#read warnings for all possible triggers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saintrosalyn · 7 months ago

Text

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained.

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor.

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left.

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge.

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off.

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator.

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room.

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you?

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him.

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life.

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon.

Freedom.

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing.

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours.

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat.

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient.

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet.

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow.

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.”

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you.

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either.

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs.

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone.

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it.

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard.

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours.

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon x reader #ghost x you #ghost #simon ghost riley #reader is delulu in this

6K notes · View notes

forthegothicheroine · 5 months ago

Text

Tanith Lee Recs

Since Tanith Lee deserves to be known for much more than having been plagiarized, I thought I'd share some recommendations. She had a HUGE body of work, and I've seen it suggested that the reason she never became a household name in fantasy and science fiction is that she wrote so many things that were different from each other, rather than staying in one easily labeled niche. I've only begun to make a dent in her catalogue, but here's the stuff I liked the best.

Note: A lot of her stuff can be disturbing, and I can't remember everything well enough to give perfect trigger warnings.

Red as Blood and Redder Than Blood: These fairy tale collections are being talked about now for the title story, but my favorite is The Golden Ladder, an incredibly creepy and hot version of Rapunzel, or perhaps When the Clock Strikes, a horrifying beautiful take on Cinderella.

The Weird Tales of Tanith Lee: As you can see, I love her short stories. These are all the ones published in Weird Tales, which includes some of the above fairy tales (including When the Clock Strikes) but also Arthurian, steampunk and science fiction stories. It's a great sampler of all the things she could do.

Blood 20: One more short story collection! This one is (most of) her vampire stories, so I know you goths will like it! There are things erotic, fantastical and grotesque in here, but to me the most haunting is the tragically mundane The Vampire Lover.

The Secret Books of Paradys: In this series, an alternate history of Paris, bad things happen. Supernatural things, sexual things, horrifying things. And sometimes good things happen, such as a man saved by a Jewish sage an his beautiful daughter who then actually converts to Judaism.

The Secret Books of Venus: I've only read the first entry in this similar series about an alternate world version of Venice, but once again it leaves the reader feeling totally transported to this sometimes sinister, sometimes lovely place where romance and cruelty live next door to each other.

Vivia: This tragic medieval plague-influenced vampire story is maybe the darkest thing of hers I've read, but dear god can she paint a picture with words. Along with The Birthgrave (which I didn't like as much), George RR Martin definitely pulled a lot of Danaerys's story from the title character here.

Islands in the Sky: And now for something completely different- a children's book. I remember finding this at the library as a kid and wanting to cry when it was over, because it gave me an equal sense of wonder and happiness as The Lion the Witch and the Wardobe, which I hadn't known was possible and worried would never happen again.

...but if you're like me, you'll just see which of her books you find at the library and used bookstores. You may not love every single thing, but it will always be interesting!

#tanith lee #books

3K notes · View notes

ihopeinevergetsoberr · 7 months ago

Text

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies.

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.”

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent.

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?”

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his.

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects.

“If I may.”

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will.

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use.

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given.

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.”

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate.

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table?

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’ve already wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all.

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were.

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. His heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.”

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness.

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!”

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?”

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.”

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided.

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that.

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan.

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront.

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves.

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.”

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.”

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce.

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones.

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.”

“But they’re so heavy.”

“Well, what would you use?”

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow.

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.”

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted.

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.”

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?”

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat.

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact.

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.”

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead.

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?”

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.”

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for.

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?”

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin.

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled.

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders.

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one.

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair.

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place.

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine.

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.”

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin.

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work.

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh yes. You’re about to.”

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement.

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.”

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other.

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor craved to postpone the main course.

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face.

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss.

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites.

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind.

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness.

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him.

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin.

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman.

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.”

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.”

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief.

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you.

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter.

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp.

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye.

“Why should we limit it to just that?”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor arcane smut #viktor x fem!reader #arcane smut #viktor arcane x reader #no beta we die #viktor x f!reader

4K notes · View notes

jellyfishsthings · 14 days ago

Text

I have a grandchild?

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd liked to think he wore many masks.

The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:

Mr. Jay.

He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.

And somehow? He loved it.

Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.

He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."

And he hadn’t told a soul in his family

Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.

“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”

Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.

Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”

“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”

“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”

Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.

It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.

Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.

“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”

Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”

He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”

You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”

Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”

“Haikus?”

“Very serious educational practice.”

You smiled. Something clicked into place.

It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.

That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”

What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.

Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.

He just wanted this one thing for himself.

And somehow, it worked.

You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.

By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.

Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.

And it was home.

He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."

He didn’t correct her. Not once.

You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.

You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”

So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.

“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.

“Go save the world, I have this covered.”

You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.

“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”

Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”

Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”

What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.

Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.

It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.

The door creaked open.

Jason glanced up.

And froze.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.

“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.

Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”

Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”

She froze when she saw Bruce.

Bruce froze when he saw her.

There was a long, loaded silence.

Jason opened his mouth.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”

Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”

Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”

“COOL,” she whispered loudly.

“She looks like you,” Bruce said.

“WHAT?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you WHAT?!”

“That you have a child.”

“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”

A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”

Jason died.

Bruce looked like he had transcended.

“She calls you—”

“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”

“She has your nose.”

Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”

Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”

Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”

Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.

“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”

Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”

Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.

Jason shrugged helplessly.

Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”

When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:

Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.

And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.

He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”

You blinked. “Is it real tea?”

“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”

“Ah.”

“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”

You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”

“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”

You blinked. “Okay. And?”

“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”

“... Did you correct him?”

Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”

Jason groaned into his hands.

You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”

Jason looked up.

You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”

Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Love you more”

Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”

You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”

Jason sighed into the pillow. “Long story.”

Bruce stood. “She’s a good kid.”

“She’s a menace,” Jason mumbled fondly.

Rory woke up and shouted, “GLITTER PANCAKES?”

#jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fluff #dc comics #dc comics x reader #dc comics x you

2K notes · View notes

wtfaniii · 6 months ago

Note

oneshot in-ho x reader whos a player not bc of debt but because she was investigating with gi-hun? in-ho falls in love w her and protects her during the games (he knew abt her as he had stalked gi hun and his team duh)

thank u🙏🏻

Just when I read this I had just uploaded a one-shot more or less with that theme of the researcher girl.

I love it, thanks for reading🤎

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Paparazzi

Summary: A private detective that Gi-hun had hired to investigate those games he participated in three years ago, is taken against her will without knowing that a certain man with power and money knew absolutely every detail about her.

Warnings: Just some harassment from this sexy man, violence and inappropriate language. Also, I made a modification to one of the games so that the reader could be with them

Note: Your wishes are my command! Orders will remain open and I will try to respond as soon as possible.

Her job was supposed to be just to do some research, collect names, dates and addresses, but fate had other things in store for she.

—Form lines to advance! It will be harder for the puppet to detect you that way —Gi-hun shouted to the players who were still alive after that massacre.

The girl was shaking uncontrollably. Unfortunately, she hadn't managed to get behind someone and now the doll was in her sights. Her hands didn't stop moving and clearly noticed how one of the weapons from heaven was pointing at her.

—Please... —She whispered shakily, yeah... maybe she was a coward but it's only because survival is not his specialty.

"Player 455" heard one of the guards through his communicator, he aimed directly at the head of the trembling girl but before pulling the trigger he heard the voice of his leader "Don't shoot, let her continue" and without protest he obeyed him order.

In a gilded room, with a huge screen in front of a single sofa and a small table next to it, rested the man who led and maintained order in these games.

Drinking a little more whiskey, In-ho kept his eyes on the screen and with the remote control he focused on player 455, the poor girl was terrified, it was not the first impression he expected from her after having read her entire file.

He had read that she was a great detective, top of her class, she was cunning, intelligent, and had a couple of master's degrees completed, but seeing her afraid of dying almost made him laugh.

It was amazing how being face to face with death changed people.

—Nobody shoot her —he added over the radio without taking his eyes off the screen.

He could see the girl's confusion at seeing thatwas still alive despite moving very slightly.

In-ho knew everything about her, he knew what she was weak on, her strengths, weaknesses, her way of operating, he even knew about that beloved cat she had in his childhood and died of old age.

He had taken the time and dedication to investigate even the smallest details about her, it was the least he could do after almost discovering his identity.

The detective was so close to discovering the entire empire of these games that he had to be her brought together with Gi-hun by force so as not to let her finish the task.

He twisted his lips as the whiskey vanished and the first game, green light, red light, was over.

He didn't want her dead, or at least not for now, until he knew a little more about her, one could almost say that she had the potential to be part of this if she weren't so correct.

He put on his mask and went to the control center.

[...]

Just as she thought, some players approached Gi-hun for advice for the next game, there were only those who believed in his words because some others called him a 'liar'.

Among them was player 001, whose name was claimed to be Young-il. He was no fool, he wouldn't say his real name without being sure how much information she had about all of this.

As night fell in the bedroom everyone was sleeping peacefully, except for the girl who was sitting in the middle of her bed playing with his pillowcase, folding it over and over again and then unfolding it and repeating the same act.

—Are you having trouble sleeping? –001 asked, approaching her, who shifted a little and made room on the bed for him to sit next to her.

—My head works better at night... —She murmured, looking at him and smiling friendly.

He looked down at her hands and how the moved on the pillowcase, her were precise and firm. —You know how to tie good knots.

She had many talents and In-ho knew them all.

Or well, almost all of them.

Her ability to tie excellent knots was developed by her father, who was captain of a fishing boat that she also sailed on from time to time.

They locked gazes again in silence. In-ho considered that long-distance photos were nothing compared to being face to face with her. For two years he had been investigating her, he had sent several guards to follow her closely for one reason only. At first considered her a threat. Her intelligence and curiosity could have unmasked him, but then he started following her out of routine.

Afterwards he just kept his gaze on her out of habit and finally he had her face to face.

—What's wrong? —She asked with a frown as noticed the intense gaze on his person.

—Nothing, you should rest, we must have energy for tomorrow's games.

When he was about to stand up and go to his respective bed but she stopped him by holding his hand. The girl, seeing his inappropriate act and with more confidence than she should have, quickly let him go. —Can we keep talking? Honestly... I'm too distressed to sleep right now.

—Of course...

The two continued to talk about trivial matters for a couple more hours, they tried to keep it low so as not to wake up the other players but every now and then they received an annoying 'shhh' from someone nearby who longed to be able to sleep peacefully.

Until she finally fell asleep with head resting on In-ho's shoulder, he didn't move, instead, he let her sleep and settled down so they could both rest better.

The next day, during the next game, they formed teams of six people.

Once they were all together, along with a pregnant woman named Jun-hee with the number 222, they sat on the floor as ordered and shared the games.

The activity was to play a series of games and each time they won they could advance, all this with their feet tied together.

It would be simple, each one was good at something and that made it easier for them to continue, they were the last players to participate which was good for the girl, so she wouldn't get nervous under the gaze of the other participants and as if heaven conspired in his favor one of the games was about making a rhombus with a rope.

—I did it! —She shouted euphorically showing the perfect rhombus in her hands made with rope and on the first try, the guard made a circle and the voice said "pass"

The others celebrated with her as they advanced, until now they achieved the games at the first opportunity and had plenty of time but when they reached the part where they had to spin a top on the ground Young-il lost his sanity after so many failed attempts.

As she bent down to pick up the top once more and wrap it in the string 001 began to curse and beat himself.

—What the hell is happening to me? I can't do anything right! I'm useless —She looked at him startled every time he hit himself, until she interrupted him by slapping on the left cheek, managing to silence him and making his head turn just a little.

In-ho's fake drama to scare them was going great until this sudden blow happened, he didn't expect it but there he was, looking at her with surprise and astonishment.

—You have to calm down! —She shouted, handing him the already finished top. —Try it again and if we die I swear I'll kill you.

He nodded and took the toy, she used those words to lighten the mood and try to give him confidence (which of course she did) but eyes don't lie and her gaze begged him to do it, she didn't want to die.

Miraculously he managed to spin the top and they moved on to the last game which Gi-hun was about to lose if it hadn't been for In-ho, although the last move was not correct he shouted "he did it" this being a small order camouflaged for the guard to give the affirmative signal.

They didn't know it but at that moment they would have died.

She was ignorant of this, she didn't know that if it weren't for In-ho she would already be dead since "green light, red light"

Unwittingly, In-ho saved her at every opportunity, protecting her life without realizing that perhaps following her had already become more than just a routine.

Little by little she got under him skin, first it was in his mind and now...

#in ho x reader #hwang inho x reader #hwang in ho #squid game x reader #squid game fic #in ho squidgame #squid game #frontamn x reader #squid game season 2 #Young-il x reader #lee byung hun

2K notes · View notes

galene-gothic · 6 months ago

Text

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗌

୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ I hope this reading found you in good health, every reblog is appreciated and thank you for everything :) ˖♡ ˎˊ˗ ꒰ 🐇 ꒱

ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗ PAID SERVICES TIP JAR

CHRISTMAS & NEW YEAR SALE AND OFFERS

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 1 ꒱

Trigger warning

Your bare face is gorgeous. I’m not sure why I felt the need to say that but it just came through and I couldn’t ignore it. Your lips are an area of focus in this reading as well. I’m not sure what it is about your lips - it could be that you have naturally pink lips, cupid bow ones or have hyperpigmentation around your lips that make it look like you have a natural lip liner (it’s going to be different for everyone) but no matter what, they’re extremely gorgeous. Maybe because it’s winter in the northern hemisphere, many of you could wear lip balms, petroleum jelly or lip glosses but it gives your lips a wet appearance. If not, you lick and bite your lips a lot, like even if you don’t have any of the attributes mentioned above, the way you move your lips, the way you touch it, lick it, bite it, everything just gives you a different vibe. Now moving beyond your lips because while I could sing praises about them all day, I want the reading to consist of more. Your energy is such that when people see your vices or perceived ‘flaws’, it doesn’t disinterest them but instead only add more dimension to you. It makes you more attractive to them because they experience a certain ‘rawness’ in you that they might not get to experience elsewhere in this world due to how everyone is striving for perfection to the point they all seem manufactured. You’re someone who people stare at when in cafés or public places and I’m so sorry but you have fallen victim to catcalling possibly multiple times especially when you were younger than you are right now. You didn’t deserve that. People find themselves losing a certain level of consciousness when they’re close to you, especially physically. You cause people to feel a heat when around you and even away from you, it depends on the person, sometimes it is a gentle warmth that envelops them, sometimes it is a certain hotness running through their that makes it hard for them to contain themselves around you, to even breathe around you, let alone act normal and sometimes it is in the form of jealousy, people of the same sex or who are interested in increasing their appeal but haven’t been able to find their own spark feel intimidated by your scorching heat that seems to engulf all around it unapologetically. One thing that I need to warn you about is that you definitely have people who are jealous of you. You don’t even seem to notice it but when you’re out, people who are literally taken tend to check you out right in front of them, causing their partner to feel a certain hostility towards you. People stare at you a lot, it is very obvious. It’s come through multiple times. Right now, you’re someone who is just very nonchalant. You don’t hold onto connections too tightly, let alone chase them.

You used to formerly speak with your eyes a lot with certain people, it created a sense of knowing, belonging, connection and familiarity but now you just walk past those same people like you don’t know them or you might greet them, smile at them but you don’t seem to have the same gaze in your eyes anymore, often breaking eye contact quickly or not even caring enough to maintain it, it causes them to feel hurt sometimes, wondering if they never meant anything to you, if you just forgot them, if they were just that forgettable to you but it also makes you irresistibly attractive to them. You’ve developed a certain peace within yourself, there were days when you didn’t know how to live or had forgotten how to do so. You had become very internal, causing you to live within yourself and with it came a lot of overthinking. You used to hold onto grief and people could have underestimated you back then but you have moved far past that. You’ve become more present and mindful, you have started living beyond your mind. You’re starting to smile more, live more and keep your life, treasure it, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it didn’t turn out the way you had imagined. You’ve definitely had a past that was full of tears. It was difficult but you’ve left it all behind, this sense of presence and contentment is adding onto your attractiveness because the sorrow you’ve experienced has also given you a lot of wisdom. One thing that you don’t want to fall into is mourning and desperation because you have experienced both. ‘Extreme nostalgia’ is what I just heard. The sorrow you’ve experienced on your path, the tears that you’ve cried are the very things that are helping you move forward with such confidence and self assuredness. Since you’ve experienced so much, many dark thoughts too, possibly suicidal ones for some of you and have always managed to find a way out, you just feel like things will turn out fine in the end. You have tortured yourself enough in the past, it’s time to live now. That’s how you think and this shift is noticeable because you’re just focused on your own life. Your perception of connections especially romantic ones is that while they’re beautiful, people can burst your bubble so you just want to be discerning enough to only let a certain kind of people into your life like that. You desire to love but it’s not that big of a desire anymore, everyone wants love, to give and receive it, to be desired and desire someone but the way you look at it is “I’ve been there, I’m glad I’m out”, you’re just glad to be over it. It doesn’t even have to be romantic, I’m picking up on major disappointments in connections in general, causing you to prioritise yourself first and foremost.

You’re actually a hopeless romantic, a devotee. When you love, it’s very deep for you, your love is of divine nature. There’s no wandering eyes or anything of that sort, there’s just your person who you hold to be dear, almost divine, your love is devotional, almost like worship. I wonder if there was a point when you were devoted to the platonic or/and romantic connections in your life just for them to end and you were devastated about at least one or a few of them but the fact that you’ve managed to come out of it has given you more power because you know how deep your love runs, you know how you love and what kind of love you give out, and desire for yourself so it gives you the self assuredness that you deserve similar energy. You hold yourself and others to a high standard but if they don’t live up to it, you just abandon them and move forward. It’s nothing malicious but you just don’t see the point in getting caught up in the waiting game, training game or sticking around to entertain less than what you know you deserve. You have a different, slightly detached and elusive vibe to you. Your eyes and words tend to teleport people to a different world, not literally obviously but that’s what it feels like for them. Your energy is not possible to ignore, it bothers those around you because of the elusiveness mixed with the heat that I mentioned earlier but it’s not a bother that they ever want to get rid of. They enjoy the feeling of slight discomfort that comes from your presence. You interact with people very casually, not with everyone obviously but your ease of interacting with others is something that adds to your attractiveness. The vibe that I’m getting from you is that some people are bothered by your heat, others find it warm but both of these parties do not even realise when you started filling their world with nothing but yourself, it just hits them randomly and so strongly. I’m picking up on a romantic vibe from you and your beauty, it seems very gentle despite the heat you radiate. You’re also full of contradictions, despite your heat, you have a romantic appeal but despite the gentleness and elusiveness of it, you really confuse people. Some of you get turned on by fighting, not the excessive toxic kind of fighting but the dramatic yet silly ones that add to the pulse on your vertical lips are very much welcome by you 😭. I keep on hearing ‘what do you mean?’ by Justin Bieber here. “Don’t know if you’re happy or complaining”, “first you wanna go to the left and then turn right, wanna argue all day, make love all night.” You feel like home while simultaneously repulsing people. You’re a complex person full of contradictions and that’s what seems to make you attractive. I hope that you enjoyed this reading. Thank you for reading, much love and take care.

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 2 ꒱

This pile is for you if you have been touching and rubbing yourself a lot recently or just do so a lot generally. You have an intense sexual nature but really innocent eyes. You also crave fairytale love, like the innocent kind of love that doesn’t include touching and rubbing but just an eye contact makes you feel something, just an accidental brushing of skin is enough to make blood rush up to your cheeks, that’s the kind of love you desire and also give out but despite that, your sexual energy slips past your fairly pure and innocent exterior. Despite your love for consuming romantic content, you are not desperate for it. You understand that it’s a luxury to be with you and act like it. You know that people pleasing is self betrayal so you do not go out of your way to please others but at the same time, when they’re around you, you do please them? It just comes naturally to you. Much like the last pile, I’m getting something with the lips but in this pile, either you have plump lips, have a protruding lower lip or just pout a lot. Maybe, it’s just a natural slightly pouty appearance but I’m literally getting flying kisses so I’m not sure. Despite this innocent appearance and your desire for romance, you are very good at leaving people behind. You’ve learned that it’s best not to overstay your welcome anywhere. You’re someone who leaves people and things behind at the required pace, and you do not even seem to care about what anyone might think. You are fine with being lonely, what you’re not fine is getting used and heartbroken by people who might not have your best interests at heart. You have always had this delicate balance between being a friend and a lover. This could have led to misunderstandings in the past, you tend to treat your friends affectionately and generously, and those of the opposite sex or the sex you are interested in romantically might misunderstand, taking it as a free pass to underestimate and disrespect you? It has likely happened at some point in the past, definitely not for all of you but this quality of yours makes you very attractive. Also, when you fall apart from such people, they aren’t even able to voice out how much they miss you because you didn’t have a relationship set in stone and you just act as though you never even met them, as if you don’t know them, never did. In the past, you may have been unable to maintain this delicate balance or might perceive it as such but you are starting to go forward in life with stronger boundaries and that makes you very attractive.

I wouldn’t be surprised if some or in fact, many of you stopped making friends with the opposite sex due to such misunderstandings and disrespect. People from the past miss you, they’re terribly attracted to you and you’re irreplaceable but you’ve clearly grown out of that. If not, this is not your pile. I’m getting a lot of youthful energy here. It’s not just this delicate balance that has made you feel misunderstood in the past but also your friendships with people of the same sex. I’m legit getting friends from school missing you if you’re out of it and away from them (especially if you separated from them connection wise). You do not realise just how hard the nostalgia hits people of the past when it comes to you. People remember you as ‘the one that got away’ honestly and I hate this concept because it’s just sad, and I believe in true love being present, and not getting away but yes, you’re awfully missed. This is funny but people realise that they love or miss you at around 1-3 a.m. in the morning. You have something melancholic and lonely about you but also something so wholesome, and warm at the same time but you also interact with them by rolling eyes, sighing, vacantly staring, calling them dumb and saying something like “who cares?” All of this is dearly missed when you’re gone. You shouldn’t have to get away for people to want you, to appreciate and desire you, to treat you kindly, and with love and respect. You have this thing where you naturally love your friends a lot and don’t hold them inferior to other connections but this has led to you naturally relying on them and also treating them with a lot of love, and priority, and it was not rewarding for you because they used to develop hostility towards you over time for some reason. You’re very attractive to those from the past because they’ll genuinely never find someone like you anywhere. You’re an unconditionally loving person but you also understand that it’s better not to get involved in the lives of messy people. Also, you have a very casual and friendly way of interacting with people when they’re around you, you greet people and treat them as though you’ve known them for years at least for the amount of time that you’re around them even if you’ve just met them. You also have a tendency to be mean and get on people’s nerves but it only makes you more endearing because they get obsessed yet repulsed by you.

There’s something very innocent and pure, almost naive about you but also someone so dirty and mature. The energy here is a bit more contradictory but your contradictions are what seem to make you attractive. People who are used to being in control and are able to read others well find themselves being unable to remain controlled when around you and fail to read you, causing them to be frustrated, intrigued or/and drawn to you. There’s just something different about you that makes others feel like they’re changing, they’re shaking up, it’s not something that they can even put a finger on, it just is. People can’t help but want you around after meeting you, your presence and energy are intoxicating. I wouldn’t be surprised if once you enter a new environment, you see specific people everywhere around you because they just want to be close to you even if it’s from a distance. Many of you here seem to look like puppies or possess that kind of energy. This is the pile where you attract or at least intrigue those slightly older than you. Even people who claimed to ‘not date someone younger than them EVER’ can’t help but be curious about you, be attracted to you. Despite your youthful and puppy like energy, it’s them that feel like a puppies? Like, after meeting you, initially you’re the one acting like a puppy, treating them well and lighting up when you see them but the more the time starts passing by they feel like you’re not taking them seriously, they’re the one following you around everywhere, wanting to prove themselves to you, they do not even understand why they feel so lovesick without you around as if they were a puppy without their owner. Also, another thing is that some people have their youth attached to you and well, they’re still attracted to you even if you’re no longer in touch. Time passes by too fast when you’re around, people find themselves wishing that the hours would go slow so that they could spend more time with you. You’re a piece of warm sunlight of the first spring when it’s not hot yet but just a pleasant weather with a slight amount of coldness that vanishes when you graze their skin. You’re a joy to be around - a dream girl. You’re pleasant because there’s nothing too imposing about you but your energy though gentle and soft in nature is felt strongly, enveloping all that’s around you. People can’t help but want to be a part of your world. There’s also a sense of fragility that I’m picking up on here but it’s something that others feel fortunate to see about you. I hope that you enjoyed this reading. Thank you for reading, much love and take care.

⊹ ! ೀ Pile 3 ꒱

I think that some of you love dancing or just enjoy being young and enjoying life, being present. You’re just so candid, there’s something youthful and timeless about you due to how present you are because you’re someone who actively tries to be present. You do not want to perish with time which is why you try to make every moment count, to have adventures, to try and live your dreams, to leave a legacy. “People will not remember what you wore but they will remember how you made them feel.” You seem to have a solid understanding of this and try to make others feel good about themself and life itself. You’re very busy making the most out of your youth and out of your life but in your presence, you try to make sure that others don’t feel left out, you try to be as inclusive as possible, understanding that they too will only live once. You have an energy that’s everlastingly young about you and your eyes are very attractive, like they’re just captivating regardless of their size, shape and colour. Your eyes give you an appearance of goodness because they look like eyes that would belong to someone good, they’re open, inviting and warm but it seems like more of a disguise once you’re gone because when people run into you or are around you again after a falling out of some sort, your eyes lack that old familiar warmth that once greeted them and they feel an actual ache at the thought that your life continued on without them. You are someone who won’t stop your life for anyone, you want to have fun and spend your life joyfully so when you’re not getting that with certain people or in certain environments, you’re quick to pull yourself and continue on with your life, trying to make it as beautiful and celebratory as possible. Many really extravagant words are coming through for you, I wonder if your energy is a bit dramatic and extravagant too. You are someone who knows how to touch people and gently persuade them but remain distant, causing people to admire you and almost need you. There are times when people think that you’re wasting their time and try to give up on you but something happens that causes them to lose their discernment and heart to you again.

It’s hard to stay composed when you’re around because you just make them feel like little children. I find this endearing, you have a way of making everything very personal. You make memories with people and one thing in particular that stands out to me as attractive is when you call people by their name, it feels personal, it feels sweet. However, most people do not come forth to you beyond yearning for you. You’ve probably had friends confess to you in the past, out of nowhere. You’re very loveable in every sense of the word and people who share closeness to you or once did cannot help but wish for more than that. Many people do not even manage to get as close to you as they’d like to. There’s a lot of fear attached to confessing their feelings for you. The helplessness attached to liking you makes you irresistibly attractive, pretty much obsessively magnetic. Seduction is supposed to be subtle, it’s supposed to be non threatening, that’s what your attractiveness is like. I won’t lie, you do have a very scary attractive appeal too, like people who are attracted to you right away but even so, you win them over more and more over time. When you are around people, the world seems to stop but they don’t even notice it until after a while, they’ll have no clue when it started, when it got so deep. People do have a recognition of a connection with you from the start itself, of course it isn’t like that for everyone and it doesn’t have to be but those who recognise this are still unable to voice it out, however, if you’ve experienced this, you’re probably aware of how they act because their actions and mannerisms likely do give away their feelings. I’m picking up on humiliation, ridicule of looks, etc. You seem to have glowed up, take good care of yourself physically and dress to the best of ability, carrying yourself with your head held high because you remember how you were treated when you weren’t as attractive. This could be something like people close to you leaving you or disrespecting you too, it seems to extend beyond just looks actually, you’ve glowed up mentally and emotionally too. Also, you are forgetting the past, you are trying to, you have grown and don’t want it to hold any power over you at all. You are not in denial or anything, in fact, the kind of ‘forgetting’ seems to be a very healthy one, you’re naturally letting things go without regrets.

You make people feel very young, to share an innocent bond with you, full of memories, they can’t help but yearn for you. It’s your friends and those you share communities with that find you to be the most attractive. Also, you’re someone who literally doesn’t have regrets in terms of connections because you’ve always done your best, you’ve always given your all. You have really strong self respect, it was likely developed with time and experience but those you share memories and past with, if they were struggling, you’d not let them come back in order to search for comfort, support and companionship because you remember how they left. Those who have lost you have especially had to pine for you, the realisation that there’s no one like you is hitting them. Many of these people, even platonic connections seem to have acted like you weren’t all that in the past but now the reality of having lost you is starting to set in. Some of you have nice thick hair or you do something that makes it look full, you could simply just leave it open for example, some of you here use a lot of eye pencil, liner or eyeshadow too probably in brown or black, if not you just have captivating eyes like I said earlier. Your energy brings about a heat that is hard to ignore, it’s usually a strong heat than just a warmth, the type to make people act out of control because they’re not sure how to act around you. It’s like you make them lose control and feel hot, and they regret certain things they say or do but still crave more of it because it’s addictive. The way you move too, gosh, you might not even pay that much attention to it but you’re so attractive like lethally attractive. I keep on getting a theme of you wasting people’s time but it doesn’t even seem to be intentional, you just move on with your life is all. You come off as someone who’s like “if we meet again, we meet, if we don’t, you have my memories to remember me by.” You make everything feel like a movie - a dream - in fact. People get so attached to you, they get so used to you, when you’re not around even the most familiar place starts feeling strange. Some of you could possess dimples or one single dimple. I hope that you enjoyed this reading. Thank you for reading, much love and take care.

#pac reading #tarot pac #pick a card #pac #tarot pick a card #pick a card reading #pick a deck #intuitive readings #pick a photo

2K notes · View notes

gothicfied · 6 months ago

Note

can you write a squid game fic or head cannons of other characters finding out the reader is struggling with self harm? If so, thank you and I understand it is a sensitive topics and may be uncomfortable to write.

Squid Game season 2 characters x reader who struggles with sh

Featuring: Thanos / Player 230, Se-mi / Player 380, Cho Hyun-ju / Player 120, Nam-gyu / Player 124, Kang Dae-ho / Player 388, Park Min-su / Player 125, Kim Jun-hee / Player 222

(Trigger) Warnings: Mention/Talk about sh, depression, and things of this nature, this is comfort/angst, not proof read (english isn't my first language)

Summary: Basically what the ask says

A/N: hey! I hope this is what you imagined, sorry if some of these are ooc😞🙏

Thanos / Player 230

જ⁀➴ Before he really knew, he'd constantly make your life a living hell, basically making fun of your shyness. He'd make certain comments to which he knew you wouldn't react to or would try to persuade you to vote in favor of the game containing.

જ⁀➴ You'd constantly tell him off and to leave you alone. It didn't really help, though. Thanos would just sit down next to you and talk your ear off about what he wanted to do with that prize money.

જ⁀➴ When you stood up to leave, rollung your eyes at him, he grabbed you by your wrist.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Thanos blurted out, giving you an offended glare. "You know, it's really rude to just leave a conversation like that." When you tried to get out of his grip, your sleeves rode up your arm, revealing scars you weren't proud of or wanted him to see. When you realized it, he did too, immediately letting go of you.

જ⁀➴ Since Thanos knew what it meant to struggle with mental health he did actually leave you alone for now. But, after the next game, he approached you again and sat down next to you. "I'm sorry about yesterday." he said, patting you on the back.

જ⁀➴ He related to you in a way, but didn't want to ask you about what went on in your private life. Now you just appreciated that he seemingly didn't overstep any boundaries anymore and even checked up from you every now and then.

Se-mi / Player 380

જ⁀➴ You and her had been a duo ever since she came up to you and complimented your looks. Even if you denied it or not, she'd repeat it multiple times, winning you over with her charm quickly.

જ⁀➴ You two had the same mindset on a lot of things, originally voting 'O', thinking you were able to survive one more lousy game. That game was a death scare. Nothing about it was funny anymore. You appreciated your life too much these days to die like this.

જ⁀➴ When the second favor didn't go your way, both Se-mi and you now voting 'X', you felt helpless. One night, the two of you were sitting on her bed, just talking about your past and how you got to this point in the first place. While Se-mi was more secluded, only telling you that 'there are so much worse things she had to face when she got out' you trusted her enough to tell her about a sensitive time in your life.

"I'm not really secretive about this anymore," you pushed your sleeves up, revealing faded scars along your forearm, "but yeah. It was all pretty fucked up. The whole debt thing didn't make it any better." Se-mi looked at you with raised eyebrows, her fingers tracing the lines on your wrists. "I knew you were strong. Don't worry, we'll get out of here."

જ⁀➴ She put in double the work to protect you — She just wanted you to start a better life with that money and be happy, free from debt and all of it.

Cho Hyun-ju / Player 120

જ⁀➴ Hyun-ju noticed from the start that you were more secluded, more prone to cry, panicked easily. It was clear to her that you were struggling with this situation, perhaps even more than that. She made it her task to help you as much as she could, comfort you and keep you close to her and her group.

જ⁀➴ You'd often rant to her and tell her what bothered you after she reassured her she'd take care of anything possible. Hyun-ju was the anker you needed in this shithole and you just appreciated her very much. Everything she did seemed to be out of genuine interest and not just to gain your trust and abuse it.

જ⁀➴ Accidentally, Hyun-ju did catch a glimpse of the scars you were so desperate to hide. She didn't mention it, feeling like it wasn't her place to comment on it. Her heart did break for you, though.

જ⁀➴ From then on, she made sure to speak softer to you and distract you from all the horror around you.

Hyun-ju hugged you tightly against her chest, her arms engulfing your figure. "Tonight things could get a bit scary," she mumbled into your hair while she rested her face against your head, "I just want you to know now rather than find out later. I'll keep you safe, you know that." You just nodded, reciprocating the hug after a few moments.

Nam-gyu / Player 124

જ⁀➴ When he found out, as you didn't make the effort to hide them or anything, he did refrain from provoking you in any way. Nam-gyu related, as he considered his drug use not to be the best thing he could do to his body.

જ⁀➴ Both of you hung around in the same group, since Thanos really wanted you on his team, constantly giving you compliments and flirting with you. It annoyed him to a degree, scoffing everytime Thanos tried to talk to him about how pretty you were, how much he wanted you, give you the world. In Nam-gyu's opinion, he didn't get you.. didn't get what you went through, at all.

જ⁀➴ One evening before lights out, the two of you were teasing each other about something and laughed together — something that rarely occured amongst the other players.

"Want me to show you something?" Nam-gyu asked you, leaning a bit closer. Chuckling, you replied with a 'mhm' and watched him pull up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing skin tracks along the inside of his elbow. You raised an eyebrow: "Oh?" You took his arm to get a closer look, tracing his skin with your fingertips. "Well, we all have our stories, huh?" The man nodded at your wrists, making you look at them too, like you didn't already know what he meant.

જ⁀➴ The both of you grew close to each other, much to his amuse. He was a junkie, you were depressed.. it's like a disaster in the making. But, you didn't care. He was sweet and weirdly kind to you — Not in the way Thanos was. You made sure to hug Nam-gyu a few times more after that, in case it could be the last time you'd get to do that.

Kang Dae-ho / Player 388

જ⁀➴ You were glad to be on Gi-hun's team from the start, since Dae-ho and you got along really well. As a former Marine, which he was super proud of obviously, he declared he'd protect you immediately after you met, making you laugh.

જ⁀➴ He was kind, strong and funny, but maybe a bit oblivious at times.

During the six-legged pentathlon, you two sat next to each other, cheering the current active team on. Yelling and screaming filled the area as they crossed the finish lind just in time, making everyone erupt in cheers. Dae-ho immediately hugged you with joy, excited to see the five live another day, at least. After pulling back witha laugh, you gave him a small high five with your sleeve rolled back. When noticing scars along your wrist and forearm, the former marine gasped pretty loudly. "What?" you asked with genuine concerning, fearing something was wrong with you. "Oh, I'm so sorry," Dae-ho pulled your sleeve back over your arm. "Dude," he looked at you with wide eyes "it's fine." You needed to hold back a laugh.

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho felt so bad to havs accidentally seen something you've been struggling with, that he couldn't help but apologize profusely. You repeated to him that it wasn't a big deal for you and that you were working on this problem, but he didn't stop nonetheless.

જ⁀➴ You thought it was cute how much he seemed to care for you and how often he came up to you just to tell you that he appreciated you. And Dae-ho did, he didn't just say that to make you feel better.

Park Min-su / Player 125

જ⁀➴ Min-su is just shy over all. When he noticed it, he wouldn't say a thing. He'd be dead silent, maybe even a bit scared to talk to you. He was just scared he'd make it awkward, somehow hinting that he knew about your scars. Min-su was just someone who overthought a lot and even you noticed it.

જ⁀➴ After a bit, it annoyed you — The sudden lack of his presence next to you, the fact that he wouldn't properly talk to you anymore, it was all just weird and confusing. So, you decided to ask him directly.

"Did I do something wrong?" your voice wasn't stern, but Min-su could tell that you were kind of upset. "Ah, no-" he quickly replied back, shaking his head, "it's really not you!" He looked at you with his typical innocent face, making it hard for you to keep pressing him about this matter. "Then what is it, seriously?"

જ⁀➴ He explained what he saw and said that he just felt so sorry. Well, at least he didn't speak to you because he didn't want to hurt or upset you, which was really thoughtful.

જ⁀➴ You'd expect that he would now be the one to comfort you or something, but no it was the complete opposite. Min-su seemed to worried about you and kept asking you how you were feeling or if anything bothered you. You had to keep reassuring him that those times were in the past and that he didn't have to be so worried.

જ⁀➴ It was really cute though, so you let it slide.

Kim Jun-hee / Player 222 (implied fem!reader)

જ⁀➴ Since Jun-hee and you were pretty close in age, you two had found each other right away. You kept telling her that she needed more protection, or at least an ally like you, on her side sincs she was pregnant. You weren't really serious about that, just chuckling when bringing it up, but ut definitely made Jun-hee trust you a lot more. It was a critical situation she was in and she was glad to have you by her side.

જ⁀➴ You even banged on the door in the middle of the night to make the guards take her to the bathroom when she was to shy to do it herself.

As ths pink guard brought you to the womens bathroom, Jun-hee held onto you, clearly being in pain. A few minutes later, you were washing your hands and tried to fix yourself up, looking a bit disgusted in the mirror. "What is it?" Jun-hee emerged from one of the stalls, chuckling. "Man, I look like a damn zombie. Look what this place has done to us." Instead of getting a reply, you noticed that she was staring at your arms, at your scars. You had taken your jacket off for convenience and kind of forgot about them. "Oh, I'm sor-" Jun-hee interrupted you, "No! No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have stared like that!"

જ⁀➴ Obviously everyone had their struggles, but now her own kind of seemed insignificant next to yours. You were doing so much for her and she didn't even know that you were struggling. She should've thought of that.

જ⁀➴ When voicing that thought to you, you felt bad that you made her feel like that. With a hug, it was all sorted out. Jun-hee cared deeply for you and she could tell that you cared for her like that, too. It was nice to know that someone had your back in a place like this.

#squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid games x reader #squid games #nam gyu x reader #thanos x reader #dae ho x reader #player 222 #min su x reader #player 222 x reader #hyun ju #player 120 x reader #se mi squid game #se mi x reader #player 388 x reader

1K notes · View notes

pandapetals · 2 months ago

Text

Ain't No Grave

Chapter One: Cold, Dark Earth | next chapter

Summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: angst, trauma, pain, mentions of blood, killing, guns, knives, not graphic gore but could be triggering, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, established relationship, jackson setting, eventual smut, cliffhanger ending

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics. Okay, is this possible? I don't know? I was talking to my sister about TLOU, and this idea came to mind. Would cutting the infection off from the host keep the person from turning? So I googled it, and apparently in the game it’s lowkey implied that some guy tried it, but he died from losing too much blood. It ate away at my brain (see what I did there?). So, whatever. AU, I guess.

The wind slid through the cracked windows of the old pharmacy, carrying the scent of stale wood and something faintly metallic. Snow crunched beneath Joel’s boots as he moved ahead of you, his rifle slung loose in his hands, his eyes sharp and restless despite the familiar ground.

“Don’t wander off too far, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low enough it barely stirred the dust in the air.

You gave a quick nod, glancing around the ruined shelves and overturned chairs. Hoback was usually quiet. Safe, even. You’d patrolled this stretch of backroads and boarded-up shops so many times you could trace the steps blindfolded. But something about the heavy stillness of the building made the fine hairs on your neck stir.

“I’m gonna check out the—”

“Ain’t nothin’ new there,” Joel cut in, a flicker of a shake to his head. His gaze didn’t leave the shadowed hallway leading toward the back rooms.

You huffed a small sigh, fingers brushing over the cool metal of your revolver as you holstered it against your thigh. “I just like the comfort of it.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown, before he grumbled something under his breath you didn’t catch. You stepped in close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, the scrape of his stubble rough against your lips. His jaw clenched, but his hand brushed against your back as you pulled away; the touch was brief and wordless. The air felt heavier when you stepped out of the pharmacy’s shell. Snowflakes clung to your lashes, the wind sighing through the empty streets like a warning you couldn’t quite name.

Your boots crunched softly against the frost-laced pavement as you made your way down the narrow street, the hush of falling snow muffling the world around you. Hoback always felt more like a ghost town than the others. The buildings sagging under years of weight, windows either shattered or caked with grime, old signs hanging by rusted chains. Still, the bookshop’s faded green awning was somehow intact, a stubborn little fragment of a world long gone.

You knew there wasn’t anything left to find in there. You’d swept the place half a dozen times on past patrols — shelves picked clean, pages scattered like dead leaves across the floor. But your feet carried you there anyway, drawn by its small, stupid comfort.

The bell above the door had broken off long ago, but you could almost hear the phantom jingle it might’ve made. You let your fingers brush the weathered frame as you stepped inside.

It smelled like old paper and cold, dusty air. The kind of scent that clung to your memories more than your clothes. Light filtered through a cracked window, falling in crooked lines over empty shelves and the battered remains of what used to be stories, recipes, and memories. It was all useless, but standing there made something tight in your chest loosen, if only for a moment.

You crouched to pick up a discarded paperback, its cover bleached and curling at the edges—some forgotten romance novel. You didn’t read the title. You just held it in your hands, letting your thumb trace over the faded lettering like a prayer to a world that didn’t remember you.

You drifted through the bookshop, letting your fingers graze over the warped spines of sun-bleached paperbacks and water-damaged hardcovers. The air inside was thick with dust and the faint, sweet rot of old paper, a scent that made your chest ache for normalcy.

It wasn’t much. Four narrow aisles and a cramped little counter in the back, but you could picture it. Could almost hear the faint ring of a bell over the door, a kid’s laughter echoing between shelves, the low hum of a radio playing some old country song Joel would pretend not to like.

You smiled to yourself at the thought, imagining him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar look on his face, where he was trying to seem annoyed but couldn’t quite hide the softness underneath. He’d grumble about wasting time, about you chasing ghosts in abandoned buildings, but he’d let you have this. Just like he always did.

Your gaze landed on a display stand still clinging to a sun-faded sign: Staff Picks. A cracked copy of Little Women sat on top, its cover barely holding to the spine. You reached out and turned it over, the pages feathering beneath your touch. It felt like having a memory.

For a moment, the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt gentle. Safe.

You wondered what Joel was doing now — probably pacing outside the pharmacy, muttering to himself, pretending not to worry. He always did that when you wandered off on patrol, even though you both knew you could handle yourself. It was his way of caring without saying the words out loud.

You tucked the battered book into your jacket pocket, knowing it was stupid, knowing he’d give you that look when he saw it. The one equal parts exasperation and affection. The one you lived for.

The snow tapped against the windows like a hundred tiny fingers, and for a second, it was easy to pretend. Easy to forget what's waiting out there.

Then a flicker of movement caught your attention.

Your breath caught. Something shifted in the glass, a shape darting past the corner of the window too fast to track. Your hand went instinctively to your revolver as you stepped toward the door, pulse already pounding against your ribs.

You eased it open, the cold biting at your face, and stepped back out into the street.

The world felt wrong. Too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in against your ears made your skin itch.

Then the first one came.

A runner burst from between two abandoned cars, half its face torn away, skin slick and raw from the cold. It moved too fast for something so broken, arms flailing as it charged. You didn’t think — you raised the revolver, squeezed the trigger, and the shot cracked through the air like a whip. The bullet punched clean through its skull, and it dropped mid-stride, folding to the ground in a twitch of limbs.

You barely had time to breathe before the second one was on you.

A clicker.

Its ragged snarl rattled in its throat as it lunged from the side of the building, catching you off guard. Its weight slammed into you, knocking the revolver from your hand as you hit the frozen ground hard enough to jar your bones.

You gasped, the wind driven from your lungs. The creature’s fungal-plated head snapped and twisted, that sickening clicking filling your ears as its gnarled fingers scrabbled at your jacket.

Panic clawed up your throat.

You kicked out, trying to shove it off, your fingers scrambling for the revolver lying just out of reach in the snow. The clicker’s breath was hot and sour against your skin, its teeth inches from your face.

“Joel—!” you managed to choke out.

Your fingers scrabbled for the knife at your hip, the cold numbing your skin, but the clicker was on you — heavy, rank, its fungal-plated skull snapping and clicking inches from your face. Its weight pinned you to the frozen ground, jagged teeth gnashing, the wet rasp of its breath hot against your cheek.

You shoved your forearm hard against its throat, the rough, fungal growth scraping your skin as you fought to hold it back. Your other hand fumbled at your belt, fingertips brushing the hilt of your knife — so close — but the creature thrashed violently, knocking your wrist aside.

A guttural snarl ripped from your throat as you pushed back, your muscles burning, boots digging into the snow for leverage. The clicker’s head jerked, teeth clamping down on your wrist. The pain was immediate, sharp, and searing, a flash of white-hot agony that tore a ragged scream from your chest.

Blood spilled hot against the snow.

“Fuck!” you hissed, the world narrowing to the monstrous face above you, the gnawing pain, the cold.

Then a gunshot cracked through the air.

The clicker’s head snapped back in a spray of dark, wet matter before collapsing on top of you. Its weight went limp, pinning you beneath its corpse.

Boots pounded against the snow. Joel was suddenly there, yanking the dead weight off you with a rough grunt. His hands were on your face, your shoulder, searching for injuries even before you could catch your breath.

“Darlin’,” his voice broke low and panicked, “Jesus—fuck, you okay?”

You didn’t answer. Your gaze had already dropped to the crimson bloom seeping hot and fast from your wrist, the blood shockingly bright against the snow.

Your stomach turned. The world tilted.

“No…” You whispered, the word scraping from your throat, brittle and raw. “No, no, nooo…”

Joel’s eyes were on your face, searching, desperate, and then they followed yours. Down to your wrist. To the jagged, weeping bite mark carved into your flesh.

Time fractured.

You saw it in his face. How his jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, the sudden, eerie stillness in his eyes like a man standing at the edge of a cliff with no way down. The air between you seemed to thicken, sound dropping away except for the dull roar of your heartbeat.

Joel’s hand dropped from your shoulder. His gaze darted once to the revolver half-buried in the snow, then back to your wrist. You could see the gears turning, survival instinct kicking in like a switch flipped.

“No… wait, Joel — don’t,” you choked out, shaking your head so fast it blurred your vision. Your pulse thundered in your ears. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

But he wasn’t hearing you. Not really. His expression had gone dark, distant in a way you’d only seen once before, years ago when a raider had pinned Ellie in a fight. This was Joel when everything else dropped away, when nothing was left but blood, instinct, and the crushing weight of what he was about to do.

You reached for him, fingers clutching at his jacket sleeve. “Joel… please…”

He blinked then, as if your voice broke through a thick fog, and his face crumpled—not with weakness, but with something far worse. Grief. Fury. Resolve.

“I ain’t losin’ you,” Joel muttered, his voice rough and low, already yanking his belt free from the loops of his jeans. The leather snapped as it came loose, his fingers clumsy in a way you’d never seen.

Your eyes widened, heart slamming against your ribs. You looked down. The bite was ugly and raw, blood mixing with the snow like spilled ink.

“Joel—” your voice cracked, a wet hitch in your throat you couldn’t swallow.

“Don’t look at it.” His growl was sharp, almost harsh, but when your eyes shot to his face, it wasn’t anger you saw. It was terror. Pure, unfiltered terror.

“Focus on me,” he barked, dropping to his knees beside you. The snow soaked through his jeans. He gripped your face, his calloused palm rough and warm against your chilled skin. His thumb pressed under your eye, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Right here, darlin’. Eyes on me.”

Your breath came in ragged bursts. The world had shrunk to the pounding of your pulse, the burning pain in your wrist, and the wild, frantic look in Joel’s eyes. “What are you—?” you stammered, the words half-formed, your mind scrambling to keep up.

“I have to—” His throat worked around the words. “I can’t lose you, sweetheart. Not like this.”

God, his hands. His hands were shaking. Joel Miller, the man who could drop an infected with a single shot, who’d rebuilt fences and broken skulls without so much as a tremor, was shaking. A fine, bone-deep tremble in his fingers as he looped the belt tight around your arm, just above the bite.

You’d seen him scared before. You’d seen him furious, reckless, blood-soaked, and teeth bared in a fight. But this wasn’t either.

This was Joel drowning.

And somehow, that terrified you more than the bite ever could.

His hand left your face and went to his backpack, yanking the zipper so hard it nearly tore. He rummaged through it like a man searching for his last breath, pulling free the hatchet he always carried on long patrols. The steel caught the light, blade stained and nicked, and your stomach lurched.

“No—no, Joel, wait,” you stammered, trying to sit up, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might split your ribs.

“Lie down.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and trembling all at once. He didn’t shout, but the force of it rooted you in place.

“Please, Joel, I—”

“Lie. Down.” He dropped to his knees beside you, one hand at your shoulder, the other bracing the wrist above the bite, just above where the makeshift tourniquet tightened. His fingers were steady now. Deathly steady.

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your throat closing up around words you couldn’t get out. He looked wrecked. Eyes wild and wet, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump.

“I need you to look at me, sweetheart.” His voice dropped low, rough and wrecked as he pressed your good hand to his chest, over his heart. “Right here. Don’t you dare look away.”

Your vision blurred, panic clawing up your throat, but you clung to the feel of his heartbeat under your palm — frantic, uneven, alive.

“Listen to me,” Joel said, the words breaking apart like splintered wood. “I can’t lose you. Not to this. Not like this.”

Tears slipped hot down your temples into the cold, and you shook your head frantically. “Joel, please—”

His thumb brushed your cheek once, a final mercy. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Then he raised the hatchet.

Bile burned the back of your throat, panic rising in a thick, suffocating wave, but you forced yourself to look at him. To find Joel through the blur of tears and blood and terror. This was your final moment, and if you were going, you’d carry the memory of him with you.

The furrow in his brow. The blood smeared along his jaw. The desperation shone in his eyes. You memorized every line of his face like a prayer you no longer believed in.

He’s going to kill me.

It had to be done.

You could already feel the wrongness blooming in your blood, the infection creeping toward your heart. You were going to turn. Joel knew it. You knew it.

He sucked in a ragged breath, his knuckles white around the hatchet handle, shoulders squared like a man about to cut off his own soul.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice cracked and broken.

His face twisted, a flash of unbearable grief.

“I know, baby. I know.”

Then he swung.

The hatchet came down in a quick, brutal arc, and the pain detonated through your body like fire. It wasn’t sharp — it was blinding, hot, and suffocating, stealing the air from your lungs before your scream tore free. A sound so raw and ragged it didn’t feel human.

Blood spattered across the snow, hot against the freezing air. Your body arched, a primal, instinctive jolt you couldn’t control, the agony so complete it felt like your bones would shatter from the inside.

Your vision blurred, black spots swimming in and out, the world tilting, distant and wrong.

You could still hear him, though. Joel’s voice, rough and breaking, calling your name, ordering you to stay with him, his hands frantic on your shoulders, pressing against the bleeding stump.

But you were already slipping, the edges of him going soft, the white sky closing in.

Even in that darkness, you clung to his face. The last thing you’d ever see.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel x reader #joel the last of us #tlou joel #joel miller angst #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller smut #game joel miller #game joel #pixel joel

639 notes · View notes

dailymanners · 1 year ago

Text

Always use "excuse me" if you have to get into someone else's personal space.

Someone at the store is standing in front of the shelf where there's a can you want to grab? Don't just reach into their personal space without warning, say "excuse me" or "pardon my reach" first so that they at least have a warning that someone is about to reach into their personal space, and most importantly, so that they have a chance to move before you get into their space.

Or if someone is standing on a walkway or in a doorway you need to get through, don't just silently shove past them or squeeze past them, say "excuse me" so that they have a warning that a someone is about to squeeze or shove into their personal space, and they have a chance to move out of the way before you do you.

People deserve a fair warning if someone is about to squeeze or shove or reach into their personal space. A lot of people are not okay with having someone, but especially a stranger, randomly shove or squeeze or reach into their personal space without warning. They also deserve a chance to move out of the way first for the sake of their comfort.

Try to avoid just staring at people who are in your way and expecting them to read your mind that you want them to move. Most people cannot, in fact, read minds, so having someone stand in front of them and stare at them often only leads to making them feel uncomfortable and frustrated.

But also more importantly, if you are standing somewhere someone needs to get to, and they say excuse me, you should move aside for them even if just temporarily, so they can avoid the discomfort of having to reach into your personal space or squeeze past you.

If someone is saying "excuse me" it's because they would like you to move because they don't want to have to get into your personal space, whether it's out of respect for you, or just because they themselves are not comfortable getting in your personal space.

All of this goes double for people with trauma and/or people who are neurodivergent. If someone has trauma related to abuse or assault they may find it more upsetting or possibly triggering to suddenly have someone shoving or reaching in their personal space without warning.

Or, many types of neurodivergence can make it especially disturbing and unpleasant to have someone else in your personal space, especially without warning.

You can never be 100% sure who is and isn't traumatized and/or neurodivergent, so always practice respecting other's personal space by giving them a fair warning with "excuse me" or "pardon my reach" before getting in their personal space, and moving aside when you hear those magic words. Or, even if someone isn't traumatized nor neurodivergent, it's still fair to not like someone in your personal space without warning and not being given the opportunity to move first.

#manners #politeness #courtesy #good manners #etiquette #I'm so sorry I really tried to make this one shorter I really did #I trimmed the fat as much as I could but this was as short as I could bring myself to make it #Where I live most people will just shove into your personal space without saying anything #or just stare at you until you get the hint and move #and I hate it so much #Especially because I am both neurodivergent and have PTSD so I really hate people staring at me and/or shoving in my personal space

7K notes · View notes

endearng · 8 months ago

Text

Third time's the charm

Pairing: virgin!Spencer Reid x fem!reader Summary: During one of your movie nights with Spencer, you decide to, once again, take the lead. Or, you got cockblocked so often that you almost thought it wouldn't happen. WC: 3.1k Warnings: smut (nipple play and dry humping); reader thinks spencer might be asexual but he's just a shy puppy; they are desperate for each other; "ruined" movie night; virgin!Spencer my beloved. (I guess that's it. If I forgot something, please let me know!) A/N: Aaaand here it is! I didn't think I'd write smut so soon, hehe. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it - it's actually a sequel to Dearest friend, but can be read as a stand-alone. Feedbacks are highly welcomed and appreciated. <3 Masterlist

"It’s nice we finally have some time for each other," you hummed in agreement. "Thanks for coming over," Spencer said.

"You don't have to thank me," you said, sitting down on his couch after placing the drinks you chose from his fridge on the coffee table. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," you confessed. It got him blushing.

Spencer started one of your movies. It was your choice: you usually took turns picking out a movie to watch together whenever you had the chance, since neither of you were keen of going out that often and you didn't have much time outside of work. It was a fun opportunity to know more of each other through your personal taste, since he often chose foreign films about humanities and you, well, you made him watch Easy A, which got him talking about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter.

After the movies, you would talk to each other about it, maybe mentioning a personal experience that you remembered thanks to a particular scene or a character's arch. Maybe you would kiss.

Which was a problem. Well, not a problem, but, you see, you didn't have much time together other than going to each other's houses and out on a few dates, which were your favorite: Spencer often found the most beautiful, cozy places to take you, like coffee shops, museums, bookshops and libraries, followed by a nice dinner at a local restaurant. It was during one of those dates that something gave him the nerve to touch your hand. Holding hands quickly escalated to having his hands around you at all times possible, and it got to the point where you nearly had to peel off of him when he got too comfortable and you sadly had to leave to do something. These moments of physical touch were making you go insane, thinking about making a bolder move on him, but you thought that maybe he wasn't ready. Plus the fact that you seemed to be interrupted whenever things got too heated.

If you had a nickel for everytime you and Spencer had to stop right before you got intimate (in any way, really), you'd have two nickels, which isn't much, but it's weird that it happened twice. It was like the universe (more like Hotch and the gore that surrounded the team) were set on a mission for you to never have sex again. Besides that, more extreme thoughts plagued your mind and told you that maybe he wasn’t attracted to you like that. It often made you go home feeling a little bit insecure.

You knew that it was better to assume, but you were only human. After some pep talk with yourself on the way to his place, you convinced yourself that you would have to have this conversation with him, sooner or later. You thought so hard about this that you even came up with the possibility that he was asexual — you were fine with it if he was, obviously, because being with him made you feel whole. Still, you wanted, you needed to get this off your chest before you exploded with assumptions and unrequited feelings. Unrequited desire.

You decided to try to be subtle. Scratching the back of his head with your nails lovingly, you both watched the movie. "What are you doing?" He asked, looking at you. You could see the goosebumps on his arm, that must have been the trigger for the question coming out of his lips. You gave him a soft smile.

"It's called affection, pretty boy," you kissed the tip of his nose. "And I don't intend on stopping anytime soon."

You kissed his left cheek when he turned to look at the TV screen.

Then, you turned his head gently to kiss the right one. He glanced between your eyes and your lips, so of fucking course you were about to kiss him, but you decided to tease him a little and pecked the tip of his nose and gently kissed his forehead instead. He breathed out a laugh. Ticklish. It made you wonder where else he would be sensitive.

Stop, you slut of a brain.

When you were about to kiss his lips, you withdrew your face from his, smooching his cheek instead. He sighed, oblivious to your real intentions, impatient and utterly, stupidly in love with you.

Oops. There goes your heart. Out the window. Taking your judgment with it.

"Spence?"

"Yes?"

"Can I do something?"

"Yes," he answered. "You know can do anything, baby."

"This is a very dangerous thing to say to a girl who has the feelings I have for you," you said, grinning. His expression morphed into one that almost looked like sheer panick.

You slowly moved to straddle his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you if he wanted to, his legs trapped between yours. You sat yourself on the top of his thighs. He watched every movement feeling like the world stopped and there were the both of you, moving in slow motion, movie long forgotten behind you. His breath hitched when he came to his senses and noticed the position you were in, now that you've done what you had. "Is this okay? It's more comfortable than kissing you like… well, that," you laughed softly.

"Yes. I-It's perfect," he breathed out, hands finding your waist.

You lips finally met his in a kiss that had both of you sighing. You found out that Spencer was a really good kisser — and you were proud to be the one with whom he practiced kissing to perfection —, your lips easily falling into a passionate rhythm. Gasping for air, you pecked him on those perfect lips that were red and puffy from all the assaulting you were doing, but he quickly pulled you in for another, this time, sloppier than ever, encouraged by your own boldness. He was french kissing you. Fairly used to it, but not with the intensity of it, you groaned in welcomed surprise, hands finding the nape of his neck and getting a grip on them, not so gently as you normally did. You pulled his hair down, breaking the kiss, lips tingling and lungs screaming for air. He smirked, feeling smug at the state he left you in.

You rose slightly from his lap, still holding his head and looking straight into his eyes. By holding yourself slightly above him, the pendant of your necklace grazed his chin, like he had imagined many times after watching you fiddle with it. God, it was finally coming true, having you in his arms and intending to let you do whatever you wanted to him and him only, the way that it should be ever since the day you met. You nearly made him go insane, pulling you closer to his body than you ever were, acting like a desperate madman. You smiled down at him and kissed him again, more feverishly than before, trying to tell him through that kiss that you were his. Biting his lower lip and earning a fucking moan, you sat yourself down on him again. You felt his bulge against your clothed core and the light contact made you feel lightheaded.

You were so caught up on him that it almost made you forget you needed to talk to him first. Unfortunately, as you tried to catch your breath and to find the right words to speak, Spencer felt his insecurities creeping up on him. Despite knowing it would be best to talk to you, he felt like voicing it out loud would push you away from him — which he didn't want. He was very comfortable with the indecent small distance between your bodies.

He was fidgety. You knew you needed to address this because your boyfriend wasn't the best at voicing his needs — you remember and giggled internally at how you had been the one to knock on Spencer's door asking him to put an end to your suffering by telling him how you felt. Heh. Kudos to you.

"I wanted to talk about this with you," you murmured, now feeling his kisses peppering the skin of your neck. You knew how much he was hiding from you because he wouldn't stop moving and it was very distracting, but if you didn't speak, it would be the end of you. "I'd ask if you were okay with me and you like this, about taking further steps, shit." You moaned when he fucking bit you and kissed you right after.

He pulled away from you, hands flying up to the back of your head. Foreheads touching, eyes locked in yours. "I want it. I want you, I mean. Been wanting you for some time now—a very long time, yes." He strongly shut his eyes closed, most likely working up the courage to say something. "But I don't want to... disappoint you," he finished, sounding insecure.

Not on your watch.

"Me too, Spence. God, I want you so bad," you answered, unable to look away from him, who now looked down, paying close attention to the rising and falling of your chest. "Hey, look at me, please," you pleaded. His eyes met yours. Oh, those maddening eyes... "Believe me when I tell you, baby, I want you. And if you don't want to do anything, you don't have to. I won't push you, of course. I just wanted to have a conversation with you before, because setting boundaries is important and consent is hot—" he laughed quietly. Making jokes was your go-to way of making situations lighter and he was glad for it then. You smiled when you noticed the sound he made. "And I'm also positively certain that you wouldn't like to have our first time on your couch."

"My first time," he revealed. softly. Eyes not meeting yours.

Oh.

You didn’t falter. "It doesn't change much, baby. I still stand for what I just told you," you assured him, "I want you to enjoy yourself, Spence."

Looking back into your eyes, he declared, "And I want you."

"You can have me," you answered, "You already have."

"You'd need to guide me. You know, hands-on activity. Because I’ve never done it before…" he trailed off.

"Lucky for you, I'm great at teaching."

His grip finds your waist, lips anxiously waiting for yours — and when they touched to mold perfectly in another breathtaking kiss, he felt complete. Like nothing bad could ever happen in the world just because you were in it. His past, his insecurities, the awful things you both saw on the field, nothing mattered. Looking at you, touching you, was a nearly an out of body experience. The things you got him thinking by just kissing him. And he thought his insecurities would get the best of him. Jokes on them, you exist.

You look at him through hooded eyes. "I've never felt like this before. I feel... tingly," he confessed, lovely smile on his face, eyes blinking.

"You're feeling good, handsome," you answered, glancing at his dazed eyes.

A beat of silence. Swallowing second thoughts. "Can you make it better?"

"Is that a request or a challenge?" You asked, grinning.

"A request." He answered shyly, hiding his face on your neck, peppering kisses on your skin. You were going to explode.

"Oh, don't talk to me like that," you shivered, feeling absolutely lost, "I might spoil you and give you everything you want," you sighed.

"Let me have it, then," he answered, voice muffled by your skin.

"I'm all yours, Spencer."

He had the audacity of blushing as his fingers played with the hem of your shirt. You smiled at him. In this state, if he asked for you to run naked around town, you probably would. It was dangerous, to say the least. Softly, yet desperate, the words left his lips. "Can I take this off?" He sucked in a breath. "Please?"

"Yes, pretty boy, you can," you answered. "You can have anything. I thought I already said that."

"Yes—You did. You did," he breathed out between needy kisses across your skin, getting rid of your shirt in no time.

At first, he was mesmerized by the sight in front of him. He hadn't seen many naked (or semi-naked) women in front of him, but you were something out of this world. The bra you were wearing matched your skin tone and pushed your breasts together and there was the fucking necklace, almost mocking him by being constantly so close, too close to the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The view was almost overwhelming by itself. You looked at him, but he couldn't possibly come up with the words that would describe you in that moment. Words had failed him, nothing else in his mind but you. The tool he used to communicate, to access the world and how it shaped reality, to comprehend the mind of another person, to get to know others... He had nothing left. Except from the pulsing of his boner against your clothed pussy, that is.

Just like that, IQ of 187 slashed to 60, Emily Prentiss said, once. Funnily enough, when you passed by wearing a sundress.

Unable to talk but, oh, so able to use his hands, they traveled up to your breasts with a featherlight touch, which didn't stop him from feeling your heartbeat. He let his hands trail over the soft and sheer fabric of the bra you were wearing. Finding your nipples, his touch got more intense. He licked his lips. His actions made you shudder and sent a spark of excitement to your sex. "Pretty," he said. "So, so pretty, my girl."

"Do you like it?" You asked, breathless from a little touching. Pathetic. "I got these thinking of you. Wanna look pretty for you, Spence."

"You are," he said, looking into your eyes, his own foggy, hands reaching to touch your neck. "You're pretty all the time, it's so unfair to me," he murmured. "I really like them on you, but… can I take ‘em off?"

"Yes. You can do anything, Spence."

Spencer wanted to burn the sight of you, in that slightly disheveled state, in the back of his mind so he could remember it forever — not that he would have a hard time trying to remember anything. Nevertheless, he did everything so slowly, almost as if trying to tattoo on the tip of his fingers the softness and temperature of your skin. He inhaled deeply, consumed by your floral-scented perfume and lifted his hands to unclasp your bra. His fingers curiously, but unhurriedly, lowered each of the straps. Like opening a gift that had been so carefully wrapped he didn't want to ruin.

But did he wanted to be ruined by you.

The sight of your bare chest was marvelous, to say the least, and he timidly grazed his fingertips against the exposed area, eliciting goosebumps and a soft whine. His mouth watered, thoughts simply reduced to the need of having you in his mouth. The striped pattern on the soft skin of your breasts around your nipples were faint, barely there, unless if you took a close look at it. It goes without saying that he was blatantly gazing at your bosom at this point.

Pupils dilated, he looked up at you, hungrily, drawing his face closer to you, curls tickling the skin of your collarbone. He inhaled your scent, mind blanking. Tortuously dragging his lips on your skin (and unintentionally smearing some of his saliva on you, he was drooling, after all) as a silent request, the necklace brushing his forehead slightly. The grind of your hips against his answered his plead to taste you.

"Oh—you're so, so good to me, princess," you moaned when he finally wrapped his lips against the nub, playing with the other.

You felt almost overwhelmed with the attention you were getting and the reaction you were having to said attention. Your underwear was sticking almost uncomfortably against your core and you felt yourself aching for some relief, aching for him. So, as Spencer worked his hot tongue on your tits, licking, softly biting, sucking, making a mess on and of you, you busied yourself by chasing the relief you both desperately wanted. The solace it provided you both with was exhilarating and made you feel dazed.

Steadily rocking yourself against him, you earned a few grunts. "You're making a mess of me, pretty boy," you murmured as he switched his attention to the other boob.

"Give it t'me—I want it, I deserve it," he breathed out, body aching with lust, cock pulsing against your covered clit. His words only fueled the fire inside you, the coil in your lower stomach threatening to snap at anytime now.

"Yeah, you do, my boy," you breathed out, pulling the hair on the nape of his neck, nearly tasting your orgasm, "gonna look so pretty when you come for me, won't you, baby?" Both hands gripping your hips, mouth never leaving your skin. You sure would be bruised by tomorrow, but this, this was definitely worth it.

"Yes—Yes, I will," He whined. He fucking whined.

"Tell, me—ah—where do you want to cum, baby?"

"Shit—" until then, you were sure that was a word you'd never hear him saying, let alone that freely. "Gonna—Shitshitshit," moaning out your name.

That's when it hit you that he had cummed his pants. It was such a fat load that it had seeped through both his underwear and his slacks — which prompted you to reach your own high with a moan of his name directly into his ear.

Both of you feeling dizzy, you slump against him, feeling his arms wrapping your frame as you rested your head on his shoulder. You both took deep breaths, the only sound in the room. Well, besides the movie you both totally ignored.

"I can't get up right now... My legs feel wobbly," you chuckled. "Are you okay, Spence?" You asked, looking at him when you didn't get an answer.

"Yeah, 'm fine," he answered, "I mean, I'll be fine as soon as I recover from you."

You laughed sincerely, "From me? What have I done to you?"

"You gave me what I wanted, you spoiled me, you broke me," he said, a silly smile adorning his pretty face. You pushed him playfully. "I can't even explain what I'm feeling right now. My brain has stopped working ever since you straddled me. Are you trying to kill me?"

"No, babe."

"Wrong answer. You're so gonna keep doing that to me, so you'll definitely be trying to killing me from now on." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #cm fanfic #spencer reid x you

2K notes · View notes

violetrainbow412-blog · 14 days ago

Text

No one else [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 6.8k

summary: Bob agrees to join you at a bar with your friends, but a stranger’s gesture unsettles him more than he expected. Later that night, in the quiet of your apartment, he finally lets himself be vulnerable—and loved.

masterlist part 1 (can be read as a standalone, it's only useful if you want some context!)

warnings: explicit sexual content (MDNI), oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink, mild jealousy, emotional vulnerability, references to past abuse, trauma triggers, mention of addiction/recovery, aftercare, soft!dom reader (if you squint)

There was no special reason for the invitation. You had turned to Bob on one of those afternoons you spent together.

“Some friends are going to a bar tomorrow. They told me to join them. Do you want to come with me?”

Bob took a couple of seconds to answer. Not because he didn't want to—he was already sure he'd go anywhere if it was with you—but because the question unnerved him a little. With me? he thought. As if that word, said so casually, carried a weight you didn't notice, but he did.

“Sure,” he had said, trying to sound casual too, though slightly excited to be hanging out with you.

It was just a bar. People laughing, glasses in hand, dim lights. But to Bob, it meant more. It meant you weren't hiding him, that it wasn't just a get-together between you two when everything stopped. It was you bringing him into your world, even if it was just for a few hours.

You had agreed to meet the guy there. That night, you arrived a little early, ordered something cold to start the evening, and sat down to wait for him at one of the tables your friends had set aside near the window. There was music playing, but not so loud that you couldn't talk, and the warm light from the hanging lamps gave the whole place a more intimate feel than you expected.

You were checking your phone when you saw him come in.

Bob walked through the door with his hands in his pockets and a slightly uncertain gaze, searching the crowd until his eyes found you. He was wearing a white T-shirt that subtly outlined his shoulders, with an open blue flannel over it. His hair was a little messy, as if he'd hastily arranged it with his fingers.

He approached you slowly, but without hesitation.

“How do I look?” he asked, half-jokingly, as he stopped in front of you.

You stood up from the chair, placing a hand on his chest without thinking twice.

“Stunning”

Bob blinked, surprised by the directness of the response, and lowered his gaze slightly. If he'd been told that a sentence like that would disarm him so much, he wouldn't have believed it.

“You look... wow,” he murmured, not very subtly, as his eyes scanned your loose black blouse and light-colored jeans, which revealed just enough to make him briefly forget you were in public.

You laughed, amused by his reaction.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to them.”

You took his arm, gripping those muscles well hidden in everyday life, and led him toward a group of people. There were eight or nine of them, maybe, men and women. Each of your friends greeted him and said their names. Later, you spoke. You introduced him simply as Bob, without titles, but with a loving smile that was hard to ignore.

“You were right when you said this guy of yours is quite the cutie, huh?” mocked one of your sassy friends.

Bob blushed violently, and when he looked at you, something in your expression told him he'd have to get used to that kind of interaction. He didn't know how much you'd told them about your relationship, so he tried to stay as discreet as possible.

To be honest, all his attention was reserved for you. You looked dazzling, not in an exaggerated way, but like someone who looks beautiful on her own no matter what she wears. When the flow of conversation returned to the table, you leaned toward him to whisper something. He didn't hear you the first time, so you decided to lean in close to his ear.

“If you get bored, just tell me and we’ll go, okay?”

He just nodded, swallowing that tenderness with a lump in his throat. Because he wasn't bored. He was trembling inside, yes, but he wanted to make an effort to make you happy.

You ordered a beer for you and one for him, making sure he was comfortable with it. You knew, very vaguely, about his history with drug abuse, but you didn't know if abstinence included alcohol as well.

He remained attentive to whoever was speaking, and occasionally answered questions someone asked him. His tone was ambiguous, of course, as he tried to keep his powers and the evil entity he harbored within him hidden.

At some point, you slipped your hand under the table and placed it on his thigh. Bob tensed at first, more out of surprise than discomfort, as the contact unsettled him; not because he didn't want it, but because he wasn't used to someone touching him like that. So openly.

While you continued talking with your friends, laughing, passing a napkin, or sipping from your glass, your hand remained there. It moved up, and down, and played with the fabric as if it were an automatic gesture. As if you'd done it a thousand times before.

He wondered if you were pretending not to notice his gaze or if you just thought you wouldn't affect him the way you did. So he forced himself to keep his composure, to laugh when someone said something funny, to pretend his skin didn't burn beneath where you brushed against him.

“Want another beer? It’s on me.”

You leaned slightly in his direction, taking advantage of the fact that the others were distracted by other conversations. The scent of your perfume, combined with that of the beer, permeated his nostrils.

“I still have one”

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine for now.”

You nodded, understanding.

"And something to eat? Fries?"

“Whatever you fancy is fine. We can share.”

One thing is certain: Bob, in and of himself, made you want to kiss him. But that night you felt even more attracted, probably because of the atmosphere, the drinks, or simply because he was twice as handsome as usual.

“And what do you think of them so far?”

“Your friends?” he murmured, and you hummed a nod. “They’re nice. Very playful.”

“They are. But you get used to it over time.”

“Are they usually like that with the people you bring?”

“What people?” You pretended not to understand, taking a sip from your glass while making sure to look him in the eye.

“You know… like me”

“You mean mysterious boys who don’t talk much?”

“And you have no idea how social gatherings work,” he snorted, not reproachfully, but with a hint of acid. You squeezed his thigh affectionately.

“You’re the first one I’ve brought, so I wouldn't know.”

“I feel weird,” he suddenly confessed. “I mean, not like it’s a bad thing, but… you know, I want them to like me and stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” you retorted back “You’re quiet, yes, but that’s not a crime. Your style is more like… interesting silences.”

“Interesting silences?”

“Yeah. Like when you're thinking about saying something, but decide not to. It's sexy.”

That curious sound that pleased your ears so much, a laugh that seemed to hurt him escaped from the back of his throat.

“It’s not on purpose”

“That doesn’t make it any less sexy,” you insisted.

A tiny blush spread across the boy's face as his arm slid down your back, wrapping itself around your waist and thus shortening the distance between you.

“Well, if that’s what we’re talking about,” he murmured in a deep voice, almost hoarse from the closeness, “I don’t think I’m the one who should hold that title.”

His eyes scanned your face with a mixture of admiration and barely contained desire, as if he were trying to memorize your features.

“Robert Reynolds,” you raised an eyebrow, half amused and half incredulous, “are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” he gave you one of those smiles of his—unusual, soft, a little crooked as if he still didn’t quite know how to do it. “Is it working?”

As he spoke, his fingers traced a slow circle in the fabric of your shirt, right at the base of your back, causing an involuntary shudder.

“Pretty good, I’d say.” You brought a hand to his neck, caressing the warm skin with your knuckles, moving just a little closer. “Now give me a kiss, will you?”

Despite the chuckle he let out at your request, he didn't hesitate for a second to please you. He gave you a short but deep kiss that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

After your intervention, he relaxed considerably. Although you couldn't say he was participating enthusiastically, he at least seemed calmer. At one point, he took your hand, which was on his thigh, perhaps looking for a form of regulation or simply because he wanted to feel closer to you.

The evening continued peacefully. You chatted, laughed, and even they told a few stories that you were sure were meant to embarrass you—in the best possible way—but Bob listened with joy. He couldn't quite interpret the feeling bubbling inside him. It was happiness, yes, but also a strange satisfaction at feeling like he was uncovering a few of the secrets you harbored.

It was amid this harmony, just as the general laughter began to die down, that a waiter walked confidently up to the table. He carried a tray laden with small glasses of clear liquid, they trembling slightly with each movement. His appearance was so sudden that for a second everyone remained silent, confused.

“We didn’t ask for that,” you exclaimed at that moment, stopping him with one hand as you frowned, “Maybe you made a mistake.”

“Someone sent them to you. From the table over there.”

Every head in the group turned in the indicated direction, and then a rather cocky guy winked at you through a half-smile. Your stomach lurched at the gesture, and a disgusted expression quickly appeared.

“I don’t want them”

“That’s not true, leave them here.”

Apparently, your friend's answer carried more credibility, and the waiter simply ignored you. Like birds around crumbs, everyone swarmed to get a shot of vodka. They seemed amused by the situation.

“Seducing strangers again, huh?” someone quipped, raising an eyebrow as they brazenly took one of the shots.

“Again?” Bob hurried, glancing at you with a mixture of surprise and a barely contained expression of annoyance. Although he had intended only for you to hear, his voice came out louder than expected.

“Oh, let me tell you,” another voice chimed in, amused, nudging the blue-eyed man with a knowing elbow. “It’s not the first time someone’s sent her a drink.”

“I’m starting to wonder if that ass of yours is really worth all the madness,” someone else joked, raising their glass before taking a gulp “But hey, if it gets us free stuff, I’m not complaining.”

Most of the group took the matter with amusement, and you simply decided to ignore it. They were right when they said it wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but each time, rather than feeling attracted, you were surprised that there were men dumb enough to spend their money on a stranger and her entire table.

Considering the matter to be stupid, no further discussion was made. By this point, you'd already had enough beers for the edges of the evening to begin to blur, so it was no surprise that when the conversation turned to something more trivial, it seemed irrelevant, almost like a detail not even worth remembering.

You didn't notice the change in Bob right away.

He didn't say anything. He didn't make any obvious gestures. But when you turned to meet his eyes, they weren’t as open as they had been a moment ago. He wasn’t looking away, but he no longer held your stare the way he had before. His hand, once resting confidently on the curve of your waist, was no longer there; he had withdrawn it. Not abruptly, but with a movement as silent as it was meaningful.

You, however, didn’t see it as a bad thing. In fact, you didn’t read into it at all. You simply assumed he was just tired.

You'd been there for a while, your voices mingling, and the warmth of the place was beginning to curl like a thick blanket over your skin. You took another sip, barely savoring it, and then approached him without thinking much. One of your hands slid over his thigh, as you had before; naturally, affectionately. He didn't move away, but his body didn't react the same way.

He was there. But something in him wasn't there.

“Is everything okay?” you whispered softly into her ear.

Bob nodded once, without looking at you, while he hummed his response. That was enough to set off a small alarm in the back of your mind. Not because you feared anything bad, but because you knew that specific type of pause. It was like a way of collecting himself when something touched him too much.

Maybe he felt exposed, you thought. Maybe the meeting was too much, or he was suddenly overwhelmed.

It was easy to forget: he wasn't like your friends. He didn't like being the center of conversation, nor being surrounded by comments he couldn't tell if they were meant to be funny or not. And, as always, his instinct wasn't to complain, but to shut down a little. To retreat inward.

Without forgetting the matter, you rested your forehead on his temple, brushing his skin with your lips.

“Do you want us to go now?”

The question wasn't meant to offer a clear conclusion. Rather, it was a way of holding him back, of offering him a way out before the silence became awkward.

“No, I'm fine,” he murmured.

But he didn't mean it. And you, even if you didn't fully know it, were starting to feel it.

You stroked his leg again, more slowly this time. As if you could reconnect with him with that gesture. As if your body knew it needed him close even when your head still couldn't understand the reason for his distance.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye.

His face was a little more serious, his jaw clenched like someone holding back. You didn't know yet that it wasn't the meeting, it wasn't the music, your company, or the noise. It was something more invisible to your eyes.

For a while, you sat there, trying to act naturally so he wouldn't feel guilty or uncomfortable. But as soon as you saw an opportunity to escape, you took it.

“Let's go home, okay? My head hurts a bit, and I've already had too much to drink,” you said quietly, as one of your friends began to tell a rather boring story for the third time.

Bob barely looked up from his glass. He didn't object, didn't even ask if you were serious. He just moved as if grateful that you were the one who said it first.

You said goodbye with hugs, some more effusive than others. There were jokes, laughter, someone asking you to invite him back, and another shouting something about taking care of your boyfriend. Bob didn't respond. He merely smiled with his lips closed.

Outside, the air was fresher, and the silence, was like a truce.

You called a taxi as you walked toward the corner. He kept his hands in his pockets, his steps a little slow. He seemed calmer than he had been at the bar, but still withdrawn. You brushed his arm with yours as you walked, and he moved closer, as if by reflex.

“Are you going home, or…?” you asked carefully.

Bob didn't respond right away.

“I think so,” he said, without much conviction.

You looked at him. In profile, his eyes looked sad. You didn't say they were, but there was something there, something that didn't fit with the night or the times he'd kissed you with his heart in his throat.

You moved a little closer, with that kind of affection that doesn't ask permission.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

He turned his face toward you, just a little, and narrowed his eyes as if he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

“You could stay at my place,” you added, with a calm smile.

Bob swallowed. It wasn't an invitation with ulterior motives. Or maybe it was. But not the kind he usually feared. It was an invitation to breathe in a place where he didn't have to pretend.

“If you’re tired, we can sleep. If not… that’s okay too,” you said, glancing at him. “I just want to enjoy you a little longer. You look so pretty today that I can’t just let you go.”

He smiled. One of those smiles that barely cuts, but is worth twice as much for being so rare.

“Okay,” he accepted, quietly, as if it were a surrender.

And you, silently, intertwined your fingers with his. The taxi arrived shortly after, and when he opened the door to let you in first, your eyes met his, and you knew—without needing words—that he was ready to open up to you.

The ride was more pleasant than you expected. You leaned into him for warmth, and Bob didn't deny you his embrace, where the gentle beating of his heart felt almost like a lullaby.

As you stood at the entrance to your apartment, the jingling of your keys replaced the silence between you. As you entered, the comfort welcomed you, and you felt you could finally breathe more freely.

You asked Bob to go ahead to the bedroom while you quickly went to the bathroom. You wanted to remove your makeup and also brush your teeth to get rid of the taste of alcohol in your throat. You thought about taking a shower, but discarded it because of the thought that Bob might fall asleep before you could talk to him.

When you finally came out, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He'd already taken off his shoes, leaving him in only his thick gray socks, and he raised his head slightly when he noticed your presence.

“Okay, honey, what's wrong?”

“What’s up with what?”

“With you,” you whispered.

He looked away as you approached him.

"Nothing”

“Bob,” you insisted, more firmly this time. However, he didn’t seem to want to budge.

The preceding silence made you frown, and you thought it was time to intervene, although now with more determination.

“Bob, what’s going on? You’re acting weird. Did something bother you? Were my friends rude?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s not like that.”

Testing the waters, you closed the distance and settled onto his lap, straddling him. It was a low move, but you knew your lover always became more compliant when your body was that close. His body reacted—of course it did—but his arms stayed limp at his sides. So you reached up, cupping his cheeks, gently guiding his face toward yours to make him look at you.

“So? What is it, huh?” you asked gently. “You can tell me. You know I won’t get mad.”

“It’s not that I think you’ll get angry. It’s just… it feels really dumb to say out loud.”

“Your feelings aren’t dumb, Bob,” you corrected him. A gentle kiss on his lips was enough to make his shoulders relax and his hands finally settled on your thighs. “What is it?”

“It’s just that…” he murmured, his gaze fixed on some indefinite point, “I think I felt bad about… you know, the man thing.”

“What man?” you asked, tilting your head in genuine curiosity. It was a simple gesture, but it puzzled him. He couldn't tell if it was confusion, indifference, or tenderness.

“Who sent the round of shots to our table. The one who was flirting with you.”

You didn't say anything right away, but the way your eyes searched his seemed to say too much: you didn't understand why this affected him so much, or maybe you did, but you wanted him to say it.

“I'm not your boyfriend, I know... but...”

The phrase hung in the air, like a loose thread that threatened to unravel what you had woven that night. You watched him for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, without responding immediately.

“Is that the problem?” you asked softly. “Do you think because you’re not my boyfriend I’ll go with someone else?”

Bob didn't say anything. He opened his mouth, as if about to explain, but then seemed to change his mind. He looked down again, his brow furrowed, as if in pain. Then you lifted his head and plastered on a smile meant to inspire confidence.

“You could have anyone you wanted,” he complained, a mixture of frustration and surrender in his voice “Anyone. Just need to smile at them like that and you’d have them in the palm of your hand.”

At first, you looked puzzled, but after a second, your expression changed. With determined tenderness, you reached up and caressed his cheek.

“And you think I don’t know?” you exclaimed. “But I invited you. Why do you think I did that?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Because I like you, Bob. Very much.”

The words hung suspended for a moment. You didn't need to repeat them; you'd already said it all with that tone, with that body leaning toward his, with that warmth that emanated from the closeness.

You smiled sweetly at him. Then you kissed the tip of his nose, his cheek, the line of his jaw. You hugged him, still feeling him stiff beneath your hands. He didn't reject the gesture, but he didn't fully surrender himself either.

“I’m not usually good at reading signs,” he said hoarsely.

“And what do you think mine says now?”

Bob looked at you for a moment, his pupils dilated by the mixture of emotions, desire, something he could barely name. Then he replied in a low voice:

“For me to stay”

You nodded, barely smiling.

"Exactly"

You kissed him again, this time slower, deeper. A kiss that didn't seek urgency but clarity, as if each caress of your lips could erase the doubts he'd been carrying since the bar.

“I love that you get so nervous when I touch you,” you whispered against his skin. “As if you don’t understand yet that you can have me all the way. Whenever you want, however you want.”

Bob swallowed. His hands moved to your waist, not with impulse, but with an unspoken longing. He hugged you as if he feared that by holding you tight, you'd disappear.

“You know what I like best?” you added, brushing your nose against his. “That you don’t realize what you do to me. But I do. I see it. Every time.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he could finally let something out. And then you kissed him again. Short, soft kisses, repeated over and over again, intended to fill an old emptiness. Kisses that mingled with words, murmurs, and soft laughter.

“I like the way you look at me. I like the way you listen to me. I like that when you're with me, the world falls into place. And I want you to make sure that sticks in your head, got it?”

Bob wrapped his arms around you. His fingers trembled a little, but now they didn't flinch. He didn't seem afraid to touch you anymore.

“You’re so hot, Bob. It’s painful to see how you don’t realize that more than one girl would kill me to kiss you like I’m doing now.”

You leaned gently toward him, until your bodies were chest to chest. With a gentle push of your hips, you made him lie back on the mattress. Bob let himself go, his eyes fixed on you, as if he were suddenly struggling to breathe.

"But I'm the one who does it, aren't I? Lucky me”

You leaned a little further into his chest. Your hair fell to the side, caressing his neck as your lips continued to explore it. Kisses on the corner of his mouth, on his jaw, on his neck. Kisses that didn't ask for permission.

Bob was physically unable to utter a word. He knew that if he opened his mouth it would only be to let out a moan, so he didn't.

Suddenly, your bodies began to seek each other out more intentionally, unhurriedly, but with a growing passion that could no longer be hidden. Desire throbbed beneath your skin, between faint sighs and caresses.

Clothes weren't a barrier, but a gentle reminder of what was still to be discovered. You didn't need to rush. You were already choosing each other. Every touch, every lingering kiss, every shared breath was the clearest proof that you were right where you wanted to be.

The man beneath you exhaled faintly as you rubbed your hips against his crotch, as if you wanted to tease and prepare him at the same time. He felt you smile against his lips.

“Let me take care of you, honey.”

Carefully, almost ceremoniously, you slid your lips down his neck and began trailing wet kisses down his chest. You slipped off the flannel and then the white t-shirt, placing your hands on his forearms, firmly on his biceps.

The first time you saw him naked, you were pleasantly surprised, as you didn't expect to see that gorgeous six-pack hidden under his baggy clothes. They always say the best are the quietest, don't they?

You reverently continued kissing his chest, making sure that each time your lips parted, it was with the grace and delicacy of a butterfly landing on his skin. You licked along his abs, tracing your route to the hem of his jeans, where some prominent veins stood out. The closeness made you salivate.

“May I?” you asked softly, placing your hand on his belt buckle. He only managed a nod from his spot.

It didn't take you long to pull his pants down to his ankles, taking his boxers with them. It was obvious he was beyond hard after all that make-out session you'd had, and all you needed was a fistful of your hand at the base of his shaft to make him twitch.

You began with slow, rhythmic, circular movements up and down his swollen length. With each stroke, his breathing quickened and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. From your spot, you could see him biting his lip, definitely trying to mask how hot it was to see you giving him this attention.

You whispered to him that there was no need to be silent, and to motivate him to let himself feel it, you slipped the tip of his member into your mouth. He couldn't resist, and a breathy moan filled the air. Sure, Bob had had this kind of experience before, but this was his first time sober. Without the meth dulling his senses, and with how much he wanted you, you going down on him felt like heaven—better than any high he’d ever chased.

Your lips were warm, and he couldn't tell if it was your saliva or your precum that made your insides so deliciously wet. After a few seconds, he didn't even have the strength to mask his moans, so he just let them out without any shame.

Every now and then, even as you took him all in, you whispered how good he tasted or how much you loved fucking him with your mouth, feeling him down to your throat. More than the movements, your words were what was driving him to the edge.

He wasn't used to receiving that kind of praise during sex. It was something new, yes, but something he could get used to.

Suddenly, the world shrank to the sensation of your tongue sliding over his cock, at first at a cautious pace, then so fast it made his legs tremble. His hands moved on their own to your head, brushing your hair with his fingers until he managed to secure it in a ponytail, which he held with one hand.

The sight of you looking down at him, your eyes watering and your cheeks pressed against his, made him utter a growl of curse.

Then he began to set the pace, guided by that growing urgency burning in his loins, that pre-orgasm desperation that made him tremble inside. He knew you could have made him come easily, effortlessly, but the instant he felt himself approaching the edge, something deeper and more primal took over: he wanted to come inside you.

He wanted to feel your walls squeezing him as he came, how you enveloped him completely. He wanted to kiss you at the same time, devour your moans and mix them with his, as if that moment could fuse them in a more intimate way than any other.

“Wait, wait, baby…”

You stopped, and his member slipped out of your mouth with a soft pop. He felt dizzy from the worried look you gave him, as if you'd done something wrong when, in reality, you were doing everything perfectly.

Before you could ask him anything, he sat up and, with an almost savage rhythm, yanked his pants out of the way. You let out a squeal as his hands—strong and manly—held you by the waist as if you weighed nothing and laid you down on the mattress.

Bob was a meticulous man, in every sense, always behaving prudently to avoid making a mistake. But that night he turned into the messiest lover you could imagine.

The first thing he pushed aside was your black shirt, his movements determined, as if he couldn't wait any longer. He didn't even bother to remove your lace bra; he simply pushed it down enough so he could lean down and nibble at the skin of your tits, hungry for you. At the same time, one of his hands deftly descended to your stomach, searching for the fly of your pants.

His desperation overwhelmed you completely. He was soon making his way through your pants, his hand descending firmly to your crotch, where he cupped your still-covered pussy. Even through your panties, the wetness was unmistakable. He swallowed hard, overcome by the thought that pleasuring him had been able to awaken that desire in you.

He murmured—begged—to be let inside you. His voice was desperate, almost delirious, whispering again and again that he couldn’t wait, that he needed you like he needed air. You responded with the same eagerness, cupping his face and pulling him down into a kiss, exhaling one sentence: that he could do whatever he wanted to you.

You both let out a moan in unison as he positioned himself at your entrance, sliding inside you a moment later. You were consumed by passion, sick with desire for each other, to the point of feeling like you could shatter into a thousand pieces. As if at that moment nothing else existed, and the explosion of that insatiable longing was the only thing left of you in the world.

His thrusts became steady and deep, as if he had to reach the bottom of you to be satisfied. He breathed so erratically against your neck that it only made everything hotter.

His every movement seemed driven by something more than desire: a raw, ancient need, as if your body were the only refuge capable of containing him. There were no thoughts, only the shared urgency, the heated touch of skin against skin, the trembling that grew with each thrust. And amid that intensity, he wasn't just seeking pleasure… he was seeking belonging. Holding onto you as if afraid he'd lose himself if he slowed down, if he stopped feeling you this way.

“Do you think I’d let anyone else fuck me like this?” you whispered, right against his ear. Your velvety voice sent a shiver through him. “Only you can do that, handsome. I’m completely yours. Only yours.”

Your words twisted something deep in his stomach. It caught him off guard, realizing how far you’d gone to offer yourself to him—fully, selflessly, in a way no one else ever had. Bob already knew he was yours, body and soul. But he never expected to hear, from your own lips, that you belonged to him too.

Wanting to motivate him again, you sweetly complimented how well he was doing and confessed how much you wanted him to make you cum.

It got to the point where all there was in the room was a mix of the lewd sounds of your bodies colliding, incomplete sentences, moans, grunts, and the feeling of heat emanating from your naked skin.

He knew he wouldn't last long. And maybe he was a hopeless romantic, but he wanted you to come at the same time, as if that would make the moment more intimate.

His thumb traveled to your clit, pressing hard, rubbing insistently to stimulate you enough for your climax. Your hips responded, moving frantically against him almost instinctively, while your nails dug into his back, clutching at something tangible to endure the ecstasy that was already beginning to course through you from the tips of your toes.

A high-pitched moan escaped your lips without warning, and in that instant, he knew you'd come. The way your body shuddered, clenching tightly around him, was a turn-on impossible to resist. Feeling your orgasm engulf him pushed him over the edge, and then he surrendered without reservation, spilling himself inside you with a deep, broken groan, so intimate and delicious that you wished you could keep it forever, like a precious secret between the two of you.

When Bob collapsed against your chest, rising and falling with a shaky breath, he needed a moment to pull himself together.

The warmth between the sheets was still felt, the echo of sighs and bodies intertwined. His cheek sank between your collarbone and the edge of your neck, breathing slowly, as if he could only just allow his lungs to do their work.

Your fingers moved in slow circles over his back, just above the line where his tense shoulder blades were beginning to relax. The sweat on his skin was already drying, but he didn't pull away. Not yet.

“You okay?” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, but said nothing. It was enough for you to feel him. His weight, his breathing, his meaningful silence. You knew him well enough to know that when he was silent, something was settling inside him.

A few more seconds passed. Then he slid a hand down your side, absentmindedly caressing the curve of your waist, as if he needed to remind himself you were there.

"Thank you"

“Why?” you asked, now stroking his damp hair, ruffling it gently.

“For... this. For you. For not letting go when I shut down like this.”

You didn't say anything right away. You just kissed his forehead, slowly, with a reverent gesture.

“You need more to get rid of me.”

A sigh escaped his chest, sounding almost like a laugh. He sat up slightly, lying on his side so he could see you better, one of his legs crossing yours as if he needed to stay in touch with you.

The dim nightlight partially illuminated his face. His eyes were dark and soft, vulnerable. Your fingers ran down his cheek, then down to his chest, where you could still feel his heartbeat racing calmly.

“Need anything, sweetheart?” you murmured, voice thick with heat. “Water? A tighter grip? Or maybe you just want to hear how fucking gorgeous you look wrecked like that?”

He let out a soft, shaky laugh.

“You know, I didn’t realize how much I liked hearing you talk to me like that… not until now.”

“Talk to you how?”

“Well… you know. All those compliments. The sweet things you say.”

His words stumbled out awkwardly, like he still wasn’t sure how to respond to your praise without putting up his usual defenses.

You smiled.

“Funny how we’re always learning new things about ourselves, huh?”

He looked down, and you took advantage of that second to take his face in your hands.

“I’m just not used to this,” he said, barely whispering.

"To what?"

“That someone loves me so calmly”

Your chest tightened. And you leaned in to hug him, closing your eyes for a moment to contain the emotion that was beginning to rise within you as well.

You stayed with him like that for a long time. Caressing him, whispering small things in his ear: how handsome he looked with his hair messed up, how much you loved the sound of his voice when he moaned, how adorable his blush was, how irresistible he seemed to you even when he was insecure. And Bob took it all with bravery and modesty, trying to convince himself that you were sincere with your words.

“I think we should clean up a bit,” you suddenly mumbled, amused “We’re kind of... sticky.”

Bob, who might have fallen asleep due to the calm, let out a soft laugh, with a slight sigh at the end.

“Probably yes”

“Do you want to take an ice bath to wake us up?”

As soon as the phrase left your lips, you felt a shift. His hands, resting on your waist, froze, and his body tensed as if you'd said something you shouldn't have. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, unfocused, his mind probably traveling somewhere farther away.

“Hey,” you mumbled, frowning slightly “What’s up?”

Bob opened his mouth, but it took him several seconds to form a response. Finally, he let out a sigh.

"It's no big deal"

You already knew that wasn't true, but you insisted immediately. You ran your fingers along his chin, gently guiding him to look at you. You waited. You gave him space.

He swallowed. Then he looked away again. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low, almost timid.

“It's just... cold water makes me a little tense. It always has. I don't know why... well, I do. I just don't like to say it out loud.”

You remained silent. Present, without pressure.

“When I was a kid,” he began again, more firmly this time, “if I misbehaved or… if my dad thought I had, he’d sometimes make me take a bath with ice-cold water. Not for hygiene or anything. It was a kind of punishment. He’d run it hard, saying I needed to wash it off. Sometimes he’d leave me in there for minutes, which at my age seemed to feel like hours.”

His voice held no anger. It held tiredness. A kind of ancient shame that he no longer knew whether it belonged to him or not.

“Since then… I can't. It's hard for me. Cold water makes me think about it. Even though now I'm the one who turns on the tap.”

A pang of tenderness tightened in your chest. You didn't say anything at first. You just leaned toward him, caressing his cheek with your lips. A kiss. Then another, on his temple, as gentle as you could.

“Thanks for telling me,” you whispered. “I won’t suggest it again, okay?

He nodded slowly.

“But we can still take a bath,” you continued, still hoping. “A warm one. We fill the tub, sit for a while, I put in some bath salts, some candles. It doesn’t have to be for any reason other than to wash off all that’s left behind… the sweat, the residue, the intensity. Just to relax. Together.”

He looked at you. And for the first time in minutes, his expression truly softened. He looked relieved, almost small. He nodded once more, this time with his eyes shining with something hard to describe.

"Sounds good"

“Let me pamper you for a while, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything today.”

You sat up slowly, still holding him, and helped him up with you. The air between you was no longer heavy, but warm. True intimacy, love in its quietest form.

As you walked to the bathroom, Bob felt something inside him click, something that had been awry for a long time. Not because you'd said something miraculous, but because you hadn't judged him when he revealed a piece of information that made him so vulnerable. You looked at him the same way after he told you, as if nothing about him scared you, and you even looked for an alternative to make him feel better.

A while later, when you were already submerged in the water and he could feel your back against his chest, he understood. The feeling was clear and floated peacefully between you; he was loved, there was no doubt about it. Sincerely and deeply.

He was safe.

taglist: @highinhardtown @yesshewrites1 @haydenlizz @tenmaabnesti @qardasngan @serenitybloodmoon @littlemsbumblebee

#bob reynolds #sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts #the new avengers #the new avengerz #lewis pullman #thunderbolts fluff #bob reynolds fluff #sentry fluff #robert reynolds #robert “bob” reynolds #bob reynolds smut #sentry smut

586 notes · View notes

barnesonly · 20 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 7609

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Five | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

It feels different today — the absence of the red light in the corner — the one you’ve trained yourself to ignore.

It’s not glowing. You counted the day, counted the sessions. Held your breath. Waited.

Ten minutes.

You don’t let your eyes flick toward it. You don’t move from the cot. You stay perfectly still, perfectly calm — like nothing has changed.

One of the guards open the door and James steps into the room like a shadow softening — quieter now, less mechanical in every motion. But his gaze still sweeps the corners like muscle memory, and this time, it snags.

“…Camera’s off,” he says, voice low.

You blink up at him from where you sit, folding your arms over your knees like it means nothing.

You play dumb. “I don’t know,” you lie, gently.

“That thing hasn’t been off since—” He stops. His jaw ticks. “Since I woke up in this place.”

“Probably just broken,” you murmur with a shrug of your shoulders. “The lights flickered earlier.”

James doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on the dead red bulb a second too long.

Then, like someone shrugging off a memory too heavy to carry, he breathes out through his nose and walks toward you.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably.”

He sinks down beside you, the cot creaking under his weight. His shoulder brushes yours. You don’t pull away.

Silence stretches.

He doesn’t ask again.

And you don’t offer anything more.

Because you made this moment — carved it out from the rot and blood and static. And if you told him the price, he’d try to pay it himself.

He leans forward, elbows to knees, hands clasped loosely together.

You glance sideways at him.

“Long day?” you say, teasing gently.

James doesn’t smile.

He sits down slowly, like the weight of his body isn’t the problem — it’s the weight of what he’s carrying.

Silence swells for a moment.

Then—

“They sent me out again,” he says, staring straight ahead. His voice is flat, but his jaw twitches. “Last night. Late.”

You nod slowly. Careful not to interrupt. Careful not to breathe too loud.

He doesn’t look at you.

“I didn’t even remember getting in the van,” he says. “Didn’t know where we were going until I was already inside. They do that on purpose. Keep it… foggy.”

His fingers clench loosely in his lap. Not a fist. But close.

“They handed me a photo. Told me it was a target. Gave me a name I already forgot. Said it was for the cause.”

Your throat tightens.

He finally turns toward you. Something in his eyes — not regret exactly. Not horror. Just… exhaustion. That quiet ache of someone trapped inside his own skin.

“She begged,” he says.

You flinch, but don’t look away.

“She thought if she said the right words, I’d stop. That maybe I had a choice.” His voice stays calm, cold. But the tremor under it betrays him. “And I almost did. I almost didn’t pull the trigger.”

Your hand shifts closer to his.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, softly.

He exhales. A broken sound.

“Because my hands moved before my mind did.”

You close the space between you — gently, slowly — and slide your fingers over his.

“You’re remembering more,” you whisper.

James nods, but it looks like it hurts him to admit it.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“It is,” you say.

Even if it’s brutal. Even if it rips him open. Even if remembering means watching himself bleed all over again.

You squeeze his hand.

“Every time you remember, they lose. And you come back to me.”

He doesn’t speak again but he leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him human. His thumb brushes against yours once — tentative — then again, firmer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your skin.

And then—

He glances up.

To the corner of the room. To the camera.

Still no red light.

“Lucky us,” you murmur, your voice light, careful.

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Maybe he doesn’t want to question something that feels like mercy. His eyes drop to your lips. Then return to your gaze like he’s afraid of what he might do — or afraid of what he won’t do.

The world tilts on a heartbeat and then he moves. Not fast. Not hungry. Not like the weapon they made him be.

But like a man who hasn’t been touched in years without it hurting and who’s finally able to kiss you without being punished for it.

He cups your jaw in his warm hand, the metal one still wrapped in yours. His thumb slides along your cheekbone.

And he kisses you.

Softly.

Like the memory he’s been chasing since the static began to crack. Like maybe this time, if he’s gentle enough, it won’t be taken from him.

You sink into it — slow, deliberate — and let your hands drift up to hold his face. Your ribs scream when you stretch — still not fully healed — but you don’t care. This pain makes sense. This one has a name.

James.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. And when he pulls back, it’s not with shame or panic. He rests his forehead against yours and exhales in relief.

You stay close.

Still chest to chest, still breathing the same thin air. His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten — just a little — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You let yourself lean into it.

Into him.

Your cheek presses against the curve of his bare shoulder, where his skin is warm and damp with the aftershocks of a mission Hydra didn’t give him time to recover from. He smells like metal and sweat and something faintly earthy beneath it all — something human.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift. Just breathes, slow and heavy, one hand curling around your waist, the other rising to cradle the back of your head as you press closer. His skin hums with tension, but not the kind you’ve seen in the field — this is something else. Something quieter. Like your body, curved into his, is the first peace he’s known in days.

You shut your eyes.

Your fingers splay across the plane of his chest — scarred and strong and so alive beneath your palm. He exhales, and you feel the heat of it bloom against your temple. His nose brushes your hair. The metal of his arm rests carefully at your side, as if he’s learned — finally — that you aren’t something to hurt.

Neither of you says anything.

There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t feel too big.

Instead, you listen.

To the way his breath steadies. To the way his heart, slow and deep beneath your palm, beats in time with yours.

Like you’re syncing. Like this—this—was always supposed to happen.

And for once, Hydra isn’t watching. For once, the red light isn’t blinking.

———

Everything went well.

Too well.

Session after session, they let you see him. Kern kept his side of the deal — five sessions, ten minutes without surveillance — and you kept yours: no more rebellion, no more shattering their control. You stayed quiet. Steady. Careful.

And James… obeyed.

He completed every mission. Came back silent and bloodied, but compliant. Exactly the way they liked him. Whatever they saw on the tapes — whatever softness bloomed between you in stolen minutes — it didn’t matter. Not to them.

Because the weapon still worked.

And Kern was pleased.

You could see it in the way the guards grew less hostile, in the way the sedatives stopped showing up in your food. You’d earned a sliver of mercy. Just enough to breathe.

But in your gut, you knew it couldn’t last.

Too much calm always meant a storm was coming.

You sit beside him on the floor, legs folded beneath you, the quiet hum of the walls like static under your skin.

The session had been… calm. No commands barked through the speaker. No tests from Kern. Just you and him, breathing in the same silence.

James had taken your hand earlier without saying anything, metal fingers curling loosely around yours like it was instinct. Now, he’s tracing idle shapes on the inside of your wrist with his thumb — a habit he’s picked up lately. Something grounding. Something real.

You tilt your head, studying his face.

There are still shadows under his eyes. Faint bruises along his temple from a mission they won’t let him talk about. He hasn’t said much, but you feel it anyway — the guilt clinging to him like ash.

“I wish I could take it from you,” you whisper. “The pain. The memories they forced on you.”

James shakes his head, slow.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “I deserve them.”

“No,” you say firmly, shifting to face him. “You don’t.”

You reach up, fingertips brushing just beneath his eye — and then you reach in.

It’s never clean. Never easy. The first wave hits you like vertigo — static, grief, blood on metal — but you go deeper. You push through the sludge of commands and trauma, letting your power tether to that flicker of him that’s always burning, just beneath the noise.

James stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

You hear something.

Not words — impressions.

A field in spring. A child’s laughter.

You grimace, nose wrinkling, and press harder.

Too hard.

The pain hits suddenly — sharp and white behind your eyes. Your body seizes with it, and your breath stutters. Warmth blooms beneath your nose.

James notices it instantly.

“Dove?”

You sway. “Wait— I just— I almost—”

Blood drips down your lip.

“Dove.”

The world tips sideways. Your powers are burning, spilling out like wildfire — but your body is too drained to hold it.

James catches you before you hit the floor.

“Shit. No— no, no, no—”

He pulls you into his lap, voice trembling. His human hand cups your face, and he’s terrified. You’ve never seen him like this. Not even when he remembered his name.

“Why’d you— why would you do that?” he whispers. “You were hurting.”

You blink, dazed. “I almost… I almost saw your mother.”

James stiffens.

But he doesn’t ask how you know that.

Instead, he presses his forehead to yours, hand steadying your jaw as you tremble in his hold.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmurs. “Not like that. Don’t burn yourself out for me.”

“I just wanted you to remember the good parts,” you croak. “Not just the missions. Not just the orders.”

His eyes close.

A beat of silence.

Then—his arms wrap around you, tight and warm.

He rocks you gently, like that motion alone could hold you together.

The door slams open with a hiss of hydraulics.

Heavy boots. Clipped orders. The metallic scent of adrenaline.

You flinch instinctively — but James doesn’t move.

His body tenses beneath you, still crouched on the floor, arms wrapped tight around your limp form. His eyes snap to the intrusion with razor focus, jaw clenched like he’s seconds from violence.

Voss storms in.

Not just Voss — three guards behind him, armed and twitchy, like they expected carnage. But it’s Voss who matters. Voss, whose eyes flick across the room with laser-sharp control. Voss, who’s always watching through the red-lit cameras — it’s been on today.

But all Voss sees is you. Slumped in the Soldier’s lap. Pale. Bleeding from the nose.

“The fuck is going on?” he barks, stepping forward. “What happened to her?”

No one answers.

James shifts slightly, putting himself between you and the door — a shield, even now.

Voss’s eyes narrow. “Soldier. Stand down.”

James doesn’t respond. Not until your hand brushes his arm.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Let me talk.”

He doesn’t like it — you can feel it in the set of his shoulders — but he leans back just enough to let you sit up. Your head is swimming, vision flickering at the edges, but you meet Voss’s eyes anyway.

“I pushed too hard,” you murmur. “It was my fault.”

Voss doesn’t buy it.

“You don’t just collapse from holding hands,” he snaps. “You lit up like a fucking power surge. Kern said you were stabilizing — said this arrangement was working — and now you’re bleeding out in his arms?”

You don’t flinch.

“Kern doesn’t know everything,” you say coolly.

Voss takes a step closer and looks at James. “I should pull you out of here right now.”

James bristles at that — subtly, but enough for one of the guards to raise his gun. You glare at the barrel, then back at Voss.

“You won’t.”

He stares at you.

Because you’re right. They need you.

And now he knows it’s getting riskier.

“I’ll tell Kern,” Voss says, after a long beat. “He won’t be happy.”

“Neither am I.”

You reach for James again, grounding yourself against the warmth of his chest.

“You think I want to bleed in here?” you whisper. “You think I enjoy burning myself down so your asset can remember he’s human?”

Voss doesn’t answer.

He just stares at the two of you like you’re a crack in the foundation. A problem Hydra can’t afford — and one they can’t quite eliminate. His eyes narrow.

“I’ve let this little arrangement run long enough,” he snaps. “And I’ve got hours of footage telling me exactly how far off-script you’ve both gone.”

You blink. “You said we were making progress.”

“I said he was,” Voss bites. “But you—? You’ve gotten too comfortable.”

His gaze shifts to James. Voss’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t the arrangement I signed off on.”

You meet his eyes. “He’s stable. You’ve seen the data—”

“And now he’s wandering into your cell like a fucking stray dog,” Voss snaps. “Clinging to you. Prioritizing you.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

Then — calm, sharp, final:

“Soldier. Out.”

James doesn’t move right away. His arm stays around you, protective even now, metal fingers flexed like he’s fighting instinct. His eyes find yours — and for a moment, there’s something soft there. Regret. A promise he can’t speak.

Then he stands. Silent. Straight-backed. A soldier again.

He doesn’t look at Voss. Doesn’t look at the camera. Just leaves.

The door shuts behind him.

And Voss is still watching you.

Like he’s just proven something. Like he knows exactly how much it hurt — and how much more it’s going to.

———

The monitor wall glows dim blue. Feed after feed of locked doors, cold cells, black-and-white outlines of test subjects sleeping or pacing or trembling in corners.

Voss stands alone at the console. A half-drained coffee on the desk beside him. His fingers twitch against the back of his neck, the only sign of discomfort.

Behind him, the door hisses open.

Kern steps in. He doesn’t ask for a summary. Doesn’t need to.

He’s already seen it.

“I take it the soldier didn’t respond well to separation,” Kern says mildly, moving toward the monitors.

“He didn’t resist,” Voss mutters. “But he didn’t like it.”

“Of course he didn’t. You interrupted something.”

Kern taps a few keys, pulling up the most recent footage — frozen on the moment James cradled her in his lap. Her face pale. Blood at her nose. His hand braced around her skull like she might break if he let go.

Voss watches him.

“She burned herself out,” he says. “Nearly passed out. He caught her.”

Kern hums. Not pleased. Not surprised either. “I told you this would happen.”

“You said the deal would help,” Voss says. “You didn’t say she would almost pass out trying to reach him and he would become so protective of her.”

“He’s adapting. The subject is reactive — like an exposed nerve. You stimulate one end and the rest of him remembers how to feel.”

“Dangerous feelings.”

“Productive ones.”

Voss’s jaw ticks. “You still think this is working?”

Kern turns to face him.

“I think,” he says, “that your little panic move tonight gave us the best data spike in weeks. So yes — I think it’s working. He did follow the orders.”

Voss doesn’t respond.

Kern crosses his arms, eyes narrowing on the paused image of the two captives curled together on the screen.

“But I’ll talk to her. Schedule an interview, tomorrow morning.”

———

Your head still aches — not like before, not searing — but the kind of ache that hums behind your eyes. The aftermath of trying too hard.

Kern enters without announcement.

No clipboard. No false warmth. Just him, pristine and unreadable, settling into the seat across from you like this is any ordinary session.

“Good morning.”

You don’t answer.

Kern folds his hands on the table, eyes scanning your face. “I hear yesterday was… eventful.”

You say nothing. Let him talk.

“I saw the footage, of course,” he continues lightly. “You collapsing in the subject’s lap. Him shielding you from Voss. Very touching.”

You look away.

He leans in just slightly. “You understand why we had to separate you.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” you say. “I burned myself out. That was me.”

Kern doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften. Just studies you for a long, cool moment.

“And yet,” he says, “he cradled you like you were glass. Like we’d broken something precious.”

You flinch. Just barely.

Kern notices.

“But you’re here now,” he continues. “Sitting up. Speaking clearly. Taking responsibility. That tells me something important.”

You don’t respond.

“It tells me you’ve remembered your role. That you understand the value of what we’ve built.” He tilts his head. “Our arrangement works — when you keep your priorities in order.”

You lift your gaze slowly. “And what priorities are those?”

Kern smiles thinly. “Stability. Results. Survival.”

His fingers drum once against the table.

“I’m pleased,” he says, voice deceptively soft. “You’ve made the right choice. You’re protecting him the only way you can — by playing your part. You give him comfort, he gives us compliance. Simple. Clean.”

He pauses, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it sting.

Then his tone shifts — colder, weightier.

“It’s important you remember what you are,” he murmurs. “You may have become stronger. More powerful. But doves…” He tilts his head. “They’re fragile. Small. Pretty things built for cooing, not clawing.”

You lift your chin.

“They also symbolize freedom,” you say, tone clipped.

Kern’s lips twitch into a grin. Not kind. Not amused. Just sharp — a flash of teeth in a shark’s smile.

“Freedom,” he repeats, like the word is foreign on his tongue. He rolls it out slowly, savoring the syllables, tasting them like wine. “It’s a lovely idea. Romantic, even.”

Then his smile fades. “But there’s no such thing in this world.”

“You’re not free. He’s not free. Even I, for all my authority — I serve something bigger. We all do. The difference is, I don’t waste energy pretending otherwise.”

You glare at him.

“I’m not pretending.”

“No,” he says, almost kindly. “You’re hoping. That’s worse.”

You don’t answer.

“Be ready tomorrow,” he says, voice crisp now. All business. “We’re resuming full sessions. The Soldier will return to standard conditioning tonight.”

He lets that hang between you — deliberate.

Then he steps back from the table. The door hisses open behind him.

And just before he leaves, without looking:

“Don’t disappoint me.”

The door slides shut.

Interview over.

———

You knew they would bring him back. Kern said as much — resuming full sessions. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t nearly burn yourself hollow trying to reach him. Like he didn’t cradle you in front of a room full of monsters.

The cot creaks slightly as you shift your weight. The ache in your skull has dulled to a background hum, but your limbs still feel heavy — as if the power you pulled days ago hasn’t quite returned.

James hasn’t moved since they brought him in. He sits across from you, like he always used to. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to study you.

You pretend not to notice the way he watches — eyes narrowed, fingers tapping absently against the floor, like he’s counting something invisible. Tracing a pattern. Marking time.

You sit quietly on the cot, hands clasped, spine straight. You haven’t said anything yet. You don’t know how.

“You look fine,” he murmurs then glances at the camera with blinking red light.

You know where this is going. After last time — after the fallout — there should’ve been consequences. But here you are, whole and calm like nothing happened. You let him continue.

“No new bandages. No bruising. Voss was mad. I thought they were about to punish you.”

Your mouth is dry. “They didn’t… do much.”

He tilts his head. Still watching. “They always do much. And they haven’t punished me either.”

Silence coils between you.

He leans forward now, elbows braced on his knees, gaze locked on yours. Less guarded. More dangerous. “What did you give them?”

You inhale sharply. “Nothing.”

His voice is low, bitter. “I should’ve been restrained. Reprocessed. That’s what they do. You know that.”

You look down at your hands. “They wanted results.”

“Something’s wrong...” He looks at the camera again.

“I told them it was my fault. That you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But you can feel it — that flicker of something beneath the surface. Wariness. Confusion.

Distrust.

He watches you like you’ve changed shape since the last time he saw you — like he’s recalibrating. Not the man he was the last time, curling himself around your body like instinct. He’s holding back now.

He doesn’t trust this version of you.

“Why am I here?” he asks after a long moment.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

You take a deep breath and look down.

“They need me. That’s all. Kern said I’m more valuable now.”

James stares at you. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just watches.

You feel it — the sharp edge of his gaze. Like he’s trying to see through your skin. Through the quiet.

“That’s not an answer,” he says finally.

“It’s the only one I can give,” you reply, voice softer than you mean it to be.

He leans back again, spine stiff. Something in his jaw tightens.

You can feel the shift in him — the way he starts to close in on himself, retreating inward. Slipping behind the armor they built into him. The distance is returning, slow and heavy.

And it hurts more than it should.

“They don’t give things away,” he says, almost to himself. “If they didn’t punish you, and they didn’t punish me… it means they got something better.”

You press your lips together.

He shakes his head. “And you’re not telling me what it is.”

You look up at him then. Really look.

There’s no anger in his face. Just that strange, quiet ache. Like you’ve disappointed him without meaning to. Like a wall’s been built where something else used to be.

“Are you lying to me?”

“I’m not.”

You look away. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t soften. You hear the tap of his metal fingers against the floor again — steady, like a metronome. Like he’s keeping himself anchored with the rhythm.

You want to tell him the truth. You want to explain — the deal, the manipulation, the trade you made in whispers and silence. But you also want to protect him from it. From them.

“Kern said my last fallout was unnecessary and I shouldn’t have done that but he’s pleased with overall results, so there’s no need in making fuss out of it,” you murmur eventually. “There’s nothing more to it, James.”

James nods once, slow. He finally closes the distance between you and sits next to you.

“When you nearly passed out… Voss said something about… arrangement.” He looks at you, confusion written all over his face.

“Maybe it’s something between him and Kern,” you shrug your shoulders. “I’ve got no idea.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his face.

“They’re planning something.”

“Maybe,” you answer, still playing dumb. “They always plan something.”

———

A few days pass. You don’t talk more about it — not really.

Then they send him to your cell again.

The doors open with that same mechanical hiss, and the first thing James does is glance up at the camera — the one mounted high in the corner, always watching.

No red light.

“It’s off again,” he says, his voice low. He tilts his head, confusion flickering across his features. “Why would they turn it off?”

You glance up at it, too. “That’s weird.”

You hate lying to him.

He sits beside you, slow and cautious, but his eyes stay fixed on the camera — tense, searching. Like he expects it to blink awake at any second. Like he doesn’t trust the silence.

“Maybe it’s just the light that’s broken and the camera works,” you offer quietly.

“It’s not.” He still doesn’t look at you. “We kissed last time it was off. Normally they would’ve rushed in… but they didn’t.”

Your brow creases. You reach out, resting your hand lightly on his arm, trying to ground him — to pull his gaze back to you.

“Hey,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

Finally, he turns to face you.

The worry in his eyes guts you. It’s not fear — not of them, not even of you — it’s deeper than that. It’s the sharp-edged suspicion of a man who knows how this place works and doesn’t understand why it isn’t working the way it should.

And you know why.

But you can’t tell him. Not yet.

The deal keeps you close — lets you protect him, in small ways — but it doesn’t change what they do to him outside these walls. It doesn’t stop the missions. The blood. The programming. He’s still their weapon. Still a blade sharpened at both ends.

So you shift the weight. You change the subject.

“Was your mother’s name Rebecca?”

It hits like a needle — delicate, sudden, piercing.

He freezes. “What?”

“I heard that name,” you say softly, “the last time I tried to reach you. It came through like… like a whisper.”

You smile — faint, unsure. “Was that her name?”

He goes still. Really still.

“No,” he murmurs, slowly. “That… that’s my sister’s name.” His voice sounds different now. Fragile, like he’s speaking around something heavy in his throat.

“I think,” he adds, brows furrowing. “I think that’s right.”

He looks down, like he’s trying to catch the memory before it slips away again — hold it in his hands, keep it from drowning in everything they’ve done to him.

He rubs at his forehead like it aches. “It’s just pieces. Nothing whole. I don’t remember what she looked like. Or if I ever said goodbye.”

Your heart twists.

“Do the pieces hurt?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then— “Not the way they should.” He glances at the camera again — still no red light. Then back at you.

“They’re giving us too much space,” he mutters.

You don’t respond. You don’t have to.

He already knows something’s wrong.

And worse — you think he knows you’re hiding it.

But for now, he doesn’t push.

And neither do you.

———

Five sessions later.

The door hisses open.

He steps inside after coming back from a mission — shirtless, as he always is when they’ve just finished with him. Sweat clings to the dip of his collarbone, to the line of muscle along his ribs. There’s a fresh wound across his chest, jagged and red against already-mottled skin.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks to you and sits.

No red light again.

You notice it. So does he.

But neither of you mentions it.

Not anymore.

He’s quieter than usual. Shoulders tense, breath shallow — and it takes you a second to realize why.

The injury.

Your eyes drop to the long gash just beneath his shoulder. Not deep, but raw. Angrily pink. Unstitched.

“Did they patch you up at all?” you ask gently.

He glances down like he’d forgotten it was there. “Didn’t need to.”

“That’s not true.”

He shrugs — winces — and you reach out before he can pull away, your fingers brushing the edge of the wound.

His eyes flutter shut for just a second.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “They shouldn’t have sent you here like this.”

“It’s okay,” he says — but it sounds more like habit than truth. “I’m here now.”

And then he leans forward.

Not like before. Not curious. Not testing.

His mouth meets yours, warm and open, and this time he lingers. The kiss is tired, aching, a little desperate. Less like hunger and more like relief. Like he’s not sure when he’ll get to do this again.

You kiss him back, one hand on his jaw, the other pressed lightly against the uninjured part of his chest. You feel the heat of his skin under your palm — too warm, too human — and it breaks something open in you.

His hand slides to your thigh. Gentle. Grounding.

The kiss deepens, slow and quiet. Still careful. Still aware of the cameras, the walls, the unspoken rules. But there’s no red light blinking above. No voices barking commands. No doors flying open.

You shift closer. Just a breath at first. But it’s enough.

His hand drifts up your thigh, slow and uncertain. The heat between you is unmistakable — humming under your skin, thick in the air — but neither of you moves further. Not yet.

You lean in and kiss him again. Slower this time. Deeper. It starts soft, mouths barely brushing, then opens into something more desperate. Not rough. Not frantic. Just… aching. His lips part like he’s trying to drink in the sound of you, the taste of you. Like he doesn’t know when — if — he’ll get this again.

You kiss him back, one hand on his cheek, the other pressed gently to the side of his chest, over the bruised and wounded skin. You feel the heat of him beneath your palm — too warm, too human — and something in your throat catches.

He lets you touch him. Lets you move your fingers up his neck, into his hair. But he’s tense beneath you — not from pain. From restraint. From awareness.

Your leg shifts across his, straddling him lightly, and his breath hitches.

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

But he doesn’t go further, either.

You feel the hesitation in his hands. The way they hover at your waist, then fall still. Not gripping. Not moving. Like he’s waiting for something — permission, maybe. Or a sign.

He breaks the kiss first. Your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the small, stolen space between you. His eyes stay closed.

He doesn’t speak. But you feel the way his hand moves — slowly, gently — brushing your arm, your side, then pausing just beneath your ribs.

And then… it stills completely.

“Did they hurt you?” he murmurs.

It’s barely a whisper. Like it’s physically painful for him to ask.

You don’t answer right away.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. His gaze is sharp now — not cold, but focused. On you. On your face.

He’s looking for truth.

His jaw tightens.

“I wouldn’t—” he starts, but stops himself. His voice is low. Rough. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

You reach for him again, fingertips brushing his face.

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why I trust you.”

Something breaks in his expression. Not visibly — not loud. Just a subtle crack, right beneath the surface.

He pulls you into his chest. One arm around your waist, the other resting at your back, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t say anything more.

But he holds you like he needs to. Like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You stay in his lap, pressed to the warmth of his bare skin, your head tucked beneath his chin. You feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, the heat of his breath in your hair. And for a long time, that’s enough.

Not touching.

Not fucking.

Just being.

Wanted — not as a weapon. Not as a tool.

But as a person.

———

Some time has passed.

Not much — just enough for your pulse to slow, for the haze between you to soften into something quieter. You’re still sitting in his lap, curled sideways with your legs draped over his thigh. His arms remain loosely around your waist, the heat of his skin grounding, the silence between you no longer awkward — just full.

James hasn’t said anything since the kiss ended. Since he pulled you close and rested his chin on your shoulder like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his own.

He hasn’t let go, either.

Your fingers trace aimless patterns against his bare chest, careful to avoid the wound.

You don’t know what makes you say it. Maybe the way he hasn’t looked at you the same since the kiss ended. Maybe the way he kissed you like he was afraid it would be the last time.

Or maybe you just need to say it out loud. For both of you.

“They didn’t hurt me.”

James blinks. His arms around you don’t shift. But you feel the way his breath stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t say anything.

You press your cheek to the curve of his neck, let the silence linger for a beat before adding, quieter still, “One guard tried, but… I scared him off. My powers. He got too close and I—I think I broke something in his head. He never came back.”

James’s fingers twitch where they rest on your spine.

“Then Voss said I wasn’t his type,” you continue, a bitter smile in your voice. “Said he wouldn’t touch me with a stick.”

You said it almost like a joke, cruel one — your way of coping maybe — or maybe just something lighter than the quiet you’ve both been sitting in. But James doesn’t laugh.

He still doesn’t speak.

Just breathes. Just holds you.

You glance up, and his jaw is locked. Eyes dark. Distant.

“James.”

His gaze flickers to yours.

“I told you. I’m okay.”

He exhales through his nose — slow, hard. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“I know.”

He hesitates, then brushes your hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You shouldn’t have had to fight them off.”

“I did what I had to.”

There’s a long pause. His thumb rests just beneath your jaw now, tracing absent shapes into your skin. Like he’s thinking about something. Like he’s somewhere else.

Then—

“What would you have done?” he asks suddenly. “If I… if I had hurt you. Back then. When I didn’t recognize you… When Kern ordered me to hurt you… What If I beat you up completely or— or killed you.”

You blink, surprised by the question.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think part of me would’ve understood. Not forgiven, maybe. But… understood. After all I knew it wasn’t you.”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods once. And something about the motion feels final — not resigned, exactly, but buried. Like he’s filing that thought away where it can’t reach you. Where it won’t hurt you.

He draws you in closer again, tucks you tighter against him.

You let him.

Neither of you moves for a long time.

And when you speak next, it’s quieter. Closer to a secret.

“You didn’t hurt me, James.”

He breathes in. Shaky. Barely there.

You nestle further into the circle of his arms, hands resting lightly over the still-fresh wound on his chest. It pulses with heat beneath your palms — a reminder of what they keep doing to him. What they still expect from him. But here, in this moment, he’s still. Warm. Human.

And yours.

“I wouldn’t let you,” you add, almost smiling.

This time, his mouth does twitch.

Just a little.

Just enough.

———

Some time has passed.

The sessions have softened around the edges — less about control, more about contact. No blinking red light every five sessions. No threats. Just the two of you, in this strange, fragile rhythm that almost feels like safety.

You’ve learned his silences by now. The way he pulls in on himself after missions. The way he paces before sitting down. The way he touches your wrist — not for reassurance, but to remind himself you’re real.

Today is one of those days.

He comes in, A gash near his temple from the last mission, half-healed. But he doesn’t look at you right away.

He sits. Elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, staring at the floor like it’s about to split open.

You don’t speak. You wait.

Finally — quietly — he says, “There was a man. On the bridge.”

Your chest tightens.

“I was chasing him,” James continues. “Orders were to kill. I had him pinned.” A beat. “And he looked at me like I was already dead.”

You inch closer. “What happened?”

James swallows, jaw tight. “He said a name...“

Your heart stops. “What name?”

“Bucky.”

The word hangs in the air like ash.

“I think he called me that.” He frowns.

You whisper, “Do you… remember him?”

“No,” James says, voice low. “But my body did. I hesitated. I didn’t shoot.” He looks up at you for the first time. “I don’t know why.”

Something trembles in his voice, just beneath the surface — not fear, exactly. Not confusion. Something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or the ghost of something he lost before he knew he had it.

You reach out, fingers brushing the back of his hand. “That’s good,” you say. “It means something inside you still knows.”

He looks down at your touch. Doesn’t pull away.

“It felt like drowning,” he admits. “Like I was two people at once.”

You nod, eyes burning, your fingers curling around his. “That’s what it feels like to remember.”

James doesn’t speak for a long moment. His hand stays in yours, tense but unmoving — like he doesn’t know what to do with comfort, only that he doesn’t want to lose it.

You soften your voice. “You’ve heard that name before, haven’t you? Bucky.”

His brow furrows, eyes distant. “It’s like an echo. I don’t know where it starts. Just… pieces. Feelings. A shape I can’t get my hands around.” He glances at you. “It felt… familiar. I just don’t know why.”

You study his face — the cracks forming around the edges. The pressure building where his memory and pain intersect. This isn’t like the sessions, where touch softens everything. This is deeper. Raw.

“You don’t have to force anything,” you say gently. “If it comes back, it’ll come on its own.”

James stares at your entwined hands. “That man… the one on the bridge. He didn’t fight me. He looked at me like—” His voice falters. “Like I used to be someone else.”

“You did,” you say. “You were.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t deny it. Just sits in the quiet, breathing through it.

Then, barely above a whisper: “Do you think I was a good person?”

You blink, heart breaking.

“I don’t know everything about who you were,” you say honestly. “But from what I’ve seen… from what still lives in you now?” You pause. “Yes. You were good.”

His eyes close like he’s holding back something sharp and tired and ancient. He doesn’t cry — he never cries — but there’s a tightness in his throat, in his chest, that says enough.

You scoot closer until your knees touch. The floor is cold, but the warmth of him, even in his silence, draws you in like gravity.

You look at him carefully. “What did he look like? The man on the bridge.”

James hesitates. His eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, like he’s sorting pieces that don’t quite fit.

“Tall,” he says finally. “Blonde. He had… blue eyes, I think. Looked at me like he knew me.” James glances down at your fingers. “He didn’t raise his weapon. Didn’t even flinch when I aimed at him.”

Your thumb brushes his knuckles. “We’ll figure it out.”

He finally lifts his gaze again, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes almost boyish. “Why do you believe in me so much?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhale. “Because every time they send you back to me, there’s more of you than there was before.”

He doesn’t look away. Not this time.

And that should feel like enough.

But somewhere in your chest — buried beneath all the warmth, all the moments, all the careful rebuilding — something tightens.

He remembered someone else.

Not just anyone.

Someone before you.

Not your voice. Not your name. Not the way your hands trembled when you reached for him in the dark, begging him to come back to himself.

Not the way you screamed when they dragged you away, and he stayed still like a statue.

Someone else broke through.

Someone with no powers. No desperate reach. No pain laced into the bond.

Someone who didn’t have to earn it.

You hate the thought before it fully forms.

But it forms anyway.

Not because you’re jealous. Not because he owes you anything. But because… you thought you were the only one. You thought it was you.

That something about you was strong enough, loud enough, real enough to shatter the programming no one else could touch.

You look down at your hands, still barely brushing. You haven’t let go.

Of course you haven’t.

Because everything you told him — that you’d stay, that he wasn’t alone, that you weren’t afraid of who he was — it was all true.

Even if someone else reached him. Even if part of him will always belong to a world you weren’t in.

Even if it turns out you were never the miracle.

He watches you, quiet. Brow drawn like he knows. Like he can feel the storm you’re trying not to show him.

His thumb strokes your knuckles once.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.

You smile — barely. “Just thinking.”

He doesn’t push. He just shifts his hand and laces his fingers through yours like it means something.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?”

James blinks. Then nods. “I think so.”

And something inside you folds — not from bitterness, but fear.

———

The chair scrapes against the floor as you sit. Kern walks in like he’s never left. Same clipboard. Same posture.

Kern sits across from you and flips through a page.

“He recognized a man on his mission,” he says without preamble.

You keep your gaze on the table. “I know. He told me.”

“And?”

You hesitate.

There’s no point in lying. Not here. Not with Kern.

“It wasn’t me, who made him recognize him.” you say finally. Quiet. Controlled. “I never reached him that far.”

Kern leans forward slightly. He doesn’t speak. Just watches.

“I never…” Your throat tightens, but you push through. “I never saw the man he described in his head. I’ve never been that deep.”

He hums. Taps his pen once against the clipboard.

“That must sting,” he says casually. “All that effort. All that closeness. And someone else — someone from the outside — gets there like it’s nothing.”

You flinch, barely. But he sees it.

“That man called him Bucky,” Kern goes on. “And he responded. Tell me, did you even know that name?”

You shake your head. “He never told me. I never found it in his memories.”

Kern nods, lips tight in mock sympathy. He lets the silence stretch.

“You thought you were different,” he says eventually. “That you were the key. But all it took was a face he used to know. One word.”

Your stomach knots.

You don’t reply. You won’t give him that.

But you can feel it in your chest — the doubt curling inward, the ache you’ve tried so hard to swallow.

“You’re not useless,” Kern adds, too calmly. “You still have value. He still likes you. You still make him softer. He’s calm with you. Obedient. Attentive. That’s something.”

It’s meant to soothe. It doesn’t.

“Pierce was informed,” Kern says at last, flipping a page on his clipboard without looking up. “He will be here soon, and he wants to brainwash him again. The man he recognized is a threat. We need to wipe him out of his memory. It’s his target, not a friend.”

You don’t move.

The words hit like ice poured down your spine — slow, shivering, paralyzing. You knew it was coming. Recognition is dangerous. James remembering anything is dangerous.

But still, hearing it aloud—

You don’t want this, of course you don’t. You know what kind of pain comes with it.

But you’re scared.

You’re scared there is someone else.

So you nod. Tears begin to stream down your face but you nod.

You can’t lose him. You can’t. Not him. He’s the only thing you have — he needs to forget that man, you think — it’s selfish. You know it is. But you cannot afford losing him.

Not to someone else. Someone who hasn’t even tried.

Kern grins and raises from his chair.

“Good girl, I knew you’d come around, 009.”

Interview over.

Chapter Six 🕊️

“Nothing left but a feeling in there somewhere […] Please get me out, out of the depths of hell.”

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears @mistalli @blazeflays @ifuckwithyouanyday @lovinqbella @fanfanfantic @storystorktwo @its-in-the-woods @blv3rd

503 notes · View notes

writesvani · 3 months ago

Text

down low | 01

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: sexual content, guilt, manipulation, secrecy, emotional conflict, cheating, voyeurism, risky behavior, sexting

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3,6k // date: 10th of April 2025

CHAPTER ONE — U Up?; happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay, so here's a highly questionable cast of characters that i lowkey (highkey) despise. like, seriously, i’m not sure who let them be this messy, but here we are. anyway, just to clarify, i don’t condone cheating, but since this is fiction, i’m gonna let them do their absolutely horrible, unhinged thing.

also, this series was supposed to be a 5-chapter thing, each chapter a massive 10k words (i know, i had big plans), but since i don't have time to edit those giant chapters rn, i’ve decided to split it up into smaller ones. because we all deserve a little chaos in bite-sized pieces, right?

as for the note goal… who even knows how to set these things? like, chapter one is out and my m.list has around 1.6k notes, so let’s be HIGHLY ambitious and say chapter 2 will drop once we hit 800 notes. i mean, let’s aim high, people, right? let’s get those notes!

If there were a proper title to give you, it wouldn’t be something graceful or kind. No, it would be a creature of bad habits.

Greedy—that’s what they call you. And maybe they’re right. Because how could you ever be satisfied with what you already have? You crave more. Always more. More love. More passion. More friendships. More fun. More everything. It’s intoxicating, that hunger. Isn’t that just human nature, though? To want, to chase, to reach for the things just out of grasp?

You never understood the point of settling. Why would anyone cling to a single slice when the whole cake is within reach? But greed doesn’t come alone. No, it always brings a shadow—possessiveness.

Even as a little girl, you despised sharing. Your toys were yours. Your parents’ attention? Yours, too—until your little brother arrived and shattered that illusion. You learned to live with it. You adapted. But when it came to your friends… that instinct never faded. They were yours. Always.

So maybe it makes sense that now, as a woman, you have a loyal, sweet boyfriend who adores you—completely unaware that he shares you with another man when the night grows heavy and dark.

Sometimes, you think he’s stupid. The way he never even considers the possibility of someone else touching you, breathing your name while he sleeps, studies or works late hours. The way he never questions your sudden silences, your empty stare, the soft smell of someone else’s cologne lingering in your hair.

Sometimes, you think he’s cute. Sweet, even. Taehyung trusts you blindly, so deeply, it almost breaks your heart.

And sometimes—on the rare nights when your body aches from carrying secrets and your soul feels raw—you’re grateful for him. He’s the shoulder you cry on when the weight becomes too much, the arms that hold you when you feel like falling apart. Maybe… maybe he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And yet—despite all of that—you still do it. You still let another man kiss the guilt off your skin. You still let another man wreck you in ways you never let Taehyung see.

Do you feel guilty? Occasionally. But guilt?

Guilt is for the weak.

Because the truth is—you can’t stop. Even when you know it’s wrong. Even when it makes you question everything.

Are you a bad person?

No.

Just… human.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The honeyed scent of Taehyung’s skin wraps around you like a memory you never asked for. It’s warm, familiar—safe. His arm is thrown lazily over your waist, fingers curled like he’s afraid of losing you even in sleep. He’s close—so close it should feel like home. His chest rises and falls behind you, a steady rhythm you’ve come to memorize. His soft snores echo in the quiet, like a lullaby meant just for you.

You should be asleep.

You should be calm. At peace.

But you’re not.

Your eyes flutter open again, lashes brushing your cheeks with every blink. Frustration bubbles beneath your skin as you squint at the red digits on the nightstand. 01:34 AM.

You have classes in the morning. Work after that. Your entire day is stitched together with responsibilities, expectations, and the mask you’ve been perfecting for months, years even. Still, sleep refuses to take you. It stays just out of reach, mocking you.

Your fingers flex around Taehyung’s forearm—his skin warm under your touch—and he shifts closer, unconsciously drawn to you. It makes you smile. He’s too adorable for his own good when he sleeps. Soft. Vulnerable.

Yours.

You almost turn toward him. Almost let yourself bury your face in the crook of his neck. Let his scent rock you to sleep like it’s done a hundred times before.

Almost.

Until a sound cuts through the silence.

A ping. Soft, sharp. Familiar.

Your body stiffens. Taehyung mumbles something incoherent, lips brushing your shoulder, and you feel the faintest trace of drool there. He’s out cold.

You reach for the nightstand like you’ve done it a thousand times. No hesitation. No second guessing. You already know who it is.

Of course it’s him.

Your screen lights up with a message so simple it makes your stomach flip.

JK: u up?

It’s always like this.

He waits until Eunji is asleep, until the world is quiet, until you’re wrapped in someone else’s arms—and then he texts. Always at night. Always in secret.

And you?

You always answer.

Because your little game only lives in the shadows, breathing between midnight texts and silenced guilt.

Because even though you’re lying in Taehyung’s bed, wearing his t-shirt, listening to the steady beat of his heart—

You're never really his. Not fully.

Not when Jungkook’s name has the power to set your entire body on fire.

you: mhmm, but thinking of dozing off rn

JK: c’mon bby, don’t fall asleep on me now, wya?

you: taehyung’s. wby?

JK: home. but eunji’s sleeping over.

you: so why are u texting me?

JK: can’t i just miss you?

you: liaaaar. you don’t miss mee.

You stare at the last message, lips curled into a smirk even though your chest tightens with something you won’t name. Because it’s true.

Jungkook doesn’t miss you. He never has. Not in the way you need to be missed. Not in the daylight, not when the world is watching. Only in the dark, only when it’s quiet and no one’s looking. Just like you don’t miss him.

Not really.

Not ever.

JK: mmh, myb, but i miss that cute little throat

Your breath hitches. Instinctively, your eyes dart to Taehyung.

Still fast asleep.

His face is soft, turned toward your shoulder, mouth slightly open. The steady warmth of his breath fans your skin. He looks like everything that’s right in the world. Everything stable. Everything safe.

So why does your pulse quicken like this?

Why does your body react as if Jungkook’s hands are already on you, as if his voice is already whispering filth into your ear?

It shouldn’t be hot.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is.

The guilt crawling beneath your skin only adds fuel to the fire.

Your fingers tremble as you type.

you: really? what else do you miss?

You send it before you can stop yourself.

Before you can talk yourself out of it.

Taehyung shifts beside you, arm tightening around your waist, and you freeze for a second—heart caught between panic and something darker.

Something closer to thrill.

There’s a pause.

Long enough for anticipation to curl low in your stomach like smoke.

You can already picture him—lying in his bed, lights off, the pale blue glow of his phone screen painting shadows across that pretty face. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, that familiar furrow in his brow as he tries to come up with something clever. Something that’ll make your skin burn.

He always does this—crafts the perfect reply, like he’s pulling the strings and watching you fall apart from the safety of his room. Like he knows exactly what to say to make your walls crumble.

You bite the inside of your cheek, heart thudding painfully in your chest. Taehyung’s arm is still snug around your waist, his body still warm, still unaware. Still perfect.

But it’s not him you’re thinking about.

Not in this moment.

Not when your phone buzzes again.

JK: aha. miss the way u sound when i hit it from the back.

JK: miss how u shake when i bite down real soft so he wouldn’t notice.

JK: miss that dumb look in ur eyes when u know u shouldn’t want it but beg anyway.

Your mouth goes dry.

Shame rushes in quick and hot, but it doesn’t stop the way your thighs clench beneath the blanket. Doesn’t stop the heat blooming in your chest like a fire you’re too afraid to put out.

You should put the phone down.

You should.

But instead, you type with shaking fingers:

you: you’re such an asshole.

you: but what if i wanna beg now?

A reckless message. Sent before you can overthink it.

And just like that, the silence of the room shifts—heavier now. Thicker with something filthy. Dangerous.

He doesn’t reply right away.

And for a fleeting second, dread slips beneath your skin like ice. Your heart stutters.

What if she woke up?

What if you both got caught?

Your fingers tighten around the phone, breath held hostage in your lungs.

Ping.

Two notifications.

But not texts.

Photos.

Your pulse skyrockets as you swipe them open.

The first image is a little blurry, but you don’t need perfect resolution to know what you’re looking at.

Blanket draped low, his tattooed arm stretched across it, boxers tenting high with the unmistakable shape of his cock—hard and ready.

Your stomach twists. Fuck.

Even through the layers of cotton, it makes your mouth water. The idea that he’s this worked up over a few late-night texts? That his body responds to you like instinct, like addiction?

It shouldn’t thrill you this much.

But it does.

You swipe to the next photo—and suddenly, it’s not just lust that grips you.

It’s something darker.

Colder.

Eunji.

Sleeping on her stomach, hand curled beneath her pillow. Her face is turned away from the camera, peaceful. Innocent. Her long black hair spills across the pillow like silk—so shiny, so well-kept, you might’ve asked her about her routine if you weren’t fucking her boyfriend.

Your throat tightens.

She’s right there. Within arm’s reach of him. Of this.

And still, his attention is on you.

Still, you’re the one making him hard.

Taehyung stirs beside you in his sleep, lips brushing your shoulder, completely unaware. Completely devoted.

You blink, breath shaky, phone clutched in your hand like a loaded gun.

You should be disgusted.

You should feel something.

Shame. Guilt. Rage.

But all you feel is heat pooling between your legs—and that awful, aching need that only Jungkook seems to know how to pull from you.

And best of all?

The power.

The power of knowing you’re the one they both need.

you: bruuuuh, why’d u have to send me a pic of her

JK: because you’re teasing too much bby and i can’t do anything about it

you: ugh you’re so disgusting kook

JK: c’mon, don’t pretend you don’t love making me this hard when she’s here

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, breath stuck in your throat.

He got you.

Again.

It’s not even about the sex anymore—it’s about the way Jungkook crawls inside your head and flips every switch you swore no one else could reach.

He knows.

Knows how your body reacts to filthy words whispered like secrets.

Knows which buttons to press to make you unravel with just a few taps of a keyboard.

But more than that—he knows your mind.

Knows how you crave what’s forbidden.

How your appetite is carved from hunger for things you can’t have.

How the moment something is off-limits, it becomes irresistible.

How the line between guilt and arousal blurs the second he sends you proof that he’s hard—while the girl who trusts him sleeps inches away.

And worst of all, he knows you won’t stop.

He knows you’ll let him get away with it.

Knows that the shame is half the high.

That this game you play—the one with no winners—is the only thing that really makes you feel anything anymore.

You clench your thighs together beneath Taehyung’s sheets, the warmth of his body wrapped around yours like a lifeline. And yet, you’re not even here.

Your body’s here.

But your mind?

Your need?

Your guilt and desire and the ugliest parts of you?

They’re with Jungkook.

JK: u there?

JK: or is taehyung waking up?

JK: should i stop texting, baby?

Your jaw tightens.

you: shut up, kook.

you: you’re insane.

you: she’s literally RIGHT THERE.

you: you’re actually disgusting.

JK: yeah? but you’re wet, aren’t you?

JK: don’t lie, baby.

JK: you love this shit.

JK: love that i’m hard for you while she’s snoring in my bed.

JK: love knowing she has no idea.

JK: love knowing taehyung’s clueless too.

Your hands tremble just slightly, phone screen glowing like it’s daring you to throw it across the room. You don’t.

you: i hate you.

JK: no, you don’t.

JK: you hate that i know you.

JK: hate that i get to see this part of you no one else does.

JK: hate that it turns you on this much.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not yet.

But he doesn’t need your words to keep going.

JK: i bet you’re squeezing your thighs right now, aren’t you?

JK: laying there next to your sweet little boyfriend, thinking about my cock.

JK: thinking about my mouth.

JK: thinking about how fast i’d make you cum if you were here instead.

JK: or better yet... if i was there.

Your heart slams into your ribs.

you: kook.

you: stop.

you: seriously.

JK: say the word, and i will.

JK: but we both know you won’t.

JK: you like this too much, baby.

Your lips part. The room is quiet—too quiet—except for the sound of Taehyung’s steady breathing against your neck.

Your fingers move before your mind can catch up.

you: tell me what you’d do if you were here.

There’s a pause. A long one. Long enough to make your heart thud louder in your ears.

JK: i’d pull those panties to the side and stuff your mouth so you can’t make a sound

JK: i wouldn’t care about taehyung. he wouldn’t even wake up. he’d just keep dreaming while i fuck you slow and deep right next to him

JK: you’d cum with your back arched into me and my hand on your throat to keep you quiet

Your breath hitches. You feel the wetness between your thighs, undeniable now.

The scenario is absurd, unrealistic, impossible, yet the mere thought of Jungkook fucking you right next to your sleeping boyfriend makes the irational part of you ponder of calling him over.

Key word: irrational.

you: you’re horrible.

JK: and you love it.

JK: you love knowing i want to ruin you while he holds you like you’re some kind of good girl.

JK: you’re not.

You close your eyes, inhale the sweet scent of Taehyung’s skin—and then, traitorously, exhale Jungkook’s name in your mind.

you: what would you do after?

JK: i’d stay inside you.

JK: soft. slow. still.

JK: just so you’ll remember who really owns you every time he touches you.

Your whole body clenches.

You shouldn’t reply.

But of course, you do.

you: i want you so bad it hurtsssss

JK: then come over

JK: i’ll fuck you while you’re wearing his shirt

you: haah, you wish. she’s still there kook.

JK: so what? i’ll wake her up, tell her i have an emergency with friends or something, make sum up

you: you wish jungkook.

JK: you’re soooo mean

You stare at the screen. Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing again, heart pounding.

you: you want to know what i’d do if i was there?

JK: fuck yes.

JK: tell me.

You smile, biting your lip, eyes glinting with mischief as you start typing slow.

you: i wouldn’t touch you right away.

you: i’d crawl into your bed real slow, straddle your lap, let your hands wander while mine just sit on your chest.

you: tease you. rub against you just enough to get you begging.

you: but i wouldn’t let you take my clothes off.

JK: fuck.

JK: keep going.

you: i’d grind down on you until you’re so hard it hurts. kiss you just to shut you up.

you: make you watch me take off my shirt. real slow. nothing else.

you: then i’d lean in and whisper how good i’d make you feel—if you kept your hands to yourself.

JK: you’re evil.

JK: i’m literally throbbing rn.

you: i’m not done.

you: i’d slide down between your legs, kiss up your thighs, leave scratches on them just because i can.

you: and then i’d suck your cock so slow you’d lose your damn mind.

you: make you beg to cum.

you: but you don’t get to, not until i say so.

you: i’d let you fuck my mouth. deep. wet. sloppy.

you: and right when you’re close? i’d stop.

you: tell you to fuck me instead.

There’s a pause.

Then—

JK: baby. i’m gonna cum in my boxers.

JK: you’re unreal.

JK: comeee here.

you: you wish.

you: you don’t deserve me tonight.

JK: you’re so fucked up.

JK: and i love it.

you: you love it when i edge you, don’t you?

you: leave you aching and leaking for me.

you: bet you’d cum the second i sit on your lap.

JK: fuck. stop.

JK: you’re gonna make me ruin these boxers.

JK: get your ass over here.

you: why? so you can throw her out just to rail me. or so you can fuck me while she’s sleeping in the next room?

you: so i have to keep quiet with your hand over my mouth?

JK: you love that shit, don’t you?

JK: you biting my hand to keep from screaming is the hottest shit ever.

JK: you shake when you cum. did you know that?

JK: so fucking pretty.

you: you think i don’t know?

you: you only cum that hard for me.

you: not her.

you: never her.

You glance over your shoulder. Taehyung is still knocked out. Thank God.

you: he’s still asleep.

you: you should be fucking me right now.

you: you should be filling me up in his bed.

JK: you’d love that, wouldn’t you?

JK: i’d cum inside you so deep you’d leak into his sheets.

JK: he’d never know he’s holding you while you’re full of me.

JK: you’re so mine it’s pathetic.

you: i’d let you fuck me slow. real slow.

you: make you watch my face while i whisper his name just to fuck with you.

you: and you’d still moan like a bitch.

JK: jesus fucking christ.

JK: you want me to beg? fine. i’m begging.

JK: tell me what you’re wearing.

You smirk, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your panties just enough to make yourself gasp softly.

you: just his t-shirt.

you: nothing underneath.

you: it still smells like him.

you: but i’m touching myself to you.

JK: i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.

JK: show me.

Your fingers move before you can think. You slowly peel the covers off your legs, making sure not to wake your boyfriend. The room is dim, but there’s just enough light from the window to catch your skin in that soft glow.

You bite your lip and slide your hand down the front of your body, lifting the hem of Taehyung’s shirt just enough. Camera up. Angle just right. The top of your thighs, the curve of your stomach, your fingers just brushing beneath the shirt, teasing the promise of what’s underneath.

Click.

You send it.

you: this enough for now?

you: you don’t even get to see everything. not tonight.

Another picture follows, this one riskier—your fingers between your thighs now, lips parted slightly in the mirror, shirt still on but clearly, there’s nothing beneath.

Click. Sent.

JK: holy. fuck.

JK: you’re gonna make me cum just from this.

JK: i want you on your knees the second i see you.

you: you’ll be lucky if i even let you touch me.

you: maybe i’ll just sit on your face and make you beg for it.

JK: say less.

JK: i’ll let you ride me until i forget my own name.

JK: just say the word.

You’re beyond turned on right now. Your body feels like it’s on fire, your thoughts tangled in need and desire. Every inch of you is aching for him, and you can practically feel your body calling out to Jungkook. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a constant reminder of how badly you want him.

For a moment, you consider sneaking into the bathroom, texting him some more, maybe even making yourself cum with your fingers. But then the air shifts.

Taehyung stirs in his sleep, and your heart sinks like a stone in your chest. Panic rushes through you, cold and sharp, as his voice breaks the silence.

“Love, what are you doing there?”

Your body freezes, a deer caught in headlights, your breath catching in your throat. You quickly shut your phone, lowering the volume to make sure he doesn’t hear Jungkook’s incoming texts.

“Oh, nothing,” you manage to say, your voice sounding steadier than you feel. “Just going to the bathroom.”

He hums in response, shifting his body to turn the other way. “Just turn the hallway lights off when you get back, and hurry up. You know I can’t sleep without you.”

Your heart races, but you manage to whisper, “Okay, love. Wait for me.”

You bolt out of the room, the urgency in your movements as sharp as the guilt gnawing at you. The second you’re in the bathroom, you lock the door behind you. You sit down on the closed toilet, your body trembling, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

You pull your phone back out, your fingers shaky as you unlock it. A string of messages from Jungkook lights up the screen, his words practically searing into you.

JK: ugh, i want to fuck you so bad

JK: bby?

JK: wya?

JK: is he up or sum?

JK: are you okay?

JK: did he catch you?

You take a deep breath, your chest tightening as you type your response, fingers trembling.

you: he woke up for a sec, i'm in the bathroom rn

you: he’s waiting for me

The next message hits you like a punch in the gut.

JK: oh shit

JK: we should probably stop for tonight

You roll your eyes, frustration bubbling up inside you. No shit, Sherlock. Of course, you should stop for tonight. Why does he always have to act like you’re stupid?

you: yea, i gotta go.

The reply is almost immediate, and you can hear the tension in his words.

JK: okay

JK: wanna chill tmrw tho?

You pause, your mind racing. You should stop, but you want him. You always want him.

you: when?

Your fingers hover over the screen as you try to keep your composure.

JK: after your shift? maybe 10-11pm? you can sleep over.

You feel a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. The pull of temptation is too strong, and you can't resist.

you: sure.

taglist: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

920 notes · View notes