words rang in his ears like a sweet hymn. All of his careful planning, every whispered manipulation, every hidden ritual, every drop of blood he spilled…had led to this moment. To her.

His chosen Indulgence, who seemed to have him gripped in the deepest obsession, in his bed and in his arms.

And for that… for giving him exactly what he craved…her trust, her surrender, her heart…he had to reward her with pleasure beyond anything she could comprehend. And Terry, in all his dark devotion, would make sure she felt it. Deep in her skin and in her soul. Because Terry always took care of what was his.

He reached down, his thumb expertly playing with her clit, giving it the right amount of pressure to push her into her next orgasm.

He watched as her chest heaved up and down before she paused for the slightest moment, eyes glazing over.

And then, she shattered.

Her spine arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Every nerve lit up. Every feeling surged through her, all tangled together and bursting through her at once. Her body trembled as she gave in, no longer able to contain what he had so methodically unraveled.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted, and she pressed herself against him like she didn’t know where she ended and he began. Exactly how he wanted her.

“Terryyyyyyyy!” She sobbed.

“That’s my girl,” he chuckled, enjoying the pulse of her pussy as it gripped his cock, nearly milking out his release. He watched as her body lightly convulsed as her orgasm continued to rip through her. Sweet, soft whimpers escaping her, making his cock jump. 

He was grateful for her submission. But her punishment was far from over. He was still irritated that she couldn’t see his love for her. So he would make sure she got the message.

And he would be rough. Passionate. And barely restrained. 

As if he was possessed by some feral monster, he grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her stomach, snatching her hips into the air and pressing her head into the pillows.

“I’m tired of you running from me, baby girl. Running from us. So I gotta make sure we’re crystal clear,” he groaned, placing feathery soft kisses up her spine. He noticed how her arch faltered with each press of his lips. With a smirk, he dragged his tongue up her spine, watching her lose her arch all together. But he just propped her right back up, just how he liked it.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” He asked, as he ran his tip up and down her slit, giving her entrance extra attention. She only nodded eagerly as she gripped the sheets to prepare herself. He frowned, displeased by her lack of words. He planted a heavy smack on her full ass, the ripple momentarily hypnotizing him. She cried out, arching even further. “Words, Princess.” He gritted.

“Y-Yes, I’ll be a good girl–” Another slap pulled another cry from her. He gripped her hair, pulling her head back slightly. His lips kissed along the shell of her ear. 

“Yes what?” Terry asked, nuzzling the side of her face with his. He licked his lips slowly, still savoring her juices on his mouth and tongue.

“Yes, Daddy,” she moaned, trying to press herself into him. He smirked. Greedy little thing, he thought as he pressed her face back into the pillow. She had no idea what she just unleashed with those words. Hopefully, she’ll be able to walk after he was done with her. 

With one kiss to her shoulder blade, Terry thrust his full length into her weeping hole. He let out a guttural moan as the breath in her throat caught. 

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered as she fluttered around him. “You can take all of me.”

Terry showed her no mercy as he pummeled in and out of her with deep, torturous strokes, soaking up every moan that went past her pretty ass lips. But he knew his love could do better than that. She could be a bit more vocal. He reached around her front, sliding his fingers into her folds to caress the pearl-like bundle of nerves between her legs.

“Ooooo, shittt Daddy,” she shouted, her legs beginning to quiver. Terry smirked, slowing his strokes down to match the pace the tips of his fingers used to circle her clit. Again, she fluttered around him, making his hips almost stutter. He smacked her ass again.

“You gonna let me take care of you, princess?” He asked. She nodded once more, gripping his sheets even harder. “Yes sir,” she croaked, voice hoarse. He smacked her round flesh again.

“You gonna let me handle all this shit you got going on?” 

“Yes, oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!” Her orgasm was close. He wished he could see her eyes. Were they rolling back? Were they clenched tight? He was dying to know. But her ass was just as beautiful of a sight.

A deep, evil chuckle left his mouth. He could make her do anything right now. She was like putty. He couldn’t wait to reshape her. Not with his hands, but with his presence, his words. Not into someone new, but into someone real. Her most authentic and free self. The version of Camille that the world had tried to bury, but that he saw so clearly, even when she didn’t.

He pressed his full weight into her, flattening her into his bed. His mouth hovered over her ear. “This my pussy now, right?” He teased, grasping her hands as he brought her closer to exaltation. 

She closed her eyes tightly. “O-Only your pussy, Daddy! No one else’s!” 

He let out a satisfied hum. There she was. The vulgar little temptress he knew she could be. “Yeah? So I should nut in my pussy right? Fill you up until you stuffed?”

“Please, Daddy,” she begged. “I-I-I want to feel full.” How could Terry deny such a humble request?

He leaned back and placed one foot on the bed, giving him the leverage to drill one particular spot in the goddess beneath him. She deserved it. Her moans and cries became sharp breaths as her pussy quivered around him. Terry was almost there. Just a few more strokes…

“Fuckkkkkkk!” Camille slurred, knees buckling as she splashed his sheets with her release. The sight of it pushed him over the edge. “Shitttt!” Terry hissed, tears pricking the sides of his eyes, the world crumbling around him, leaving nothing but him and Camille. His hips sputtered as his balls contracted, his cock shooting thick ropes of cum into his woman, painting her walls white.

He collapsed on top of her, careful not to smush her but enough to lock her into place. For a while, they didn’t move. Just breathed heavily as their climaxes subsided. As their souls untangled themselves from each other. Although he wanted to, Terry knew he couldn’t just lay there. He pushed her, probably further than she had ever been pushed before. If he wanted to keep her grounded, he had to give Camille her much needed aftercare.

He sat up slowly, balancing on his knees as he looked down at where they were still connected. She still spasmed around him, adding to the thick, creamy ring that formed at the base of his dick. A perfect mix of their pleasure. Of course, Terry hardened again, and he cursed lowly as he pulled out of her. His mouth watered as he watched his cum spill out of her, dropping onto the soaked, dark sheets below her.

God, she was a sight. 

His dick twitched once more, begging to return to its new, warm home. But he knew she had given him all she could. For now. She was right where she needed to be. But he couldn’t keep her there forever.

He gently kissed her shoulder before he flipped her over tenderly. Shallow breaths still fell from her lips, her eyes glassy and her gaze far away.

Terry reached up slowly, reverently, his fingertips brushing along her jaw before cupping her face. She leaned into his touch without hesitation, her eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. His thumb stroked along her cheekbone.

“I love you, Camille,” he whispered, tone nothing but sincere.

Her eyes finally refocused. They locked onto his in a way that made his breath catch. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then, a soft, warm giggle escaped her lips. A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light as it fell, and she smiled.

“I love you too, Terry,” she whispered, the words trembling as they left her. He smiled back.

“Good to hear, baby girl,” he murmured. He brushed his thumb across the tear still clinging to her skin. “Now, let me get you cleaned up.” He stood, tugging her into a bridal style hold, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he made his way to his bathroom.

Stephanie

Stephanie walked down the stark hallway of the hospital’s psychiatric wing, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead casting a sterile glow across the scuffed floor. Her heels clicked softly beneath her, muffled by the hum of machines and the distant murmurs drifting from behind closed doors. She adjusted her oversized sunglasses with a practiced flick of her wrist, despite the fact that they barely masked the exhaustion and fury simmering just beneath her polished exterior.

This was the fourth hospital she had visited today. But this time, she finally found who she was looking for.

A nurse at the front desk had bought the concerned-girlfriend routine without hesitation, directing her with a sympathetic nod and giving her a printed visitor sticker. Stephanie hadn’t even needed to fake the tremble in her voice. Her nerves were still frayed from this morning’s… incident with Terry.

Her stomach turned at the scent of industrial cleaner. The quiet, occasional thuds or groans behind doors creeped her out but she pressed forward, undeterred.

She was on a mission after all.

This morning’s altercation with Terry had been a disaster. She had miscalculated, overplayed her hand. Threatening to expose him, flashing the truth of what he really was, only earned her a choking hand around her throat. And while it was beyond sexy, it was a reminder of what he was capable of. He didn’t fear her. And why would he? Who would believe that the beloved Terry Richmond was a vampire? She wouldn’t have believed it had she not seen it with her own eyes.

But where her threat had failed… she’d discovered something else she could use to get him to bend to her will.

Camille.

Stephanie had been so blind. She was so focused on Camille’s infatuation with Terry that she didn’t even notice his infatuation with her.

But now she understood.

Camille DeWaterson was Terry’s weakness, the key to Stephanie getting everything she wanted. And she would gladly use that slut against him.

Stephanie halted mid-stride as she reached Room 718, the number the nurse had whispered with that oh-so-reassuring smile. She tilted her head, peering through the narrow window in the door, where the blinds had been left slightly ajar.

Inside, the room was dim but not empty.

Aston sat upright in the hospital bed, wrists bound tight in restraints, fingers twitching. He stared at the ceiling. His mouth hung slightly open, lips dry, his pupils wide and unfocused. Heavily medicated, Stephanie noted. The cocktail they had him on must’ve been strong.

Her gaze shifted to the older couple hovering near the bed’s edge. A man and woman, seated on either side with identical blank expressions. The woman’s elegant updo had started to fall, and the man’s suit jacket was wrinkled at the elbows. But even disheveled, they reeked of money. She recognized them instantly from the night before.

Mr. and Mrs. McCoy. Texas oil money, she thought, lips twitching into a slight smirk.

She let her eyes linger on their outfits, clearly what they had worn the previous night. No doubt, they hadn’t left their son’s side since then. 

Stephanie didn’t hesitate.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside like she owned the place, the scent of antiseptic rushing up to greet her. Instantly, all three heads turned in her direction.

Aston’s dull eyes flickered, as if he was coming back to life. He tugged against the restraints with new energy, his voice cracking as it spilled out in surprise. “Stephanie! Baby, I’ve missed you so much!”

He tugged at the straps like a child reaching for a toy just out of reach, his frown deepening when the restraints held firm. 

“Somebody get these fucking things off me!” Aston's voice cracked as he strained against the restraints, his eyes wild with a mix of panic and desperation.

His parents sprang to their feet, their movements hurried as they attempted to soothe their son with gentle words and reassuring touches. His mother turned to Stephanie, her expression tight with barely concealed frustration.

“I apologize for what happened last night,” she began, her voice measured but firm, “but you need to leave.”

Stephanie’s lips curled into a faint smile. She rolled her eyes theatrically, the gesture dripping with feigned exasperation, as Aston’s shouting escalated.

“If you want your son to get better,” Stephanie replied coolly, “you need me here.”

She took a deliberate step closer to the hospital bed, each stride measured and confident. Reaching the bedside, she leaned slightly forward, her presence commanding Aston’s attention.

“Hey, Aston,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness. She plastered a fake smile on her face as she observed his frantic movements gradually stop, his focus on her like a moth to a flame.

“I've missed you too!” She lied with ease. “But I need you to calm down, okay? You don't want to upset your parents, right?”

Aston's gaze flickered momentarily, a brief flash of clarity before he succumbed again, his eyes locking onto hers. His hands, still bound, settled into his lap, his posture slumping in defeat.

“N-No, baby,” he stammered, his voice small and apologetic. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Stephanie's smile deepened, savoring the small victory.

“Good boy,” she murmured, enjoying the control she had over him.

Turning her gaze toward Aston’s parents, Stephanie observed their reactions with keen interest. His mother wore an expression of sheer horror. Her lush, Southern accent trembled as she addressed Stephanie.

“What have you done to him?” she quipped, her voice laced with terror.

His father remained eerily silent, his eyes narrowing as they fixed intently on Stephanie, analyzing her every move with a calculating gaze.

Unfazed, Stephanie met his father’s scrutiny with unwavering confidence. “I haven't done anything to him,” she replied smoothly. “But I know how to get him back to normal. I'll just need a few things from you all first.”

Before his mother could retort, Aston's father's calm voice interjected.

“Let her speak, Lily,” he said, his tone surprisingly composed. Stephanie couldn't suppress her smirk, her lips curling as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“First,” she began, her voice smooth and deliberate, “I need you to help me disappear.” She watched as they exchanged glances.

“Go on,” his father prompted, his expression unreadable. Stephanie’s eyes darkened as she thought about her next request. She hated that she even had to mention that homewrecking bitch’s name. 

“And when I say when,” she continued, her voice tinged with barely contained irritation, “bring me Camille DeWaterson.”

a/n:

OK, so please, nobody shoot me. But I'm going to have to pause updates until May 9. School, work, and research are really kicking my ass right now, and I just can't give that much time to writing right now. But I really thank y'all for supporting my work and checking in on me! It really does help me get through everything. Especially all the funny and detailed comments and reposts. 😭 I'll be ready to jump back into things once my school stuff dies down. But until then, thanks again for reading, engaging, and interacting!

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[jiuwaves]

Clingy When Tipsy

❦ pairing ; kwon jiyong x reader   

❦ warnings ; none, just fluff :>

The music pulsed through the cozy little lounge, laughter and chatter bubbling louder than the bass. You were tucked into a plush booth with your friends and staff, a glass of champagne in hand, cheeks warm from both the drinks and the love in the room.

Jiyong sat beside you, his arm casually draped around your shoulders, the glow in his eyes even more intoxicating than the city lights outside.

“You killed it out there.” he murmured near your ear, his voice just low enough for only you to hear.

You leaned into him with a grin, the adrenaline of the tour still buzzing in your bones. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The celebration turned into a blur of lights and laughter as the night deepened. You were absolutely living heels off, hair wild, and one hand in the air as you danced like the entire city was your stage. The drinks kept coming. Shots, cocktails, whatever was handed to you, you took it with a grin and downed it like a champ.

From across the room, Jiyong leaned against the bar, watching you with that soft kind of smile only someone in love could wear. You were the center of it all. Laughing, dancing, glowing like you belonged in the chaos. Every now and then, you’d glance over at him, and he’d raise his glass in that cool, effortless way that only he could pull off. It was your night, and he loved seeing you soak in every bit of it.

But then, his phone buzzed again and again. He sighed, pulling it out, the screen lighting up with messages that could no longer be ignored. Something with work, something urgent and of course it had to be tonight.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering across his face as he slipped through the crowd toward you, weaving past your friends, catching you just as you were mid-laugh with one of your dancers.

“Jagiya..” he said softly, his voice low and tinged with regret.

“I have to go. It’s work.” he added, frowning, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had to leave you right now.

“Oh? That’s okay!” you said with a gentle smile, wrapping your arms around him in a warm hug.

He held you tightly in that moment, his arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His chin rested against your shoulder, and you could feel the heaviness in his breath, like leaving you now physically hurt him.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “It’s okay, really” you said again, softer this time.

He let out a small, breathy laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Then he turned to go, slipping out into the cool night air and into the black car waiting just outside. You stood there for a moment, watching the door even after it closed behind him. The music pulsed back into your awareness, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, all still going, like nothing had changed.

Jiyong sat at the dining table, dressed down in a loose black hoodie and sweats, the soft glow of his laptop casting pale light across his face. The place was quiet, too quiet compared to the electric buzz of the lounge he’d just left. A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside him, long gone cold.

Fingers tapped rhythmically on the keyboard as he scrolled through files, answered emails, and handled sudden issues that had blown up back at the company but now in every few minutes, his eyes would flicker toward his phone on the table, as if expecting a text from you… or maybe just hoping for one.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair, arms stretching high above his head as he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His muscles ached from the hours hunched over his laptop, but it was the weight on his chest, the guilt that pressed the hardest.

Lost in the spiral of regret, he almost didn’t hear it.

Ding-dong.

His head snapped up.

The doorbell rang again, louder this time in the still silence of the apartment.

Jiyong blinked, confused. It was past midnight.

He stood slowly, chair sliding back with a quiet scrape, and padded to the door. He peeked through the peephole... then froze.

There you were.

Kneeling on the floor outside his door, a half-empty bottle in one hand, your shoes dangling from the other, and your hair tousled from a night that had clearly lived up to the chaos. Your eyes flicked up to him with a lopsided smile, equal parts tipsy and tired.

Jiyong's heart stopped for a second. Then panic kicked in.

“Aish, jagi—what are you doing down there?” he hissed under his breath, quickly stepping out and pulling you up gently but firmly by the arm. “You’re gonna catch a cold… and what if someone saw you like this?”

He glanced down the hallway before ushering you inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click. The second the lock turned, the tension in his shoulders eased but only slightly.

You stumbled in with a quiet giggle, holding the bottle up like a trophy. “I brought wine.”

Jiyong looked at you, then at the bottle, then back at you. His lips twitched despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

He walked over slowly, kneeling in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy but soft.

“You’re such a mess right now..” he murmured with a small smile.

The bottle tilted in your hand slightly, and he took it from you with a sigh, setting it aside before you could spill it all over the rug.

“..Okay” he said, standing up and offering you a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then you’re staying here tonight. No arguments.”

You blinked up at him, your fingers curling around his. “What about work?”

He gave you a look. “Screw work. You’re here now.”

He lifted you effortlessly, and you swayed into his arms.

"Woah, handsome..” you murmured, your words thick with the haze of alcohol, your fingers playfully twirling on his chest.

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin, fingers still tracing circles on his chest. 

‘’Am i.. lucky?’’ you whispered with your hands slipping to his neck, tugging him closer.

"Maybe?” he said, squinting his eyes in disbelief at your sudden clinginess.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips, but you weren’t giving him much space to do anything but laugh softly.

However, you ignored his response, instead pressing yourself even closer, your hands slipping under his shirt as you rested your head on his chest, like you couldn’t bear to be even a few inches away from him.

"I don’t want to let go..” you mumbled, your voice a mix of sleepy and affectionate, clinging to him as if he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"How odd..you don’t usually just show up at my house, like this" he said, a playful edge to his voice as he gently picked strands of hair from the top of your head, his fingers lingering on your scalp as if he was still trying to make sense of your sudden appearance.

You leaned into his touch, your hands gripping his shirt like you couldn’t let go. "I couldn’t help it" you whispered, the after-party’s buzz still lingering in your system. 

"I just… missed you." Your voice was soft, almost fragile, as you melted into his embrace, unwilling to let him pull away.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening as he noticed the clinginess in your eyes, the way you clung to him like you needed his presence to calm the storm of excitement and exhaustion swirling around you.

"I thought you'd be out there with the others, having fun?” he teased.

"I just wanted you..” you mumbled, your arms wrapping tighter around him, nuzzling your face into his chest. "You left too soon... I didn’t want to be without you."

"Okay, okay, let’s get you cleaned up first" he said with a soft laugh, dragging you inside the bathroom. You still clung to him, stumbling along as he led you to the tub.

He gently set you down on the edge, but you didn’t let go, your hands still wrapped around his arm.

You gave him a pout, "I don’t want to be here... I want you" you whined, your words slurring slightly, eyes heavy with exhaustion and the lingering effects of the party.

Letting out a soft sigh, He looked at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. 

"You really don’t make this easy, huh?" he muttered, reaching over to start running the water for the bath, but you refused to loosen your grip on him.

Once the tub was filled just right, he turned to you, his gaze soft but firm.

"I’m going to get water, okay?" he said, gently letting go of your hand. "You just get in, I'll be back in a minute."

You nodded, your fingers curling around the edge of the tub as he stepped away. As soon as he left the room, a sudden sense of emptiness washed over you, the room feeling quieter without him. You quickly undressed, the warm water soothing your tired muscles as you sank into the bath. You immediately leaned back, letting out a content sigh, your eyes half-lidded from the alcohol and exhaustion.

Minutes felt like hours as you waited, until you heard his footsteps approaching again. The moment he stepped back in, you were already reaching out for him, your voice quiet but needy. 

"Took you long enough" you whispered with a playful pout, your arms reaching for him instinctively. "I didn’t want to be alone in here."

He chuckled softly, handing you the glass of water, his fingers brushing yours as he did. "I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry" he teased, a warm smile on his face. 

You took the glass from him gratefully, sipping the cool water, but your attention quickly shifted back to him as he knelt down by the tub, the sound of his movements calming you.

"Turn around" he said gently, his voice soft and soothing. You complied, shifting to face away from him, your back resting against the edge of the tub as you felt his presence behind you. His hands were warm as he gently cupped your head, tilting it slightly as he began to rinse your hair with the water.

His touch was tender and careful, each motion slow and deliberate as he massaged the shampoo into your scalp. The feeling of his fingers working through your hair was both soothing and intimate, making you relax into him more than you thought you would.

You let out a soft sigh, leaning back slightly, your eyes fluttering closed. "You’re good at this..” you murmured, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

You couldn’t help but cling to the moment, his gentle touch grounding you in a way nothing else could. "I could get used to this."

He smiled to himself, continuing the slow rhythm of washing your hair, his hands lingering a little longer than necessary, almost as if he didn’t want to let go either.

"I’m happy to help" he said quietly, his voice a soft murmur as his fingers worked their way through your damp hair.

After the bath, he helped you dress in a pair of his soft pyjamas, the warmth of the fabric comforting against your skin. He smiled as he finished adjusting the waistband, but before he could pull away, you protested softly, sitting on the edge of his bed with your arms wrapped around his waist. You rested your face against his stomach, the fabric of his shirt feeling warm and familiar beneath your cheek.

"I’m not sleepy" you mumbled, your voice muffled by the fabric of his hoodie, but there was a hint of stubbornness in your tone. You held him tighter, unwilling to let go, your fingers lightly gripping the soft material of his shirt as you melted against him.

He chuckled softly, hands gently stroking your hair as he looked down at you, the smile on his face both amused and affectionate. 

"You sure about that?" he teased, bending slightly to kiss the top of your head. "Because you look like you’re about to pass out any minute."

You shook your head slightly, still holding on to him, your eyes flickering up to meet his.

"I just want to stay with you" you whispered, your voice quieter now, a little more vulnerable.

"Jagiya..." he said with a playful tone, his hands gently but firmly pushing you back onto the bed. You let out a small gasp, caught off guard by the sudden movement, but before you could protest, he was already pulling you further onto the bed, guiding you toward the pillows.

"Promise" he whispered, his voice soft but serious.

”I won’t leave you." His hands were warm as they guided you, pulling you into the pillows where you finally relaxed, your head sinking into the softness beneath you.

You looked up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and something else, maybe a touch of vulnerability, like you didn’t want him to leave, ever.

“Pinky promise me now” you said, lifting your hand with your pinky finger pointed firmly at him, eyes locked on his like it was a matter of life and death.

He stared at you for a moment, clearly trying not to laugh, squinting as if he wasn’t sure whether to tease you or give in. 

“You’re not being serious, are you?”

“Very serious!” you replied without missing a beat, your face unmoving, the alcohol still softening your features but your stubbornness shining through loud and clear.

“Jagi—”

“Now.”

Your tone left no room for argument. He sighed dramatically, shaking his head with a crooked grin as he brought up his own pinky and hooked it with yours. 

“Fine. Pinky promise..” he said, his voice mock-defeated but fond, like he secretly loved your clinginess more than he’d ever admit.

You gave his pinky the tiniest squeeze, eyes narrowing like you were locking in the deal. 

“You’re stuck with me now’’ you said satisfied, resting your hand against his chest again as you curled back into him.

He let out a soft chuckle, resting his chin lightly on your head.

“I think I knew that the second you latched onto me like a koala” he murmured, arms tightening around you.

[wolvietxt]

💭 thinking about…

𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗁𝖽𝖺𝗒!

pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader warnings : hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, crying, kissing, reader’s friends don’t say happy birthday to her word count : 2k

the morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room as you slowly woke up. you reached out, expecting to find logan still in bed, but the sheets were cool to the touch - he’d already gotten up. you sighed, pushing yourself out of bed, feeling a heaviness settle in your chest that had nothing to do with sleep.

it was your birthday, and despite telling yourself not to get your hopes up, you couldn’t help but feel a little excited. but as you wandered into the kitchen, you found logan already dressed, pouring himself a cup of coffee. he glanced up at you with a brief nod, his usual gruff expression on his face.

“morning,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep.

“morning,” you replied, trying to keep your voice light despite the disappointment gnawing at your insides. you waited for him to say something, to give any hint that he remembered what day it was, but he just turned back to the coffee maker, sipping his drink without another word.

you forced a smile, hoping maybe he was just waiting for the right moment, but as the minutes ticked by, the silence between you grew heavier. you tried to make conversation, but your heart wasn’t in it. your responses were shorter, your smile more strained. you felt like a deflated balloon, all the anticipation from earlier draining away with each passing second.

logan, usually so perceptive, didn’t seem to notice the shift in your mood. he was preoccupied with something on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. you watched him, hoping he’d glance up, catch the sadness in your eyes, and realise what was wrong. but he didn’t. instead, he muttered something about needing to head out for a bit, and before you knew it, he was gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

the rest of the morning passed in a blur. you went through the motions, trying to distract yourself with chores and busywork, but your mind kept drifting back to logan, to the way he’d just… left. your phone stayed silent, no calls or messages from anyone. it was as if the world had forgotten you existed, and the weight of that realisation pressed down on you until it was hard to breathe.

by the time noon rolled around, you couldn’t take it anymore. you grabbed your coat and headed out, needing some fresh air, some space to clear your head. you wandered aimlessly through the city, lost in your thoughts, the cold wind biting at your cheeks. every shop window you passed, every couple you saw laughing together, only deepened the ache in your chest. it wasn’t just that logan had forgotten - everyone had.

you eventually found yourself in a small park, the trees just beginning to change colour with the arrival of autumn. you sat down on a bench, wrapping your arms around yourself as if you could hold the pieces of your broken heart together. tears welled up in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall, not here, not in public. you’d already cried enough this morning, alone in your empty apartment.

back at home, logan was busy working on a project when his phone buzzed with a notification. he absentmindedly picked it up, thinking it was just another email or text, but when he saw the reminder on the screen, his blood ran cold.

“don’t forget: y/n’s birthday today.”

his heart sank, a wave of guilt crashing over him so hard it left him breathless. he’d completely forgotten. the date had slipped his mind in the chaos of everything else, and now, thinking back on how you’d been acting all morning - how quiet, how distant - you’d clearly been hurting, and he hadn’t even noticed.

logan cursed under his breath, shoving his phone into his pocket as he bolted out the door. he had to fix this, had to make it right somehow. he couldn’t stand the thought of you spending your birthday alone, feeling unloved and unimportant. he didn’t know what he’d do yet, but he was determined to make it up to you.

he spent the next hour rushing around, trying to pull together something - anything - that would show you how much you meant to him. he wasn’t good at this kind of thing, never had been, but for you, he’d try. he picked up your favourite flowers, a small cake from the bakery you loved, and a gift that he knew you’d been eyeing for weeks.

when he finally got home, his heart was pounding in his chest, a mixture of anxiety and determination fueling him. he found the apartment empty, no sign of you anywhere. panic began to rise in his throat, but before he could let it consume him, he heard the door creak open, and there you were, stepping inside with a weary expression on your face.

you looked up, surprised to see logan standing there with an armful of flowers and a nervous look in his eyes. “logan?” you asked, your voice soft and unsure.

“i screwed up,” he said, his voice low and filled with regret. “i should’ve remembered. i should’ve been here with you all day, making sure you knew how much you mean to me. but i forgot, and i’m sorry.”

you blinked, the sadness in your chest starting to melt away at the sight of him standing there, so earnest, so desperate to make things right. “logan…”

“i know it doesn’t fix everything,” he continued, stepping closer and holding out the flowers to you, “but i want to make it up to you. bub, you matter to me more than anything.”

you took the flowers from him, your hands trembling slightly as you inhaled their sweet scent. they were beautiful, and you could see the effort he’d gone through to get them for you. but more than that, it was the look in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice, that made your heart swell.

“you really forgot?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

logan nodded, guilt etched into every line of his face. “yeah, i did. and i hate that i did. ‘m so fucking sorry, baby.”

tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of relief, of feeling seen. you set the flowers down and stepped closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. “i just wanted you to remember,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt. “i just wanted to feel like i mattered.”

logan held you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a protective shield. “you do matter,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “god, you matter more than anything. ‘m sorry i made you feel like you don’t.”

you pulled back slightly, looking up at him with teary eyes. “it’s not just you. it’s everyone. i didn’t hear from anyone today. it’s like i don’t even exist.” you blurt out through your watery smile.

his heart ached at the pain in your voice, the loneliness that had clearly been eating away at you all day. he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that had begun to spill over. “i’m here,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to your wounded heart. “i’m here, and i’m not going anywhere.”

you nodded, leaning into his touch, letting the warmth of his hands chase away the lingering coldness inside you. you didn’t need a big celebration or a fancy gift - just him, just this moment, was enough.

logan leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then another to your cheek, and then another to your lips. he kissed you slowly, tenderly, as if trying to make up for every moment of hurt he’d caused today. you melted into him, your hands gripping his shirt as you kissed him back, pouring all your love and forgiveness into that single act.

“happy birthday,” he whispered against your lips, his voice filled with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

“thank you,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion. “for this, for everything.”

he pulled you closer, his kisses growing more fervent, trailing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. each kiss was a silent apology, a promise to do better, to be better for you. you closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the sensation of his lips on your skin, the warmth of his body against yours.

when he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “i’m sorry i wasn’t there today,” he said, his voice rough with sincerity. “but i’m here now, and i’m not letting go.”

you smiled up at him, your heart full to the brim with love for this man who, despite his rough exterior, cared for you so deeply. “that’s all i need,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

logan pulled you back into his arms, holding you close as if he could shield you from all the hurt you’d felt today. you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath you. the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in this moment, wrapped up in each other.

and as you stood there, in the safety of his embrace, you realised that despite everything, today had turned out to be a pretty good birthday after all.

★

the morning after your birthday, you woke up to the comforting warmth of logan’s arms around you. he’d already been awake, quietly watching you sleep, and when your eyes fluttered open, he gave you a soft, affectionate smile. “how about we go to that coffee shop you love so much?” he asked, his voice gentle.

you grinned, the thought of starting the day at your favourite spot lifting your spirits even more. you quickly got dressed, excitement bubbling up as you thought about spending a carefree morning with him. the walk there was easy, your hands entwined as you chatted about everything and nothing, the crisp morning air filling your lungs.

when you reached the café, the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods greeted you, making you sigh in contentment. logan held the door open for you with a small smirk, following you inside as you both headed straight to the counter. he ordered your usual drink without needing to ask, and you couldn’t help but giggle as he confidently added a pastry to the order, knowing exactly which one you’d want.

you found a cosy table by the window, and as you sat down, logan placed the tray in front of you with a mock-serious expression. “only the best for you,” he said, but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement.

you laughed, playfully nudging his arm. “you’re too good to me.”

he shrugged, his gaze softening as he watched you take a bite of your pastry. “you deserve it.”

as you sipped your coffee, the conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and the occasional playful banter. logan found himself completely captivated by the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your plans for the week, the way you scrunched your nose when you tried to describe something particularly tricky. he couldn’t stop thinking about how utterly adorable you were, and the thought made his heart swell in a way that was still new and unfamiliar to him.

at one point, you accidentally got a bit of whipped cream on your nose, and he chuckled, leaning over to gently wipe it off with his thumb. “you’re a mess, you know that?” he teased, but the affection in his voice was undeniable.

“only for you,” you quipped back, making him shake his head with a grin.

as the morning wore on, you both lost track of time, too wrapped up in each other to care about anything else. the coffee shop, the world outside - it all faded away, leaving just the two of you, happy and content in each other’s company.

[liveyun]

the archivist.

life has bothered you enough that you end up taking a job at a forgotten archive. somehow, one of the barren books seem know too much about you, and so does he.

▸ pairing. namjoon x fem reader/oc

▸ genre. dark fantasy, liminal horror, magical realism, mature

▸ warnings. (for this one-shot) soft eldritch joon ? ? , surrealism , unreality, oc is a broke student, mentions of a toxic ex, time gets weird, mild possession ? ? . . kind of yearning ? , also — there’s erotica appearance!! namjoon is very gentle but also very intense, emotional vulnerability x10000. english isn’t my first language so pls excuse the lil mistakes ! !

▸ wc. 2.2k +

part of the “DEADL7NES” series

────────────────────────

You take the job because you’re broke.

You found the job on a half-broken bulletin board behind the convenience store, thumbtacked between a flier for lost kittens and a “no questions asked” roommate search.

The paper looked old. Faded ink. Just a time and an address.

No title, no description. No contact number. No interviews, no prior experience needed either.

Desperation has a sound — it's the growling of your stomach on the fourth day of instant ramen, the shame of unread emails with subject lines like we regret informing you.

So despite this whole ordeal sounding shady at all points, you show up.

The building looks like it’s seen some pretty tough shit.

It leans into a pocket of space between two concrete towers like a secret. Ivy coils up its bricks like veins, there are signs of ageing and neglect, but there’s a certain vibe which just screams vintage is undeniable. There’s no signboard, only a brass doorknob that’s too cold for your touch.

You step in. Dust sighs under your shoes. The air is still, too, like it’s listening.

The timing was listed at 7:00 PM sharp. A quick glance to your wrist watch tells you it’s 6:56, and you let out a small exhale of relief through your nose.

“I see that you’re quite punctual. . .” a voice as deep as sounds echoing back from vast halls startles you as you flush momentarily. you were zoned out on the small creeper plant which seems to have no roots at all, claiming the wall from the wood floorboard.

Kim Namjoon.

That’s what he introduces himself as when he steps out from behind the desk, his voice as quiet, yet raspy as the rest of him.

“I’m Namjoon. You’ll be taking care of the shelves,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the books that stretch like ribs around the room. “Call for me if you need help. I’ll be at the desk.”

You nod.

You do not speak, because his presence has stolen language from you.

It’s not just that he’s handsome — it’s that he’s unreasonably and unfairly so. Not the kind from glossy advertisements or late-night dramas, though, this. . . is different.

He is carved.

Ancient. Like a statue that forgot it was stone and decided to breathe. Like the sculptor blew the breath of life to their creation.

There’s wisdom in the slant of his eyes. Softness, too. Like an ancient, old dragon who never ages. The dragon, who believes that there’s strength in gentleness.

His hair is thick and dark, parted gently like the petals of a bloom. Dimples bloom when he smiles, but it’s rare.

You find yourself waiting for them like sunrise.

────────────────────────

You start the job.

It’s mostly cleaning — dusting shelves, sorting book returns, arrivals, fixing the labels that curl off from old spines, and sometimes even wiping, although that’s rare. Sometimes people come in, reserved and quiet, as though they too stumbled in by mistake. You suggest titles. Smile when they leave. You see the same names again and again. No one ever asks for a library card.

The place smells of paper and petrichor.

He’s always there, somewhere—at the big desk in the corner, writing into thick journals. Sometimes you catch the curve of his hand around a pen, ink smudged on his fingers.

He doesn’t talk much. But his plants are always freshly watered. You often catch glimpses of him lovingly watering his potted plant of night jasmine, admiring the tiny life with his gentle, calm eyes.

Something strange happens: your life starts to fix itself.

The rent gets paid on time. You get better sleep. An old wound on your ankle fades like it remembers how to heal. Your ex no longer harasses you over texts. Your fridge now has fresh produce instead of ancient boxes of takeout. Your stomach issues are gone, your skin is devoid of acne and hyperpigmentation, your roommate finds a better apartment and moves out, and the silence she leaves behind is warm, not cold. Your grades improve almost magically. The professor who you swore couldn’t stand the sight of you automatically starts giving you extention periods for your assignments.

It doesn’t make sense. But you don’t question it. Not when you can finally exhale for the first time in months, can buy yourself a latte without getting concerned glances from the barista regarding the embarrassingly low balance in your student card.

You feel grateful. You feel. . . happy.

────────────────────────

One evening, you’re working, as usual. You shelve a set of old poetry books and your fingers brush against a cover that looks newer than the rest. Bound in deep crimson, its spine uncracked. The pages look white instead of yellow.

No title. No author.

You pull it free.

It’s erotica. The kind that moans long and slow.

You shouldn’t read it, but you find yourself reading it. You cannot make yourself resist.

Your eyes devour the first few lines.

“Her limbs trembled like branches after rain, heavy with want.

His hands were galaxies, tracing constellations across her skin, stars burning beneath each fingertip.

She opened beneath him like dawn, and he worshipped like a man made of midnight.”

You think you’ve forgotten breathing.

“He pressed his lips to her collarbone, reverent, like a psalm sung in a forgotten tongue.

The mouth of the beloved does not ask permission.

It tastes. It drinks. It sings against the skin.

Her breath caught like a bird between palms—

desperate, fluttering, sacred.

When her eyes closed, it was not from fear.

It was surrender.

The world vanished beneath her spine.

There was only warmth,

and the memory of a name

moaned, but not spoken.

And when he took her, it was not just a body—it was a memory. It was a myth. A myth only he could unravel from her.”

Warmth pools between your thighs, unbidden, shameful, aching. You press your thighs together, hoping for a bit of relief.

“You found that one.”

You jerk. The book nearly flies from your hands.

Namjoon stands across the aisle, arms folded loosely, gaze dipped low. His eyes are unreadable—amused, yes, but something else. Like he’s expecting this of you. Like he’s seen it happen before.

You stammer. “I, uh, — I was just—”

“Curious?” he offers, head tilting slightly. The sleeves of his khaki cardigan are folded up to his elbows, showing the delicious, golden skin of his arm.

The silence thickens. Your throat works. He doesn’t approach — he just watches you. Eyes slow, deliberate, knowing. You feel exposed, naked, like the words you read clung to your skin and spelled your desire in script only he can decipher. Shame crawls down your neck like branches of a tree, swirling with the desire which bloomed in between your legs.

He smiles. One dimple appears.

You close the book and try to breathe.

That night bothers you enough to have you squirming in your bed, aching with need.

That night, you dream of slender hands roaming in between your legs and sending you to the clouds of heaven.

────────────────────────

You don’t speak of it again.

But it lingers.

The air between you two crackles differently. Some days he looks up when you pass, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Some days you catch him watching you through the reflection in the glass door. He never stares.

Just. . . observes. Like he’s waiting for you to notice something you haven’t yet.

Weeks pass.

One night, you’re working late again, alone among the shelves. The rain taps the windows in a quiet but soothing rhythm. It feels warm. Cosy. You don’t feel sleepy working late anymore, and you feel this library has become your small world. You’re humming under your breath, dusting the top of a shelf, when a heavy book slips from its place and falls with a thud. You reach down—

—and hear a click.

There’s something behind the shelf. A panel has loosened, just barely. You dig your fingers in and pull it open.

A drawer. Hidden, because you swear that you come by this shelf almost everyday and you’ve never once caught a glimpse of it.

Inside there’s a stack of thick, leather-bound books. The top one slides forward and you stumble to catch the fat book.

You lift it.

And on the first page, you see your name.

Your full name. Handwritten in that same smooth ink you’ve seen on his desk. In the same, smooth drawl you’ve seen countless times.

You flip through it. The first pages are mostly empty, and you feel like this is some sort of a very cruel joke. Frustration touches you, and soon you’re vigorously flipping through the pages untill you reach the middle of the novel, the text written in a muted shade of blue.

I. Childhood

She was a girl with small hands and wide eyes.

She knew how to be quiet,

the way others knew how to dance or sing.

Or maybe because she was often told she spoke a lot.

When no one looked, she tucked her hands in a sack of grains, finding comfort at how the grains brushing against her soft palms felt home. No one answered her questions of wonder when she asked how did butterflies learnt how to fly, or how did they get such beautiful colours in their wings.

She was always waiting for something —

not a person, not a thing.

Just . . . something.

Maybe it was kindness. . .

Or maybe a door.

II. Adolescence

At night, she’d trace the ceiling with her gaze,

as if searching for a skylight no one had built.

There was a fire in her,

but she hid it well—

tended to it like a secret she couldn’t afford to burn.

She’d try to figure out the changes she’d went through, trying to understand if she willed them, or they just happened.

And when her tender heart was thrown away by someone insignificant, she didn’t cry.

She just curled up in her bed and stared at the light

leaking in through the window

like it was your last friend,

wondering what was wrong with her,

Or if she could ever be good enough.

III. The becoming.

There is no single word for surviving.

You did it by half.

One shift. One skipped meal. One train. Years away from home.

You stitched rent money and broken dreams

into something like hope.

No one clapped.

But you kept waking up.

That was the miracle.

—

The letter that never came,

But you expected it the most.

You checked the inbox like a ritual, a routine.

It was summer—

the air sticky and humid with waiting.

That one line, that one school—

you had braided your future around its name.

But the screen stays blank.

You laughed.

Then you cried until your chest hurt

and your throat forgot how to make sound.

You touch your stomach when no one looks.

You cross your arms when you speak.

You fear being too much,

but worse — being not enough.

You pretend you don’t see the way people look past you.

But you do.

And it breaks you.

Quietly.

But you still keep going.

—

You were cleaning,

thinking of bills and bus rides.

You find a nameless book,

But the texts inside named a different spark inside you.

You tremble, not out of fear.

Your thighs press together,

slickness blooming between them like honey under sun.

You gasp when the thought touches you—

of lips against your collarbone,

of fingers ghosting down your spine,

of someone saying your name

like a prayer without God.

You are not shy.

Only aching.

—

Your days are brighter.

And your nights are peaceful.

The wind touches your cheeks gently and you don’t question it anymore.

Because you truly feels the tranquility of happiness in a very long time, so why even think about it?

The drawer.

You didn’t mean to find it.

You were lost in the puzzle of your own mind —

Dreaming of endless skies and the rain that fell.

Then the book fell.

And the drawer opened — like it had been waiting.

Inside: parchment, ink-stained and breathing.

A book too thick to belong to anyone.

Except you.

The first page had your name.

“Is this a joke?” you ponder, but it isn’t.

Now that you’ve read your story,

You taste salt. But you don’t know if it’s bitter or sweet

Because the tears which depart your eyes aren’t of sorrow, nor fear

But your heart feels heavy,

And your body trembles.

It’s because the soul remembers

what the body has not yet learned.

You didn’t realise you were on your knees now, your hands shaking as you come to an end of the novel. Your eyes burn with tears as your heart threatenes to trash out of your chest.

He is there. Right beside you.

Close enough that his warmth shouldn’t feel so cold.

Close enough that you wonder how long he’s been standing there as you slowly turn your head to look at him, kneeling down before you. Your eyes are hazy with tears, but..

His eyes— they look gentle, soft, and almost sorrowful. The kind of softness that ruins you quietly, like lullabies sung in the wrong language, tender but distant, like a poem written for someone who died too young.

But his smile. Ah, his smile. The kind which has dimples popping out, the kind which makes his eyes turn to gentle cresents.

That smile is nothing like his eyes.

The touch which brushes your cheeks is warm, but cold at the same time, as if he knew what the turmoil inside your heart was like. His fingers, his thumb, wiping away your tears.

“Now, now—don’t cry. You yourself wanted a better life, love.”

But that’s not what scares you.

It’s those eyes which don’t look as gentle as you’ve always seen them to be.

“Did you think I would do this for free, love?”

────────────────────────

[writesvani]

dear me | 03

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): emotional distress, unresolved feelings, unspoken grief, jealousy, insecurity, avoidance, mentions of lost friendships, nostalgia, mild self-deprecation, strained relationships, anxiety, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter | next chapter

wc: 3,4k // date: 25th of March

CHAPTER THREE — Saturdays are for Yoongi; happy reading my gummies...

AN (DON'T SKIP): this chapter was so much fun to write, and i genuinely hope you all love it as much as i do! starting now, my new update schedule is officially in motion, and with that comes my note goal: 200. yup, you heard me right, two hundred. am i being ambitious? maybe. am i manifesting? absolutely. but hey, dear me usually hits that, so let’s keep the streak alive!

and here’s the deal—once we hit that goal, chapter 4 will drop faster than y/n dodging her feelings. so, leave your comments, send me asks, scream in the tags—I’m dying to hear your thoughts!

also, yes, i know these first few chapters are on the shorter side, but they're just here to introduce you to the story and its dynamics! i promise, longer chapters are coming soon

— love, vani ♡

The best part of your week is Saturday. There’s something about it—a sense of idle calmness, as though the world has momentarily slowed down. It’s the one day where you can embrace doing absolutely nothing, soaking up your unproductivity like a ray of sunlight. Saturday is the calm before the storm of the week, and that’s why, despite your constant need for structure and routine, you let it unfold naturally.

It’s funny, really. The simplicity of having one messy, unplanned day brings an unexpected thrill. You find joy in the uncertainty of how the day will pass, how it’ll surprise you. It’s a break from the usual schedule, a breath of fresh air in the middle of your carefully organized life.

Yoongi sits across from you, his usual aura of coolness interrupted by his bizarrely slouched posture. His hair is a mess—tousled and looking as though he’s been trying to tame it all morning, but it stubbornly refuses to cooperate. In front of him sits a caramel latte, the steam curling lazily as he takes occasional sips, his eyes flicking between you and your phone.

“Damn, that looks good,” he says, his voice a low murmur, but his gaze is anything but casual. He’s practically staring at the picture on your phone like it’s holding the secrets of universe.

You smirk, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “Mhm, that’s what I’m talking about,” you reply, practically grinning from ear to ear. The pride you feel is almost tangible as you show him the picture—a shot of the crème brûlée you recently made at work. It’s perfect, golden, and just begging to be devoured.

Yoongi’s eyes are wide, his expression a mix of admiration and hunger. “I’m not even gonna lie, I’d eat that straight off the screen if I could,” he admits, a little too eagerly.

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “Well, you can’t. But if you want, I’ll make you one next time.”

His face softens into a grin, and he leans forward, his hands wrapped around his latte like it’s his only lifeline. “Deal. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I think I do,” you say, the ease of afternoon gently swallowing you.

You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers lightly on your cup, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. “But seriously, Yoon, I could teach you how to cook. You might actually impress someone with your skills for once.”

He raises an eyebrow, the amusement in his eyes barely hiding his disbelief. “Me? Cook? Please, I can barely make instant ramen without setting off the smoke alarm.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head in mock disbelief. "I remember the last time you tried cooking. The whole apartment smelled like burnt toast for days."

He slouches slightly in his chair, shoulders tensing as he glances away, a sheepish expression crossing his face. “Okay, that was one time. I may or may not have gotten distracted by my playlist. But I’m definitely not cut out for the kitchen.”

“You say that like you’ve given up entirely,” you tease, leaning forward with a playful glint in your eye. “Come on, hun. Everyone can cook if they try. Even you could pull off something other than cereal or microwaveable noodles.”

His hands wrap tighter around his latte, and he shrugs slightly, eyes flicking to the side as though he’s mentally weighing his options. “What’s the point? You’re the one with the magic touch. Every meal you make is basically a Michelin-starred dish.”

You raise an eyebrow, feeling the pride swelling in your chest despite your modest shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, his head tilting just slightly as he observes you. His lips curl into a small smirk, though there’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Yeah, right. Last time I tried, I couldn’t even boil an egg without making it look like a science experiment gone wrong.”

Your eyes widen, and you nearly choke on your drink. “That’s because you didn’t even know the difference between boiling and frying! You can’t just throw an egg in a pan and hope for the best, dude.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning slightly forward as he feigns annoyance, but the playful gleam in his eyes betrays his true feelings. “Hey, I was improvising!” His lips curl into a mischievous grin. “It’s not my fault the egg didn’t cooperate with my vision.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the amused smile tugging at your lips. “I’m sure the egg was just terrified by your lack of culinary expertise.”

Yoongi’s posture stiffens as he glares at you, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, giving him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m a cooking disaster. I’ll just leave the meals to you, Chef Extraordinaire.”

You sit up straighter, tilting your head slightly, the teasing glint never leaving your eyes. “Smart choice,” you reply, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “But, just so you know, next time I’m cooking, you’re the official taste tester. And trust me, you don’t want to disappoint me.”

He leans back again, hands resting on his lap as he stares at you with mock seriousness, though his lips are still twitching into a grin. “Challenge accepted,” he says, his tone a bit more dramatic than necessary. But you know he’s secretly terrified of the idea of cooking for himself.

A soft shift moves through the air, a gentle shift of calm that settles between you and Yoongi. Quietness. His fingers dance over the screen of his phone, tapping at the surface with practiced ease. You can guess he’s texting someone—maybe Nina, maybe a friend, maybe… Jungkook. The thought makes a knot tighten in your chest, but you push it away. It’s not something you want to think about right now. Instead, you pull out your own phone, your fingers flicking through the screen aimlessly.

Nothing exciting. Nothing new.

You let out a soft breath, your eyes drifting up to meet Yoongi’s. There’s a quiet comfort in the air now, the type that doesn’t feel awkward or forced. It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket. The kind that settles into your bones, making your muscles relax and your fingers stretch out in a lazy ease. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes from familiarity, from knowing someone well enough that you can just be—no words needed.

The thought makes something soft bloom in your chest.

Yoongi’s presence brings a sense of grounding, like you’ve known him forever and there’s nothing that could change that. The fact that, despite everything, there’s still someone you can rely on, someone you can lean on when the world feels too heavy. It’s a rare comfort.

You haven’t seen him much lately. The demands of his job as a publisher, your own strict schedule—it’s hard to make time. Too hard for regular drinks or coffee, even calls. But somehow, there’s always that one day of the week that pulls you two back together, a day when the chaos of your lives fades just enough for you to enjoy each other’s company.

And that day is usually Sunday.

Maybe that’s why you love Sundays so much. The way everything slows down, the world becomes a little softer. The way Yoongi's presence feels like a breath of fresh air. It’s those moments, those quiet moments, that you cherish more than anything else.

You glance at him again. His eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief moment before he looks away, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel it, the shared understanding between you two. And in that second, you realize that, even though you can’t always be together, these Sundays are enough to keep you close. To remind you that, no matter what, you have this.

You have him.

But alas, the silence, unfortunately, can’t last forever. A small motion, a sound disrupts the calm, and you find yourself briefly flinching at the sharp ring of Yoongi’s phone. You blink, your attention drawn to the screen before you can stop yourself. It’s ringing, and without thinking, your eyes are already glued to the name flashing across it.

“Nin 🫶🏻,” it says.

Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t swallow down. Of course, there’s nothing strange about Nina calling him—she’s his sister, after all. It has happened countless times in the years you’ve known the twins.

Nina has visited him more times than you can count, and you’ve met up with her, too, shared easy conversations and laughter like before. But this… this is different. This time, seeing her name on his screen feels like a punch to the gut.

It’s the first time you’ve seen it since that day—since the day you saw it written in beautiful, flowing cursive on that damn envelope sitting in your desk drawer (well, except the day you saw it tangled in your emails from the past you, but you're choosing to ignore that).

The one you’ve kept hidden, locked away.

The one that still reminds you of a friendship that’s lost.

A friendship with Jungkook that once meant everything but now feels like it belongs to another lifetime.

A friendship that has been broken, shattered beyond recognition.

That envelope, that name, that moment—it's a reminder of the bond between you and Jungkook, the one you once cherished, now reduced to something unrecognizable. And it stings. It always stings. The ache doesn’t go away, even though you try to heal it.

Desperately.

Eagerly.

You force yourself to move on, to pretend like you’ve moved past it, but the wound is still there. Still fresh, deep beneath the surface.

You inhale sharply, trying to mask the uneasiness threatening to bubble up inside you. You flash your teeth at Yoongi, offering him a soothing smile—one that feels more like a mask than anything genuine. You can feel the tightness in your chest, but you push it down.

"I gotta take this. I’ll be back," Yoongi says, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His movements are quick, almost hurried, as he stands and brings the phone to his ear.

You nod, though it feels like a distant gesture, your eyes still locked on his phone screen even as he turns to leave. The words “Heey” drift back to you just before he’s out of sight, and suddenly, the space between you and him feels much larger. Much emptier.

You’re left in the quiet once more, but this time, the stillness feels heavier. The silence is louder now, pressing down on you as the ache grows, gnawing at your chest.

You’re reminded again, in the simplest of ways, that you’re not the number one in Yoongi’s life. That place is always reserved for his sister, Nina. And though you know it’s natural, normal even, a small part of you can’t help but envy her—for being the priority in the lives of everyone you ever cared about the way you always wished you could be. It’s irrational, you know it is, but it still stings in the way that only silent truths can. The hurt lingers, no matter how much you try to reason with it. You push it down, bury it beneath the smile you’ve perfected over the years.

Yoongi’s footsteps return before you can fully process the pain, the familiar sound of his shoes brushing against the floor, and he moves past you with an energy that immediately pulls your attention. There’s an excited gleam in his eyes—bright, almost too bright for his usual self. It’s contagious, but you can’t quite bring yourself to smile the way he does.

He’s joyful. Too joyful for Yoongi. And it’s a little too much, but you lean forward instinctively, elbows planted on the table, your hands cradling your face.

“You won’t believe this,” he says, his voice light with excitement as he takes a sip of his latte, the warmth of the cup seeming to match his newfound energy.

You stare at him, curiosity piquing despite the heaviness in your chest. “What happened?”

“Nin and Kook are coming to town next week, to check the venues,” he continues, his words rushing out of him like a wave breaking against the shore.

And just like that, the names—Nin and Kook—splash over you like ice water. They burn, sharp and familiar. The names of people you loved, people who are no longer yours to love. The uneasiness quakes through you, a familiar sting at the back of your throat. You try not to let it show, though. You won’t let it show.

Yoongi keeps talking, trying to act oblivious to the weight his words carry. “And they want us to grab a coffee together when we’re free,” he adds, a casual air to his voice, as if the idea of sitting in a café with them—laughing, reminiscing about high school, pretending like everything is fine—doesn’t rip at the edges of your heart. It feels wrong, the thought of being in the same room as Jungkook again, when so much has changed, when so much has been lost.

You swallow, forcing yourself to sit up a little straighter, letting the fake calmness wash over you. “Really? How did that plan come to life?” you ask, your brow quirking in an exaggerated show of curiosity, anything to mask the storm bubbling inside you.

Yoongi shifts, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, his gaze flitting between you and his empty cup. “Nina asked where I was… I told her I was grabbing coffee with you,” he rambles, his voice quieting slightly. “Then she mentioned that she and Kook were coming to town next week to check the venues. And, well, yeah, the rest is history.”

You nod slowly, trying to pretend that the mention of Jungkook doesn’t twist something deep inside you. The urge to respond, to say something that doesn’t betray the knot tightening in your gut, claws at you. But you just nod again, this time with a tight smile.

“Sounds… fun,” you manage, though the words feel foreign in your mouth.

“Could at least try sounding a bit more excited,” Yoongi says, giving you that look—the one that knows you too well. It’s the look that cuts straight through the act, the one that makes you feel like you’re not hiding anything at all. It’s funny, in a way, how he can pick up on your discomfort so quickly, but still, for all his sharpness, he never seemed to notice that you used to be in love with his sister’s fiancé. Or maybe, a small part of you wonders, he did know. And chose not to bring it up. Because acknowledging it would make it real, and if it was real, things would get messy. Yoongi would have to choose a side, and both of you knew exactly where his loyalty would lie.

You shift uncomfortably, forcing a smile, but it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world. “I am, I swear,” you say, but your fingers twitch against your cheeks, a small gesture as they trace the scar you’ve long since tried to forget.

Yoongi watches you closely, his gaze softening as he picks up on the subtle shift. “You don’t have to pretend for me,” he says quietly, almost too quietly. But the weight of it lands in your chest, sending a quick flutter through your heart. "I know this is gonna be a lil weird for you."

You blink, trying to clear the lump in your throat, but the words feel too heavy, too loaded. The silence lingers for a beat, thick and raw. Then Yoongi’s voice breaks through again, a little more careful this time.

“I mean, the four of us haven’t been in the same room together in years. I get it. I know you haven’t seen Kook in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” you say, but your voice catches just slightly. “But it doesn’t make it weird...”

Yoongi tilts his head, the tiniest smirk curling on his lips. “You know, Nin says he mentions you a lot.” He leans back in his chair, watching you with those eyes that know too much, the ones that see past all the masks you wear.

Yoongi's words linger in the air, sinking in slowly, creeping up on wounds that you thought had healed. The fact that Jungkook still mentions you, still thinks about you—it shouldn’t sting this much, but it does. It really does.

Two years have passed since you last saw him, and the memory of that moment is sharper than you’d like to admit. The last time you sat down with Jungkook was after an awkward run-in outside his parents' house, where he invited you in for a drink. And it was… weird.

You both were strangers by then, with too much history between you to ignore, and yet not enough common ground to feel like you truly knew each other anymore. It was like trying to force something familiar into an unfamiliar shape. The conversation, stilted and uncomfortable, quickly drifted to small talk—safe topics about childhood and high school memories, things that kept the ground beneath your feet solid, even if it felt like you were both standing on shaky ground.

You blink, breaking out of the fog of that memory. Yoongi’s eyes are still on you, waiting for you to say something. Anything. You open your mouth, but the words falter, unsure of where they’re going. “Look, Yoon, okay, maybe…” You pause, trying to form the thoughts swirling in your head. “Maybe it’s a little weird because I haven’t talked to both of them in a while. But so what?” You shrug, trying to play it off, but the unease bubbling inside you is hard to ignore.

Yoongi tilts his head, studying you with that familiar, knowing gaze. “So what?” he echoes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re telling me you’re not worried about it?”

You don’t answer immediately, your fingers tapping lightly on the table as you try to steady yourself. The truth is, you’re not sure what you’re worried about. The past? The present? The strange space in between?

Yoongi's buzz slowly fades, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it. The joy that had been on his face when he finished that call, the spark in his eyes—it all starts to slip away, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow extinguished it. He was so eager, so excited for the four of you to hang out again, and now, with all your overthinking and awkward thoughts about Jungkook and the thing that happened between you, you’ve managed to ruin it.

You glance at Yoongi now, watching him carefully, as if he’s trying to decode something that’s impossible to read. His eyes are focused on you, sharp and observant, like he’s piecing together a puzzle with every little shift in your expression.

Your eyelashes flutter, and instinctively, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, but they feel dry, a little too dry. You take a sip of your coffee—cold, bitter, the taste of it almost mirroring the ache in your chest.

"I have nothing to worry about," you say, your voice a little softer than you intend. You scratch the back of your head. "I know that once we get past those first five minutes of awkward hell, it'll be like back in the days."

Yoongi shrugs, and a small, almost nostalgic smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah... like when we were young," he agrees, his voice carrying a bittersweet edge.

Your eyebrow quirks up, and you let out a short laugh, though it’s not entirely a pleasant one. "Dude, are you seriously quoting Adele right now?"

He looks at you, unbothered. "What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"With a depression anthem?" you joke, the corners of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Don’t kill my creative vibe, okay?"

You shake your head, but the tension loosens just a little. Maybe it’s stupid, but his attempt at humor, however ridiculous, makes things feel a little less heavy. The fact that Yoongi can still make you laugh, even in the middle of all this weirdness, is oddly comforting.

The conversation shifts, both of you silently agreeing to steer clear of Jungkook, Nina, and the storm their arrival will inevitably bring. No mention of wedding venues, no talk of Nina with a ring on her finger—the ring you haven’t even seen, don’t even know what it looks like.

And maybe that’s for the best.

So instead, you devote yourself to Yoongi again, clinging to the safe space he provides. You let him pull you into a discussion about a new book he’s reviewing, something he’s beta reading for a supposedly famous writer. Supposedly being the key word, because despite his insistence that they’re a big deal, you’ve never heard of them. Then again, maybe that just says more about you than it does about them—about the fact that you haven’t picked up modern fiction in a while, about how your shelves are still filled with books from a past version of yourself.

You laugh at his dramatic retelling of the plot, roll your eyes when he insists the main character is "literally the most annoying protagonist ever written," and for a while, it works. You manage to push the conversation from earlier to the back of your mind.

But not far enough.

Because the weight of it still lingers—heavy, unfiltered, sitting right there in your heart. And no matter how hard you try to ignore it, no matter how fast you try to outrun it, the truth remains.

It’s still there.

Just like Jungkook.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7

[reveryfics]

Hey, could i request eddie Brock & venom x male reader where venom is absolutely infatuated with the reader and practically forces eddie to talk to him. They do websites end up together and when venom is revealed the reader accepts venom. Venom is like a cat that only really let's the reader pet him, there's eddie too but the reader has a special place

Symbiotic Obsession

Pairings: Eddie Brock & Venom x Male reader

Summary: Eddie gets your name from Anne when he expresses his frustration with a recent article trying to expose a rising corporation. He was told you a keen eye for design and was hoping you could fix up a few scandalous pictures, what he wasn't expecting was Venom to be so gun-ho about you.

A/n: I'm hoping I understood what you meant by "They do websites" but if not let me know and I can rewrite it! Again thank you all for the support and recent requests, I do have a lot to go through so bare with me.

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The flickering neon sign of "The Salty Dog" cast an eerie glow on Eddie Brock's face as he downed the last of his beer. Frustration gnawed at him, a bitter taste in his mouth. "I'm at a loss, Anne," he grumbled, the words thick with the weight of his predicament. "Without those pictures, I ain't got anything on them."

Anne, ever the confidante, listened patiently, her chin resting on her hand. "I might know someone who can help," she offered, rummaging through her purse. A sleek black and silver business card emerged, bearing a number and the title "Web Designer."

Eddie raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident. "How is a web designer supposed to help with blurry photos?"

Anne chuckled. "He's more than just a web designer, Eddie. He's a whiz with image manipulation. Give him a call."

Eddie, however, remained unconvinced. Days turned into weeks, and the business card lay forgotten in his wallet. Venom, the symbiote bound to him, grew increasingly impatient. "C'mon, Eddie," he hissed, his voice echoing in Eddie's mind. "Act like a grown-up and just call the guy!"

Finally, after a barrage of Venom's incessant nagging, Eddie relented. He dialed the number on the card, his finger hovering over the hang-up button. The phone rang a few times before a tired voice answered. "Can I help you?"

Eddie, feeling a surge of unexpected nervousness, stammered, "My name's Eddie Brock. I got your number from Anne. I... I need your help with some photos for an article."

There was a brief silence followed by the rustling of papers and the rhythmic clacking of keys. "Send them over," came the voice, a hint of weariness in his tone. "I'll see what I can do."

Eddie hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, sent the blurry images to the email address on the card.

The silence that followed was punctuated by the distant clatter of keys and occasional hums from the other end of the line. "I should be able to clean these up," hel said finally. "Meet me at the address I just sent you in a few days."

Before Eddie could respond, the line went dead. A text message popped up on his phone: "See, Eddie? That wasn't so hard!" Venom crowed, a distinct note of mockery in his voice. Eddie rolled his eyes, but a flicker of anticipation stirred within him.

A few days later, Eddie found himself at a dimly lit bar, his gaze scanning the room for the male. He spotted him in a corner booth, nursing a lukewarm beer and looking lost in thought. Approaching him, Eddie offered a friendly smile. "Uh hey.”

Startled, he looked up. "Eddie Brock, right? Anne mentioned you."

They exchanged pleasantries, the conversation flowing easily. Hel, to Eddie's surprise, was surprisingly insightful and witty. As he handed him a USB drive containing the enhanced photos, Eddie felt a strange pull towards the man, a sense of intrigue he couldn't quite explain.

"How can I repay you?" Eddie asked, feeling a pang of guilt.

He shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. "No need. Consider it a favor for Anne."

Venom, however, had other ideas. "How about we… I take you to dinner?" Eddie's voice, laced with Venom's eagerness, came out in a jarringly loud whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Sounds like a date."

Venom, ecstatic, practically vibrated with excitement. The date, to Eddie's chagrin, was more Venom's than his own. Venom dominated the conversation, his voice a playful, sometimes mischievous counterpoint to Eddie's more reserved demeanor.

Despite his initial reservations, Eddie found himself drawn to the male. Their subsequent dates were a strange mix of awkward silences, witty banter, and Venom's surprisingly insightful – and often inappropriate – commentary.

Months passed. Eddie, to his own astonishment, found himself falling for him. He confessed his feelings one quiet evening, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I... I have this… parasite," Eddie stammered, the words catching in his throat.

He, ever the enigma, simply leaned back against the couch, a curious glint in his eyes. "Parasite?"

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation. Then, with a dramatic flourish, Venom erupted from Eddie's back, his form shimmering with an eerie light. "I'm not a parasite!" Venom declared, his voice booming. "Take it back!"

Instead of recoiling in fear, he simply stared at Venom, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's… fucking awesome."

Venom, taken aback by his reaction, grinned. "Yes, we are very awesome!" he declared, curling around the male like a protective shield.

The rest of the evening was a whirlwind of introductions and awkward silences. Eddie, watching Venom nuzzle into their boyfriend's lap like a contented cat, felt a warmth spread through him. He never thought Venom's obsessive behavior would lead to this – a genuine connection, a shared life with another being.

He and Venom had a boyfriend, and despite the initial chaos, it was a life he wouldn't trade for the world.

[insomniac4000]

Making It Right ChrisMD

Chris has been a little absent lately but makes up for it

Y/N stared at the clock on the oven.

00:43

She tightened the dressing gown around her waist and padded barefoot into the living room. The soft lamp light glowed against the paper bag on the counter—Thai takeaway, untouched, cold by now. She’d waited. She’d really waited.

The last time she checked her phone, it was 11:30 p.m., and there was still no message from Chris. Not a call, not a “Sorry, running late.” Nothing. She had scrolled through her feed aimlessly, trying not to obsess. Then Arthur had posted that story: Chris at the pub, pint in hand, laughing.

That hurt. More than she expected it to.

Tonight had been their night. No collabs, no emails, no edits—just dinner, wine, and that film she kept telling him about. She’d lit candles. She even did her hair, for God’s sake, she had enough and went to bed.

Chris stumbled through the front door just after 1:00 a.m., the click of the lock sounding louder than usual in the quiet of the house. He kicked off his trainers, the buzz of laughter and lager from earlier still fading in his head. The shoot had wrapped at eight, but a few of the lads suggested grabbing a pint. One drink turned into three, and the idea of texting Y/N to let her know evaporated under the pub lights and pool table banter.

“Y/N?” he called softly, even though he knew she’d be asleep—or pretending to be.

No reply.

The living room lamp had been left on, casting a warm glow over the now-cold takeaway he’d promised they’d share hours ago. Her favourite Thai—green curry, no bamboo shoots, extra rice—still in its paper bag, untouched. Guilt stabbed him in the chest.

He padded into the bedroom and found her lying on her side, back to the door, clearly awake.

“Hey,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sorry I’m late. We went for a couple after the shoot, and—”

“I know,” she said, her voice brittle. “I saw Arthur’s Instagram story. Looked like fun.”

Chris winced. Of course someone posted. “I didn’t mean to stay that long. I lost track of time.”

She finally rolled over to face him, and her eyes were red, lashes clumped together. “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. And you knew we had plans tonight. This was supposed to be our night.”

Chris opened his mouth, but nothing useful came out. She sat up, pulling the duvet around her, like she needed it for protection.

“This isn’t the first time, Chris,” she said, more tired than angry. “You’ve been cancelling on me for weeks. Always work, or drinks, or something else. I feel like I’m not even on your list anymore.”

“I know,” he admitted, rubbing his face. “I’ve been a dick. I’ve just been caught up with shoots, and brand stuff, and—”

“I don’t care about the brand deals,” she interrupted. “I care that my boyfriend doesn’t even ask how my day was anymore.”

Chris felt like the worst kind of idiot. She wasn’t wrong. He had been so wrapped up in filming and edits and the YouTube treadmill that he’d forgotten the one thing that mattered more than all of it. Her.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. I just—I’ve been selfish. You deserve better.”

“I feel like I’m just… waiting around for you to remember I exist.”

That’s what it felt like. Like he loved her—but only when it was convenient.

He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. She turned away, tears pricking at her eyes. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Not like some neglected girlfriend begging for attention.

But God, it hurt.

She didn’t say anything, just lay back down and turned away again.

Chris sat there in silence, staring at the floor, wishing he could undo the last month of neglect. He’d taken her love for granted, and now, seeing the tears she tried to blink away, he realised just how close he might be to losing her.

The next morning, Chris was up before sunrise. His phone buzzed with group chats and brand messages, but he ignored them. He had something far more important to focus on.

He scribbled a quick note and left it on her bedside table before quietly slipping out of the room.

“Out running errands. Be back soon. Dress comfy. Today’s all about you. – C x”

She was still in her dressing gown, reading the note again with a skeptical expression. “What’s all this?”

“Morning,” Chris said as he peeked in, holding a tray with two coffees in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. “Flat white with oat milk and cinnamon. And… an almond croissant.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “From Rosemont Café?”

He grinned. “I queued for 20 minutes with a group of cyclists talking about carb-loading. I earned this.”

She let out a breath—something like a laugh. A cautious one.

He handed her the cup. “This is a peace offering. A proper apology is coming.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but took a sip. “You said ‘dress comfy.’ That sounds ominous

“Trust me,”

She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “The coffee and croissant is starting to be a good reason to….”

Chris smiled sheepishly. “Fair. I deserve that.”

She sipped the coffee and sighed. “Okay. What’s next?”

He drove her to a flower market near the river that only opened on Sundays. The kind of place bursting with colour, scent, and elderly vendors shouting about their peonies. Y/N’s eyes lit up as soon as she stepped out of the car.

“I forgot this was today!”

“I didn’t,” Chris said.

They wandered through stalls hand-in-hand, and he insisted she pick whatever she liked. She chose a bundle of soft pink peonies and a cluster of lavender, and Chris carried them like they were treasure.

“You remembered I love lavender,” she said softly, clearly surprised.

Chris shrugged, though his chest ached with regret. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. I’ve just been too much of a knob lately to show it.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s the most British apology I’ve ever heard.”

Next, they drove to a quiet nature reserve just outside the city. A hidden spot Chris knew she loved, especially in spring when the wildflowers bloomed along the trails. He packed a backpack with snacks, blankets, and yes; bug spray knowing Y/N was a magnet for the little creatures.

The walk was peaceful. Birds chirped, sun filtered through the trees, and for the first time in weeks, they talked. Not surface-level updates or reminders, real talking.

She told him about her latest project at work, about a friend’s engagement, about a book she’d read. And he listened—really listened.

When they reached a secluded clearing, he laid out a blanket and opened the bag.

She gasped. “You packed strawberries and Nutella?”

“With toothpicks, so we don’t get sticky fingers. I’ve grown.”

She laughed—a real one—and they sat close, shoulders brushing, feeding each other strawberries and watching bees buzz lazily around the grass.

After a while, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “This is perfect.”

Chris exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath since last night. “I’m really sorry, Y/N. I’ve let you down. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who forgets how lucky he is.”

She looked up at him. “Then don’t be.”

They drove back toward the city, and Chris made one last stop. It was a little overlook on a hill behind a park—a place they’d stumbled upon on their third date. Back then, it was cold and muddy, but they’d watched the sun set and laughed about how neither of them had dressed for hiking.

“I can’t believe you remembered this spot,” she said, looking out over the rooftops.

Chris pulled a hoodie from the car and handed it to her. “Still unprepared, but at least warmer this time.”

They sat on the bench and watched the sun dip behind the skyline.

“I’ve been scared,” he admitted quietly. “Things with the channel have been going well, and I just kept telling myself I had to keep up, say yes to everything. But somewhere along the way, I forgot what matters.”

She turned to face him. “You didn’t forget. You just needed a reminder.”

He nodded. “That reminder nearly left me last night.”

Y/N was silent for a moment, then reached out to intertwine their fingers. “I was really hurt, Chris. But I’m still here.”

And just like that, he felt the knot in his chest loosen.

Back home, she arranged her flowers in a vase while Chris reheated dinner—actual dinner this time, not forgotten takeaway. He lit candles, played her favourite playlist in the background, and poured her a glass of wine.

When they sat down to eat, Chris raised his glass. “To being present. And not being a knob.”

She laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

They ate, talked, and when she eventually curled up next to him on the sofa, head resting on his chest, Chris pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I love you, Y/N,” he murmured.

She looked up at him with tired but happy eyes. “I love you too. Just… don’t make me cry like that again.”

“Never,” he promised. “Next time I forget what I have, punch me.”

“Oh, I will.”

The next morning Chris posted a photo on Instagram the next morning—just the view from the park bench, captioned “Sometimes you need a reminder of what really matters.”

It wasn’t a brand deal or a challenge video. Just a quiet moment. But in the comments, people noticed.

“This is so wholesome omg.”

“Chris turning into a softie.”

“Did you finally realise your girlfriend’s amazing? Took ya long enough.”

He laughed, handing the phone to Y/N, who rolled her eyes playfully. “Even your fans know.”

Chris pulled her close. “Yeah. But now I really know.”

And he meant it.

[burningembers91]

Awards Night - Park Min-Su x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

The Secretary

Lunch Date

Synopsis: tasked with delivering a speech at the annual company awards night, Min-Su turns to you for help; but your body makes it so hard for him to concentrate.

A/N: this storyline is living rent free in my head right now.

The atmosphere in the office was electric, the excitement palpable as everyone readied themselves for a night of celebrations. Park Min-Su hated the annual company awards night, which was nothing more than an excuse for people to get shit faced and take advantage of an open bar.

Last year his father had insisted he make a speech, thanking the employees for their hard work. Min-Su was not a confident speaker, and ended up stammering through two sentences of what he’d prepared before backing into a magnum of champagne and shattering the bottle all over the stage. He’d hoped that his father would allow him to blend quietly into the background this year, but no such luck.

Min-Su knew what people said about them, could hear them whispering about him at lunch, making snide remarks as he stammered his way through meetings. His shenanigans at the awards night had been circulated for weeks over email and text, only ceasing when his father threatened to fire people. He was expecting this year to be as disastrous as last, but this time he had a secret weapon: he had you.

“Your dad wants me to help you with your speech,” you’d smiled to him one morning, perching on his desk in your tantalising tiny skirt. He wondered if you knew what you were doing, if you were aware of the effect you had on him. Min-Su had fallen head first into infatuated lust with you, spending his evenings picturing you in every possible position, imagining his name falling from your mouth in breathy moans. He wondered if it was obvious he had no experience with women, if you knew he’d only gotten so far as handholding. It embarrassed him that he was 28 and so inexperienced; you’d want a man who knew how to make you feel good, not a boy who didn’t know the first thing about unhooking a bra.

“Min-Su?” You were smiling at him, waiting patiently for him to answer you. He’d been so lost in his daydreams that he’d forgotten to respond to your words. His body had responded to you though, his stiffening cock aching against the fabric of his suit. He shifted his chair further under the desk, hoping you hadn’t noticed the effect you had on him.

“Yes. The speech,” he sighed. “I’m not great at public speaking.”

He’d grown more confident with you over the last 6 months, and had finally started opening up. You’d spent hours talking in his office, or over lunch, and Min-Su had tried his best to explain the rigid upbringing he’d had pressed upon him. You knew he didn’t want the family company, but you also knew he was too terrified of his father to ever say anything.

“Well, what did you say last year?” You asked, your pen tapping on your notepad. Min-Su could see up your skirt with the position you were sitting in, could see the briefest flash of the black lace underwear you wore. He shifted uncomfortably, the view doing nothing for his erection, but fuelling the fantasies that would play over in his head later.

“Last year I thanked everyone for coming and then knocked over an expensive bottle of champagne,” he admitted. You bit back a laugh, and seeing your reaction caused a smile to break across his face. You liked seeing Min-Su smile, enjoyed seeing him relax. He had a handsome face, and his smile made his eyes light up.

“Ok, well, we’ll start with thanking everyone again, and avoid smashing any alcohol.” You started scribbling on your notepad, your floral perfume enveloping Min-Su as he watched you work. “Oh, your dad also wants to know if you’re bringing a plus one tonight.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Can… can you not be my plus one?” He knew you were coming already, all the employees were invited, but he was hoping you’d stay with him tonight, help him with the nerves only you seemed able to quell.

“I’d never thought you’d ask,” you winked. You knew he didn’t have a plus one, and his dad hadn’t asked you to check. But you were hoping he’d get the courage up to ask you to go with him, to stay by his side. The more time you spent with Min-Su, the more you were desperate to teach him things he could only dream about.

The awards ceremony was being held at the some fancy hotel, and the dress code was strictly black tie. You arrived in a satin navy blue cocktail dress, ignoring the stares of the investment bankers around you. You only had eyes for Min-Su tonight. You found him seated behind a champagne fountain, a half full glass clutched in his hand. His eyes lit up as he saw you, and he stood to attention, slopping champagne onto his Versace brogues.

“Wow,” he whispered, taking in the dress that outlined your figure like it was made just for you. “You look…” he couldn’t finish his sentence, simply because the word to describe your beauty didn’t exist.

You smiled, opening your purse and pulling out his speech.

“It’s all typed and ready to go. Just remember, I’ll be at the front of the crowd. If you get nervous, just look at me and pretend I’m the only one in the room.”

Min-Su wouldn’t have trouble doing that; most of the time he didn’t notice anyone else when you were around. He swallowed hard, trying not to notice the way your breasts looked in the tight dress. Heading to the stage, he waited for his father to introduce him, and took to the microphone.

He could hear people laughing, could see cameras in the crowd waiting to capture the moment he fell flat on his face. His eyes scanned the crowd, finding you standing right near the stage, just where you said you’d be. He focused on your face, on your soft eyes and smile. You gave him a small thumbs up, and Min-Su started speaking. His voice wavered, but didn’t falter, and he thanked his father, grandfather and colleagues for another successful year. He laid out the yearly earnings and various company acquisitions, and for the first time in maybe his whole life, his father looked at him with a smidge of pride. Your speech was perfect, and yet Min-Su claimed all the credit.

He couldn’t find you after he stepped down from the stage, swarmed by the very people who used to make fun of him. Now they slapped him on the back, cracked jokes with him, offered him glasses of champagne. But Min-Su only wanted to be with you. His eyes searched the sea of people, spotting your blue dress by the door leading to the balcony. He picked his way through the crowd, finding you leaning against the railing as you took in the night sky.

“That was amazing,” you smiled, “you did such an incredible job.” You pulled him into a hug, your curves soft and warm against his body. He pulled away before you could feel his body react to you, smiling sheepishly as he swallowed the rest of his drink.

“It was all you,” he shrugged, unable to tear his eyes from your figure.

“I just wrote the words,” you told him. “You had the whole room in a trance.”

Min-Sun could hear the music start up inside, could hear the laughter of people as they joined the dance floor.

“Dance with me?” You asked him, holding out your hand for him to take. He’d never really danced before, too aware of all the things that could go wrong.

“I can’t dance,” he mumbled.

“Everyone can dance!” You exclaimed. “Come on, we’ll stay out here where no one can see.”

Min-Su slowly span you around, completely out of time to the music but neither of you seemed to care. You were lost in your own little world, Min-Su laughing as he became more confident. He wasn’t sure how long you were out there for, just the two of you under the star studded sky. He wanted to kiss you, wanted to feel your lips against his but he had no idea how to start, or if you even wanted to kiss him back.

“We should go back inside,” you eventually sighed. “You’re the man of the hour, and they’ll be missing you.”

Min-Su wanted to tell you that he didn’t want to go back inside, he wanted to dance all night with you under the stars. But he faltered yet again, smiling sadly as you led him inside.

He couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the night, wishing he was back outside with you. That night he pleasured himself as he imagined removing your blue satin dress, of kissing down your body while you moaned his name. He couldn’t look you in the eye the next day, the filthy things he’d imagined still ingrained in his brain.

He didn’t know you’d been thinking of him as well, that you’d pictured the two of you making love under the stars. You were so desperate to teach him things, to open him up to a world of pleasure he could only dream of.

All he had to do was ask.

[heartbreakgirl67]

So Much More.

summary: after kissing and revealing your feelings, you and bucky started to avoid each other. but, when the both of you get put into a mission that had the other worrying, those feelings start resurfacing again.

pairing: congressman!Bucky x fem!reader

word count: 2.4k

content: banter, tension, angst, soft bucky, marriage of convenience, (used to be) enemies to lovers, brief mentions of childhood trauma, oblivious fools in love, protective bucky, protective reader, she looks at him like he hung the moon, he looks at her like she hung the moon

a/n: this is kind of a p2 to this but can be read on its own. someone asked me for a p2 that i wasn't planning on doing so this is it. hope you enjoy it!!!

@starstruckfirecat

You haven’t spoken.

For two weeks, five days, ten hours, and 54 minutes, you haven’t spoken with him.

But who’s counting, right?

Since the kiss, since the confession, not once did you both utter a single word to each other. You were hoping that he would have forgotten what had happened the night before, but when you woke up to an empty bed the next morning, you knew he remembered. And you knew he didn’t mean it.

But now you were both back where you started–in Congressman Gary’s office, in creaky wooden chairs, side by side. Except this time, it was silent. Eerily silent.

The congressman felt uneasiness crawling all over his skin, not used to the room being this quiet when the both of you were in each other’s presence. Usually it was loud, full of vulgarities and fallacious remarks about the other—and he oddly preferred that, missed it, even.

“Alright,” Gary uttered, taking the glasses off his face and wiping it with a small thin rag lying on the table, “I’m not exactly sure what happened here,” he directed his glasses between the both of you, “and I’m honestly not sure if I even want to know–”

“You don’t,” both you and Bucky muttered in unison.

Gary paused. “Right. Anyway, I need you to push that aside because you have a mission, which requires the both of you to work together.”

“Are you serious?”

“You have to be kidding me.”

“I cannot work with…him.”

“She is insufferable.”

You gasped. “I am not! You seriously cannot be talking here, Barnes.”

“Well I am, ‘cause I’m right.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“You, um–you just are.”

“Wow, real mature. How the fuck you managed to become a congressman is beyond me,” you mumbled under your breath.

“I heard that.”

“Good. I wanted you to.”

He shifted in his seat to glare at you and you felt time stop. The first time you’ve actually looked at each other in a while. The words suddenly got stuck in the back of your throat, leaving your lips parted and mouth dry. Bucky paused as well, his body frozen and tense, as his eyes stayed glued to yours.

You averted your gaze to Gary, who for some reason had a small smile plastered on his lips. Your eyebrows furrowed, “What’s so funny, congressman?”

Bucky turned to face him as well, wondering the same thing. Gary’s smile grew wider as he stood up, the chair screeching against the tiles. He placed his glasses on his face and walked towards the door. “Your mission is next week. I’ll email you the details later. See you, lovebirds!” and the door slams shut.

~~~

“I swear, I’m going to leave without you if you’re not here in the next five seconds!”

“As if. You need me,” you screamed back from your room. You lost it, again. The little gold bracelet. You were trying really hard to stay calm but as the clock ticked further away into the night, you found yourself unraveling.

“I have a metal arm. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you seem to have that for a brain too,” you retorted quietly.

“I heard that. What are you even doing?” you heard Bucky’s voice float into the room as his boots thudded through.

“I lost the…something,” you came out of the bathroom, going to rummage through your drawers for the seventh time.

Recognition flashed in his eyes. He walks over to you and grabs your shoulders to get your attention. 

“Wait, just give me a second!” you tried to turn away but he pulled you back. He slowly lifts his gloved hand before putting it into his pocket, slowly pulling out the bracelet.

“You–” you reach out to grab it but he puts it out of your reach. You look at him exasperatedly, eyes begging him to just give it to you.

Bucky grabs your hand, clasping it back on for you, pressing the clasp slightly harder than you usually would to tighten it. “There. Now you won’t lose it.” 

You didn’t answer, your hand playing with the band as you looked away from him, not really knowing what to say. 

The tips of your fingers stayed in his grasp, like neither of you wanted to pull away. “You know,” his tone was quiet and soft, “you still never told me why it is so special.”

You pulled your hand away. “We’re late.”

~~~

“In and out, okay?”

“I know, Barnes. I’m not five.”

“Well, you never know how to follow instructions.”

You loaded your gun. “That’s ‘cause your instructions suck.” 

Pulling up the mask that covered the bottom half of your face, you walked past him, going into the compound, but you only managed three steps before Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you back. “Why are you–”

“Behind me.” He pushes you behind him as he leads the way. You tried to slip in front of him a couple of times, but he blocked your move each time.

When the both of you successfully entered the compound, you agreed to split up to find any source of evidence. Anything that could possibly be used against Ms.de Fontaine. “Meet me here in 30 minutes. Nothing more. Understood?” he told you. To which, you waved him off and said, “Yeah, yeah, I know.” an answer he didn’t accept. “Understood?” he repeated, not allowing you to move from the space between him and the wall. You then proceeded to nod, and a quiet “I understand.” was said.

You dug through the stacks of papers scattered on the various sleek metal tables that were all over the room. Nothing.

It was like every scrap of possible evidence was removed and burnt off the face of the earth. You continued digging around anyway until you came across something that made you stop in your tracks–a crumpled black and white picture lying on top of a brown file. 

It was a photo of Bucky and Steve–pre-serum– and they were mid-laughing, all smiles and teeth. You’ve never seen Bucky smile like that before. You don’t think you’ve even seen him smile before, and the thought of that brought an uncomfortable feeling to simmer in the pit of your stomach. You quickly folded up the photo and stuffed it into your back pocket. 

You then picked up the file that was placed under it. It had the name ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ scrawled bright and bold in red on the front. Just as you were going to flip it open, a loud shot came from a couple rooms down. 

Bucky. 

You quickly swiped the file off the table and ran into its direction. Your mind was spiralling, panic seeping into your pores and flooding your bloodstream, taking up your thoughts bit by bit. All you could hear was nothing. Nothing. Silence. 

The second you reached what you thought was the room, you kicked the heavy metal door as hard as you could, and it came crashing down, the loud sound echoing all over the room. 

There you saw Bucky on one end and Valentina on the other, and the gun still steadily held in her right hand. You turned to face Bucky–hair strewn all over the place but he seemed perfectly fine. But he was tense, cold eyes burning into yours–angry.

“Well, if it isn’t the other half of my favourite starstruck lovers. And to think that just a second ago your lovely husband was telling me that he came alone,” Valentina said, walking closer to you. Stopping right in front of you, she reached a hand up towards your face.

“Don’t touch her.”

She clicked open your mask, letting it fall to the ground. “Relax. She’s all yours, loverboy.”

Your eyes shifted from Valentina back to Bucky again. He was staring at you–intently–but he wasn’t meeting your eyes.

Valentina’s eyes panned down to what was in your grip. She smiled. “What were you planning to do with that?” 

You didn’t answer, just subtly moving it behind you. 

Her smile widened. She turned to face Bucky, who was still frozen in his spot. “Aww, look at the two of you, being all so protective of each other, just–” a buzz in her pocket.

She reached into it and pulled out her phone. After staring at it for a couple of seconds, she sighed. “Well, I must get going. Responsibilities and all that,” she waved her hand, walking past you. She pointed between the both of you, “Adorable, really. Call me when you finally get your evidence, okay?” she added sarcastically, leaving you and Bucky alone in the room.

It was uncomfortably silent for a couple of seconds before Bucky quietly walked past you and out of the room. You chased after him–his large strides making it impossible for you to walk at a normal pace. “I found this file about you,” you said from behind him. He didn’t reply so you continued, “I think…I think that it’s about you during your Hydra days. And maybe even before? Experimentation, trials, history, and stuff like that. I thought m-maybe you would like to know. Or not. It looks old so I thought it could be the original. And that you could–you know, do whatever you’d like with it. Keep it. Burn it. Or something. Whatever you’d like.” 

You slowly stopped talking, seeing as if he weren’t listening to a word you were saying. The only sound that was coming from him was the loud stomps of his combat boots against the metal tiles and the faint creak coming from his metal arm.

The whole ride back was silent. You sat at the backseat this time, hoping that if he didn’t see your face, he would feel a little less hatred towards you–that you would be a little less of a burden for him to carry. You’ve never really felt like this in a long time, and especially never with him, despite never getting along. He’s always made you feel like an equal, like every step, every move, and every word that comes from you matters. But this time, movements tense, not talking, and disappointment hanging all over his face, you couldn’t help but let it consume you as it did when you were a child.

 So you sat there, with the file held close against your chest, never opening it.

~~~

The apartment door opens with a swing as Bucky speeds through, leaving you to trail behind him. 

You shut the door, placing the file on the coffee table, and following him into the kitchen. He had his back to you, gloves removed, flesh and vibranium pressed against the cool granite of the counter. You could tell he didn’t want to talk to you but you didn’t like him angry–especially when it directed to you. He got annoyed at you, yes, but never angry. But even without seeing his face, you could just feel it emitting from him.

“Bucky, I…” you started carefully, not wanting to push the wrong buttons, “I didn’t mean it. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I–” you paused, noticing the way his shoulders tensed. “I don’t totally get it, but if you’re really unhappy about it, I won’t do it again. I promise. Tell me and you won’t have to worry about it again. Just please–please don’t be mad at me, Bucky.”

“Don’t say that.”

You got startled at the sound of his voice–low, heavy, his.

“W-what?”

He turned to face you. His eyes were red–not from crying, but from tiredness–accentuating the ice blue of his irises. “Don’t say that. Don’t beg me for anything. Don’t make me that important to you.”

Your frown grew deeper. He didn’t want you that much? You meant that little to him?

He saw the look on your face and immediately shook his head. “N-no. No. Not because of you, I promise. It’s me.”

“But you are important. To me.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Too bad.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Trying to read you, to see if you were lying–hoping that you were–but all he saw was truth. Laid bare, handed to him, pure and honest truth.

“Why?” he asked, the genuineness in his voice made your heart break. You didn’t like the way he saw himself, but then again, that’s how you noticed him.

You stepped closer to him, head tilting up to meet his eyes. “I don’t need to have a reason, Bucky. I don’t need to have an excuse to have you close to my heart. Because you are, and I want to keep you there forever. Although, I don’t think I’d ever be able to rip you out of it. I’ve tried, I couldn’t, and now I don’t want to. I want you there, stuck, forced to keep it beating till my dying breath. Even if I wasn’t in yours.”

He frowned like that was the most outlandish thing you’ve ever said. “You are.”

You knew he was just trying to not make you feel bad about it so you tried to change the topic. “Why were you mad at me?”

You could tell he knew exactly what you were doing, his eyes said it all, but he decided to let it slide–for now. He sighed, “I wasn’t mad. I could never be mad at you,” he mumbled, looking down at the ground, “I was just…scared, I guess. I told you to meet me in 30 minutes. It had been 32. You weren’t there. And then I saw Valentina, and I freaked. I thought she might have done something to you but then she asked me if you came with me, and I tried to convince her that I came alone. Then she shot the ceiling, knowing that you were going to come. I didn’t. Then you did. And, I don’t know, I hated the idea that you would risk yourself for me like that. But I shouldn’t have treated you like that. To make you think like that,” he looked back up to meet your eyes, “the thought shouldn’t have even crossed your mind. You’re so much more than what you believe you are. So much more.”

You weren’t much for physical touch, and you knew he was worse when it came to it, but almost like it was instinct, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms–tight–around his neck, pulling him flush against you.

Bucky froze, hands hovering over your back–hesitant and scared. Then, slowly, softly, like it wasn’t even there, he held you back. The heat from the fleshed hand penetrated through your clothes, as did the cool of the vibranium of his left hand, making your head spin in a way that made you want to hold him like this. Again. And again. And again. Till your bodies moulded as one and your brains turned to mush.